I dropped to my knees, sifting through the mess, panic rising. Henry’s note had said top drawer, right side. If whatever was left for me was gone?—
There. Amid the chaos, two envelopes peeked from under a pile of crumpled documents in the open drawer. Untouched, like the intruder hadn’t bothered with them or hadn’t found them worth taking.
My name was typed on the front of the slim one. The thicker one was handwritten in Ben’s sharp, slanted script:Chrissy.
I started with the typed one. Henry’s.
Miss Jones,
If you’re reading this, you came back. That means more than you know.
I’ve served the Stonewood family for over thirty years. I watched Ben grow from a reckless boy into the man he istoday — flawed, fiercely loyal, and carrying wounds deeper than the ones on his skin. I stayed silent during the Game because I believed in his reasons, even if his methods were wrong. I regret that now.
The lodge is empty because threats are closing in. Lucia’s situation demanded immediate action, and we couldn’t risk leaving the place vulnerable — or the staff exposed. Ben didn’t fire anyone. He protected them. The way he’s always tried to protect what matters to him.
He’s not the monster the town whispers about. And he’s not the flawless hero he pretended to be as ‘Jacob’. He’s just a man who fell hard for the first person who saw past his scars and treated him like he was worth something.
The other letter is his truth. Read it if you’re ready. Leave it if you’re not. Either way, know that he’s trying to become someone worthy of forgiveness, even if he never earns yours.
Respectfully,
H
I folded the note carefully, throat tight. Henry — steady, unflinching Henry — defending him. Believing in him. And Lucia… what situation? Threats closing in? That explained the abandonment, but not the ransacking. Had someone come after them?
Then I opened Ben’s.
Eight pages, front and back, in his handwriting. Dense, raw, no margins spared. I sank against the desk, ignoring the mess around me, hands shaking as I started reading.
The first page was an apology — straightforward, no excuses.
I’m sorry, Chrissy. For every lie. For the surveillance. For building a cage around you disguised as a lifeline. I told myself it was to protect you, to test if you could handle my world, but the truth is simpler and uglier: I was terrified. Terrified you’d look at the real me — the scarred, broken version — and walk away. So I controlled the narrative instead of trusting you with it.
I hate that I hurt you. I hate that I made you doubt every moment we shared. You deserved honesty from the start, and I robbed you of that.
My eyes burned. I remembered the hardware store — how he’d called himself Jacob on impulse. The seed of it all.
I turned the page.
You need to know about the accident. It wasn’t just a deer. The brakes failed. Someone had tampered with them — Vivian, we think, though we can’t prove it. I was in a coma for three years. Woke up to find my father dead (overdosed on manipulated meds, which we also couldn’t prove) and her gone. The clause was written before all of that, when I was a spoiled nineteen-year-old burningthrough life like it owed me something. Dad wanted me to grow up. He never imagined I’d wake up ruined.
The first time anyone touched me without flinching after the accident was you. In that hardware store. You bandaged my hand like I was just a guy who needed help. Not a freak. Not a tragedy. You looked at me like I was whole. I’ve been chasing that feeling ever since.
He wrote about watching me — not creepily detailed, but enough to twist my gut. How he’d justified paying off my exes:(They weren’t worthy of you. Weak men who’d run at the first sign of trouble. I know that makes me a hypocrite.). How Granny Irene’s care had eaten at him, watching me carry it alone.
Then came the parts that hit hardest:
I built the Game because I wanted you more than anything I’ve ever wanted. But I built it wrong. Blindfolds and tests and disguises because facing you as myself felt impossible. ‘Jacob’ was the version I wished I could be — scarred, but uncomplicated. The real me was the one who scared you in those sessions, possessive and dark. You fell for both, and that undid me. Because it meant maybe — just maybe — you could want all of me.
When you walked out, you took the last piece of hope I had left. But you were right: I should have fought for you honestly from the start. I didn’t. I let you go because I thought that’s what you needed. Because hurting you again felt worse than losing you.
The last two pages were quieter. Vulnerable.
I love you, Chrissy Jones. Not the obsessive way I showed it. The real way — the steady, put-you-first way I want to prove if you’ll ever let me near again. I love your strength, your fire, the way you choose love even when it costs you everything. I love how you bandaged a stranger’s hand without hesitation. How you fight for the people you care about.
I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t deserve it. But I’m trying to become someone who might someday. No more games. No more lies. Just me — scars, flaws, and all — working to be the man you saw glimpses of.
If you never want to see me again, I’ll respect that. I’ll make sure Vivian never touches you or Granny Irene. But if there’s even a sliverof a chance… I’ll be waiting. Not hiding. Not manipulating. Just waiting.
