I didn’t realize I was crying until his thumb brushed a tear from my cheek.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “That you went through that. That you didn’t have what I had.”
He gave a small, tired smile. “Yeah, well. Life doesn’t hand out even deals. But Dad did the best he could. And when he died …”
His voice shifted, dropped to something weightier. “He left us money. More than we knew he had. A lot more. No one’s figured out exactly how he built it—not fully. There are pieces. Properties. Shell companies that suddenly weren’t so shell. Some ties to old government contracts that got buried deep. Elias is still digging. We think he started something big before we were old enough to understand it.”
I watched his face as he spoke—steady, but with the kind of tension that comes from carrying something too big for too long.
“We weren’t raised with wealth,” he continued. “But now? It’s like we’ve been handed this empire we didn’t build. Some of my brothers—Ryker, Elias—they wear it well. Like they were always meant to be powerful. But me?”
He exhaled, looking out the window at the stretch of endless water. “I still don’t know what to do with it. The suits. The clubs. The money. It feels like a costume I haven’t earned.”
I rested my hand on his chest again, fingers splayed. “You’re not pretending. You’re carrying it.”
His eyes flicked back to mine. “I was at the country club today because Elias told me to be. Said I had to meet with the family attorney, finalize some of the trust paperwork I’ve been avoiding. Said leaving it undone made us vulnerable.”
“And you hate the club scene,” I said, remembering his discomfort, the sharp contrast between his presence and the polished tables and pressed collars.
He nodded. “I’d rather be working with my hands. Mending broken bones and setting tourniquets. Or flying. But I went anyway. For them.”
And suddenly, so many things clicked. The blunt edges. The quiet strength. The way he’d carried himself like he didn’t owe anyone anything—but still showed up, anyway.
For his brothers. For the legacy.
For more than just himself.
He looked at me then, and something in his gaze cut deep. “You think you had it easier?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it.
“Your life looks good on paper,” he said. “But I see it. The weight. The performance. The way you wear that polished smile like a uniform.”
I nodded, because he wasn’t wrong.
“My parents love me,” I said. “I don’t doubt that. But they don’t see me. Not really. They see the version of me they curated. The one who fits into their world of fundraisers and foundation galas. I was born into a life where appearances weren’t just important—they were everything.”
I laid my head on his chest again, heart aching in ways I didn’t expect.
“I used to think being raised with money meant I was lucky,” I said. “But it turns out, legacy can be just as lonely as abandonment.”
He kissed my forehead, slow and firm. “You’re not alone now. You’re mine.”
It was a simple thing. A quiet thing. But it cracked something in me wide open.
I lifted my head, met his gaze, and for the first time in years, I felt seen. Not marketed. Not molded. Just me.
Raw. Uncertain. Real.
“I don’t know what this is,” I whispered. “You and me. But it doesn’t feel small.”
He shook his head. “It’s not.”
And then he kissed me again.
Not like a Dane. Not like a Carrington.
But like a man who’d seen war and a woman who’d survived expectation—and both of us still wanting more.
