“Hey,” he breathed.
I recoiled when he fully turned, shocked into spilling words from my lips. “You look like shit.” His usual stubble was almost a beard; dark circles hung heavy under his dull eyes, and his casual jeans and sweater were wrinkled. “Sorry, that was rude.”
He looked down and laughed softly, shoving his hands in his pockets before slowly raising his loaded gaze to mine. “And you look beautiful, as always.”
I managed a smile, but the compliment struck like a weapon meant to puncture my chest, warping it into a grimace.
Silence stretched between us. I shifted my weight from foot to foot until he broke it, sparing me from blurting another offensive comment.
“Listen, can we talk?” he asked, gesturing with his thumb to my office behind him.
“Yeah. Sure.” I edged past him, holding my breath, hoping we didn’t come into contact—and hoping we did.
I fumbled with the door and pushed through, heading straight behind my desk. More space and obstacles between us were better—safer. I wasn’t sure I could emotionally survive a repeat of the last time we were alone—even if my body begged me to try.
“Felix is…”
He raked a hand down his face, and I ached to ease his struggle. While I wouldn’t allow myself to offer physical comfort, I could save him from saying the words any more than he had to. “I heard,” I said. “Ijustheard, actually. Like five minutes ago.”
“Yeah,” he croaked.
“I’m so sorry, Lucian.”
He tucked his chin deep into his chest, attempting to hide his crumbling face. Witnessing his pain, remembering the sharp agony of loss myself, pulled a choked whimper from my chest that I quickly shoved down and hid behind a cough.
I’d spent the past week telling myself I hated him and wanted him to suffer, but not like this. A desperate ache swelled in my chest, begging to go to him.
I told you, Aspen. I don’t do love.
I replayed his words, pictured his sneering mouth saying them, and held firm with the reminder that he wouldn’t want me anyway.
“Can I do anything?” I offered instead.
He gave a broken laugh. “Funny you should ask that,” he said dryly.
My brows knitted as I tried to make sense of what he meant.
“You can marry me at the hospital tomorrow.”
“Wha…” My jaw dropped, and my eyes shot wide. Surely, he wasn’t serious. Yet, when I took him in, there was no denying he meant his request. “Lucian…I…”
I struggled to find the words. Hell, I could barely wrap my head around it. I had no clue what brought him to my office, but asking me to marry him—sooner than our original agreement—after everything we’d been through hadn’t been in the same country as anything I could have imagined.
My mouth opened and closed as I studied him, searching for a clue, any hint of how to respond.
His bleak eyes held resignation, as if he knew his request was a long shot—but somewhere beneath it, hope shimmered, pleading from the dark depths.
“Grace knows.” He dropped the two words like stones at my feet, as if they weren’t the most shocking thing he could have said.
“What?” I screeched.
“She knows it was all a lie.”
“Oh, god,” I cried, imagining every worst-case scenario—how she found out, how she blamed me. As if my heart weren’t shredded enough, more layers flayed away when I thought of the woman I’d grown to love finding out I was a fraud. “She probably hates me.”
“Not at all, actually.”
“What?” I repeated, my voice still sharp and brittle.
