And she’s going to walk through that door tomorrow and feel like a stranger in her own life.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, tossing my keys into the bowl by the door.
“Mr. Blackwell?”
I turnto see my housekeeper stepping out from the hallway. She’s short, silver-haired, dressed in a pale lavender cardigan and orthopedic shoes.
“Hi, Mabel.”
Her brows lift slightly at the sight of me. “You’re home early. Did your meeting—”
“I got married.”
Mabel blinks once. Twice.
Then she straightens her spine and smiles politely, even if the corner of her mouth twitches with restrained curiosity.
“Congratulations,” she says, voice calm. “Would you like me to prepare something?”
“No.” I walk into the kitchen, glancing around at the bare countertops and the sleek steel fixtures. Cold. Like everything else.
“Mabel, I need flowers in here. Everywhere. And more color—cushions, throws, something warmer in the bedroom. Hell, paint the guest room if you have to. Just—make it feel lived in.”
She studies me for a second, eyes sharp behind her glasses. “Are we expecting company, sir?”
“My wife is moving in tomorrow.”
Nowthatgets a reaction. The shock flashes across her face before she can rein it in.
“I see,” she says carefully. “I’ll get right on it.”
I nod. “Thank you.”
She disappears down the hall, already making notes on the tablet she keeps tucked into her apron. Efficient, discreet, exactly what I hired her for.
And yet… for the first time in years, I feel like I’m the one out of place here.
I walk into the living room, hands in my pockets, staring out the window at the vastness. It's beautiful, sure. It’s my sanctuary. I had Coleman find it for me. I want my pulse on the city but I needed somewhere to clear my head.
But it’s not enough.
Not without her here.
I can still hear her voice from earlier—sarcastic and bright, curling around the edges of my discipline like smoke. I can feel the shape of her in my hands. Taste the defiance on her lips.
And I already fuckingmissher.
She ran out to my car like she couldn’t get away fast enough. Like the idea of breathing the same air for too long would ruin her.
And all I can think about is whether she’ll love this place. Whether she’ll look out these windows and feel like she’s home. Whether she’ll roll her eyes when she sees the guest room or tease me for having zero throw pillows on the damn couch.
I’ve built my life in symmetry and silence.
But if she walks through that door tomorrow and hates it—
I’ll tear it apart and rebuild it from scratch.
Just to see her stay.
