Page 2 of Cold Mercy

But after is a blanket full of holes. What can a six-year-old do to deserve a braided leash? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. That was the first fact I ever owned, and no one could take it from me. The second came later, quietly, like a habit I built to survive. I can climb stairs, grades, pay scales. While other kids wondered what to wear to school, I wondered how to hide the bruises. While they got cars from their parents, I was working to buy my own pads.

But always when I look back, I practice gratitude where I can.

Mercy, that I didn’t know it would stretch another 4,380 days.

CHAPTER 1

SOPHIA

People say you get two great loves in your life. First comes the one who teaches you how to love, and then comes the one who teaches you how to live. They say the first one is practice, a beautiful mistake that prepares you for the real thing.

I think they’re wrong.

I found the real thing on the first try. Noah finds me in the mirror of our dressing room, and his reflection appears before his voice does. The dark chestnut hair, short at the sides but styled into a sleek, gelled wave at the front, gives him a polished, almost classic look. The sharp, defined line of his jaw looks carved from stone, smooth and clean-shaven. And those eyes…pure, startling blue, so clear they almost look transparent under the hall lights.

He’s wearing a pair of black-rimmed glasses that make him look like the man who could read your mind and then fix it. They only add to the charm, and he knows it.

He adjusts his cufflinks with a small, practiced motion and studies me the way he studies everything, like he’s already three moves ahead. That’s the thing about Noah. He doesn’t just walk into a room. He reads it, plans for it, and somehow makes everyone else feel like they’re already part of his design.

“You look beautiful,” he slides a strand of my hair behind my ear and smiles.

“And I don’t just mean the dress,” his voice drops half an octave, calm, teasing, the kind that carries warmth and a quiet control.

“Though the one you're wearing now might tempt me to make us fashionably late. But I mean you, the woman you are tonight. Exactly yourself. I love you with every part of me, and I thank God I get to be the one beside you.”

God, I love him. It’s unfair how easily he can dismantle my walls with just a few words. He knows every button to push, every word I need to hear before I even know I need them.

He keeps one hand resting against the shelf just beside my head, boxing me in gently, while the other slides down to grip my waist, his thumb brushing the fabric of my dress. He leans in, just enough to make my breath catch, his eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing in the room worth seeing.

“Keep talking like that and I’ll ruin my makeup… consider yourself warned.”

I swallow the heat in my throat and press my palm to his chest.

“Noah…there’s no me without you, so don’t you dare downplay your part. Now come on, baby, we have to go.”

He laughs under his breath, kisses my forehead the way he always does, and we step outside.

I follow him but pause on the gravel driveway for a second, looking back.

The house looms against the twilight sky, a monolith of stark white stucco and dark shingles. It’s beautiful in a cold, untouchable way. It feels excessive, like a movie set I don’t belong in. I certainly didn't dare to dream about this when my bed was a stained mattress dragged onto the floor and my pillow was just a thin case stuffed with my own worn-out clothes.

And now I have the keys in my pocket.

“Sophia! Come on!”

Noah leans out the window of the car, grinning, the engine already running.

“Don't worry, it will still be there when we get back.”

I smile, shaking my head at my own hesitation, and get in.

The drive to Manhattan takes about an hour and a half. The August air is thick and humid, clinging to everything. Noah rolls the windows halfway down, letting the summer night slide in. He taps the steering wheel to a faint rhythm only he hears.

He’s usually the life of the party, the one who gets people laughing without even trying. But tonight he reads the quiet in me and lets it stay. He knows that I’ve always been the one who worries in advance. What if I stumble? What if I forget my speech? Yet he doesn’t say a word. He just rests his warm hand on my thigh, that silent reassurance of his that says, I’ve got you. You don’t have to hold it all alone.

“You think Elizabeth and James will make it?” He asks as we head toward the Knickerbocker entrance.

“She texted an hour ago. She’ll come, but she’s buried in numbers. Probably already reconciling every invoice for this auction and figuring out how to classify the tulips you insisted on.”