When his grip loosened and his head sagged fully against my chest, I knew he’d fallen asleep again.
Carefully—so carefully—I shifted and lifted him, cradling his small frame as if he were made of glass.
I laid him back on the pillows and pulled the thick duvet over him, tucking it snugly around his shoulders the way my mother used to tuck me in. He sighed in his sleep, lashes dark against pale cheeks, mouth parting just slightly.
I stood there for a moment longer, watching him breathe.
Then I exhaled—long and shaky—and finally stepped away.
The clothes I’d worn last night were stiff with dried mud and rain, heavy with the memory of graves and cold and fear. I needed them off. I needed the night off my skin.
The bathroom was still warm from the heater, steam curling faintly near the ceiling.
I showered slowly, letting the water run hot, almost scalding.
I dried off, then dressed in fresh clothes from the wardrobe: soft gray leggings and a long cream sweater that swallowed my frame and brushed my thighs.
Comfort over elegance. Safety over beauty. I skipped the bra again—the constriction made my chest feel trapped.
My phone buzzed against the glass surface.
The sound made my shoulders tense instantly.
I looked down.
Harris Thompson.
The name sat there like a bruise I hadn’t noticed yet.
I stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering, heart sinking into a familiar mix of dread and resignation. Then I answered.
Silence greeted me. Two seconds. Three.
Then his voice came through—tight, clipped, edged with something sharp and offended.
“We should talk,” he said. “About why you chose a total stranger—a devil, no less—over your access to your inheritance.”
I closed my eyes.
“It appears,” he continued coolly, “you no longer need it.”
I sighed, leaning back against the chair, its polished wood cool against my spine.
“You canceled the wedding at the altar,” I said, voice level but tight. “Humiliated me in front of everyone. You knew how much that ceremony meant to me—how much I needed it. And yet somehow you reconsider after another man steps up?” I let out a hollow laugh. “You expect me to crawl back because you think I’m that desperate?”
“Aren’t you?” Harris replied.
His voice was smooth, cultured, wrapped in silk and superiority. The kind of tone that had always made people doubt themselves.
In truth?
Yes.
The clause in my father’s will was a masterpiece of cruelty disguised as tradition: Marry the eldest Thompson son within twelve years of my death or forfeit everything. Not just money—power. Estates in three countries. Dividends. Board seats. A permanent income stream that could have lifted me out of survival mode forever.
I could have been rich. Secure. Untouchable.
Instead, I was here—legally bound to a man who had stood in a graveyard last night and calmly described my death.
