Connor was silent for a moment, processing. Then, with deliberate care, he shifted down my body and pressed his lips to the jagged scar that ran along my hip—the place where metal had torn through flesh, where surgeons had pieced me back together.
The unexpectedness of the gesture stole my breath. His lips moved to the next scar, and the next, a tactile affirmation of acceptance that meant more than any words could have.
"These are part of you," he said between kisses. "Not something to be hidden or pitied."
As his lips mapped the geography of my injuries, something inside me began to unravel—a tightness I'd carried for three years, a grief I hadn't allowed myself to fully acknowledge. I hadn't realized how desperately I'd needed someone to see my scars not as marks of loss but as evidence of survival.
Connor continued his gentle exploration, his touch equal parts reverence and healing. Each press of his lips against damaged skin felt like absolution, a wordless promise that he saw me—all of me—and found nothing wanting.
By the time he finished, something had shifted inside me—a weight lifted, a wound finally allowed to breathe. I pulled him back up to me, cradling him against my chest, unsure who was comforting whom anymore.
"Thank you," I whispered into his hair, the words inadequate but sincere.
Connor's arms tightened around me, his body warm and solid against mine. "For what?"
"For seeing me," I said simply. "The real me."
He smiled against my skin, echoing words I'd spoken to him on our first night together. In the quiet darkness of the bedroom, with city lights creating patterns across our entwined bodies, I felt something I hadn't experienced in three years.
Peace.
* * * *
Morning light filtered through the penthouse windows, creating golden pathways across the rumpled sheets whereConnor still slept. I'd been awake for hours, watching the play of sunlight across his features, memorizing the peaceful expression he wore in sleep.
Last night had changed something between us—crossed a line from arrangement to something dangerously close to genuine connection. I'd shared more of myself with him than I had with anyone since before the accident.
My hand hovered above his shoulder, reluctant to wake him, to break the spell of quiet intimacy that had wrapped around us like a cocoon. Then his phone rang, shattering the moment with the harsh electronic trill that seemed to vibrate through the peaceful morning air.
Connor stirred, eyes fluttering open in confusion before focusing on the buzzing device on the nightstand. I watched his expression shift from sleepy contentment to wariness as he recognized the number on the screen.
"It's my mother," he said, voice still rough with sleep.
Something cold settled in my stomach. "Don't answer it."
But Connor was already reaching for the phone, his jaw set in a determination I was coming to recognize all too well. "I have to."
I watched as he sat up, sheet pooling around his waist, and pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello?"
Even from where I lay, I could hear Margaret Matthews' voice—sharp, demanding, with the false sweetness of someone trying to manipulate. Connor's face transformed as he listened, all traces of softness vanishing, replaced by a hardness I'd never seen before.
"You want to meet?" he repeated, his voice carefully neutral despite the tension evident in his shoulders. "Why would I agree to that after what you did?"
Whatever she said in response made Connor's knuckles whiten around the phone. His eyes met mine, a silent conversation passing between us.
"Fine. Two hours. The café on Westlake. Public place, lots of witnesses." His voice had taken on an edge I hadn't heard before. "And Mother? Come alone. If I see Harris or anyone else, I'm gone."
He ended the call, setting the phone down with deliberate care that belied the storm I could see brewing behind his eyes.
"Don't go," I said, the words escaping before I could temper them with my usual calculation. "She drugged you once. She'll do it again."
Connor swung his legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair. "I need answers, Julian. Not just about Harris, but why. Why she would sell her own son." He turned to look at me, determination etched in every line of his face. "I need to hear it from her. I need to see her face when she tries to justify it."
I understood the need for closure, for confrontation, but all I could think about was Connor unconscious again, vulnerable, taken by Harris before I could reach him.
"At least let me come with you," I insisted, already calculating how to rearrange my morning meetings.
"No." Connor shook his head, standing to retrieve his clothes from where they'd been discarded the night before. "This is something I need to do myself. Besides," he added, attempting a smile that didn't reach his eyes, "you said yourself Harris is looking for Connor Matthews. He doesn't know about Connor Montgomery yet."
