Connor's expression shifted, a complex play of emotions crossing his face—satisfaction, relief, and a lingering pain that I suspected would never fully heal. His family had sold him like property, had been willing to sacrifice him for their own gain. That kind of betrayal left scars.
"Karma's a vindictive bitch," he finally said, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "I've always admired that about her."
I pulled him closer, our bodies fitting together with the natural ease that still surprised me. What had begun as a marriage of convenience had evolved into something neither of us had anticipated—something real, something solid.
"Speaking of vindictive," I added, "Elizabeth's been arrested too. Apparently she and Harris were business partners all along."
Connor's eyebrows shot up, his hands pausing in their ministrations. "Your ex? The one who abandoned you faster than rats leaving the Titanic?"
"The very same," I confirmed dryly. "Apparently betrayal was on her summer bucket list."
He snorted, resuming his careful cleaning of my cut. "Always good to have goals, I suppose. Though most people stick to learning French or taking up yoga."
"Elizabeth always was an overachiever," I deadpanned, earning another laugh from Connor.
"There," he said, wrapping a clean bandage around my hand. "Should heal fine, but maybe wait until after you get good news to start destroying the glassware? Just a suggestion."
I caught his hand before he could pull away, bringing it to my lips for a kiss that was equal parts gratitude and possession. "Noted."
The verbal sparring continued through dinner in our private dining room, every glance and retort charged with the familiar tension between us.
Connor had insisted on cooking himself—a skill he'd developed over the past weeks, claiming our private chef made him feel "like a useless trophy husband." The result was a simple but delicious pasta dish that put most five-star restaurants to shame.
"To Harris's new accommodations," I toasted, raising my wine glass. "May the federal penitentiary provide all the hospitality he deserves."
Connor clinked his glass against mine, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "And to Elizabeth's prison jumpsuit. Orange was never her color."
I nearly choked on my wine, caught between laughter and surprise at his perfect deadpan delivery. These moments—the sharp wit, the shared darkness, the way we could joke about things that would horrify most people—had become precious to me. Connor understood the shadows in me because he had his own.
"What's next?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes watchful. "Now that Harris is gone and your company is safe."
I held his gaze, letting the moment stretch between us. There was still so much he didn't know—about my treatments, aboutmy plans for us, about the future I'd been secretly building while he thought I was working late.
"That," I said with deliberate casualness, "is a conversation for later." I checked my watch, feigning surprise. "Speaking of which, I have a meeting to get to."
Connor's eyes narrowed suspiciously, fork paused halfway to his mouth. "A meeting? At this hour?"
I simply smiled, letting the mystery hang between us as I prepared to set the final piece of my plan in motion.
I excused myself from the table with a mysterious smile playing on my lips. The plan I'd kept secret for weeks was finally ready to be revealed, and the anticipation of Connor's reaction had me practically vibrating with energy.
Six grueling weeks of experimental treatments, of pain and hope and setbacks that I'd hidden from everyone but my medical team, were—hopefully—about to pay off in the most spectacular way.
"I have a meeting," I told Connor as I headed for the door, my wheelchair humming softly against the hardwood floors.
He raised an eyebrow, skepticism written across his features as clearly as if it had been painted there. "At 9 PM? Unless it's with your hand in the shower, I'm calling bullshit."
I couldn't help the laugh that escaped me. This was the Connor I'd fallen for—sharp-tongued, unimpressed by my wealth or status, always ready to call me on my crap. The transformation from the hesitant young man who'd stumbled into my hotel room to this confident equal still amazed me daily.
"Patience was never your virtue," I replied with a wink, enjoying the flash of frustration that crossed his face. "I won't be long."
That was a lie, of course. The final treatment would take hours, and Dr. Teller had warned me that the transitionphase might be intense, but some surprises were worth a little deception.
I left Connor standing in the dining room, arms crossed over his chest, wearing that adorable scowl that made me want to kiss him senseless. Soon, I promised myself. Soon I'd be able to do exactly that, in ways I'd only dreamed about.
Five hours later, the penthouse was dark and quiet when I returned. The lights in the living room had been dimmed, and a half-empty glass of wine sat abandoned on the coffee table. Connor must have tried to wait up for me before eventually giving in to sleep.
I stood at the entrance to our bedroom—stood, not sat in my wheelchair—and took a moment to steady myself against the doorframe. My legs trembled slightly, not yet fully accustomed to bearing my weight after three years of disuse.
