I got married. The man across the aisle was Chase Holloway. In our corner of high society, Chase was infamous as the ultimate wingman, the perpetual plus-one, the designated fixer for every hedge-fund heir and tech-money bachelor in Manhattan. He had spent years running interference for other people’s romances while his own name rotated through the gossip columns like a revolving door. Word on the street was that he went through girlfriends faster than he swapped out the custom tires on his vintage Porsches, disappearing into three-day weekend benders in the Hamptons or Miami without a word. Aside from an undeniably handsome face and a trust fund large enough to float a small nation, he had zero credentials as a reliable human being. To be completely honest, I had never thought much of him. I was Caroline Mercer. All my life, I had gravitated toward men like Isaac Bennett—the brilliant, hyper-disciplined achievers whose lives ran on immaculate schedules and Ivy League polish. Men who stood at the absolute top of their fields, bathed in effortless light. An idle, trust-fund slacker like Chase Holloway had never even made my shortlist. 1 Looking back, there was a dark comedy to the whole thing. Our marriage was as hastily assembled as it was practically inevitable. Three months earlier, Isaac Bennett—the man I had spent four relentless years pursuing—packed his bags for a doctorate program in Cambridge. The afternoon before his flight, he met me at a quiet coffee shop near campus. Tapping his manicured fingers against a paper cup, his voice was as cool and flat as an abstract from an academic journal. “Caroline, we’re simply running on different tracks. Stop wasting your time.” Four years. From my freshman orientation to the first year of my master’s program. I had delivered breakfast to his lab for over a thousand mornings. I had kept his desk stocked with double-shot iced Americanos through every exam cycle. I had sat in the front row of empty auditoriums cheering silently through his data-modeling competitions, and on his twenty-second birthday, I had rented out the private floor of a downtown restaurant just so he and his cohort could celebrate without checking the bill. The entire circuit had watched me with amused pity. The Mercer heiress, making a fool of herself over a golden boy who couldn’t care less. That afternoon, I picked up my cold cup, lightly tapped the rim against his, and smiled. “Then I wish you every success in the world, Isaac.” When I turned on my heel and walked out, my spine was straight, my stride measured. I didn’t falter for a single step. I was Caroline Mercer. I knew how to invest, and I knew when to cut my losses. Begging for scraps of affection was a indignity my pride simply could not afford. The moment I stepped through the front door of my parents’ townhouse, I looked at my mother and said, “Set up an arrangement. Equal standing, respectable family. You and Dad can handle the details.” My mother froze, terrified I was throwing my life away in a fit of heartbreak. She didn’t understand. I wasn’t heartbroken—I was exhausted. Chasing someone on tiptoe for four years will drain the marrow from your bones. I had sprinted toward a distant light for so long that before it ever warmed me, my legs had simply given out. I wanted a partner from the same world, an alliance built on mutual convenience. No emotional entanglements, no desperate expectations. Just quiet, orderly stability. Whether love existed in the equation didn’t matter anymore. 2 Both families moved with staggering efficiency. Within seven days, a formal tea was arranged at the Holloway estate. Chase strolled into the sunroom midway through the afternoon, a tangerine lollipop tucked into the corner of his mouth. He was wearing an oversized charcoal hoodie, his dark hair ruffled by the outdoor breeze, radiating an aura of utter, unbothered indolence. I studied him for a couple of seconds, and suddenly, an old memory resurfaced. Freshman year. The first week of classes. He had cornered me on the granite steps outside the architecture building, holding a massive bundle of peach-colored spray roses, a sharp, crooked canine tooth flashing in an easy grin. “Hey. Mercer, right? Thought it was about time we met.” Back then, I had just managed to get Isaac’s contact info. My head was filled with grade-point averages, research grants, and clean-cut ambition. Armed with Chase’s reputation as a spoiled party boy, I had cut him down on the spot. I had been unnecessarily sharp. “Sorry. I don’t associate with people who don’t take life seriously.” He had never approached me again, and the memory had evaporated from my mind like morning mist. I never imagined that after all those years, the man sitting across from me at the negotiation table would be him. 3 Our parents were engrossed in a lively discussion about portfolio mergers, real estate transfers, and guest lists. Chase and I sat at the far end of the sectional, exchanging fewer than three sentences between us, polite and distant as strangers on a delayed flight. Toward the end, his father cleared his throat and asked him what he thought of the match. Chase crunched down on the candy with a soft snap, flashing an effortless, lazy smirk. “She’s great. Gorgeous. Good for my image at galas.” My father turned to me with an inquiring look. I nodded smoothly. “He works for me.” And just like that, the ink was dry. We registered the marriage at the county clerk’s office two weeks later; the formal reception was slated for three months down the road. Stepping out onto the limestone steps with the stamped legal certificates in hand, Chase twirled the folder between his fingers and extended his right hand toward me. “Well, Mrs. Holloway. Looks like we’re roommates now. Try to take it easy on me.” I took his hand. His long fingers were surprisingly cool. “The feeling is mutual, Mr. Holloway.” That same afternoon, we signed a private prenuptial agreement with three clear stipulations: First, neither party would interfere with the other’s private life or personal belongings. Second, we would project a united, affectionate front before our families and the public. Third, either party had the right to request a divorce at any time—assets would be split cleanly down the middle, with zero drama and zero bad blood. Chase signed his name faster than the notary could stamp the page, his penmanship bold and fluid. “Done. I pride myself on being reasonable.” At the time, I thought it was the most sensible decision I had ever made. Mutual utility, zero friction. Practically perfect. 4 During those initial weeks, we lived like two strangers sharing a high-end duplex in the quiet suburbs of Westchester. Three stories, completely partitioned. I had recently launched my own boutique interior design firm, which meant I spent endless nights buried under fabric swatches, blueprints, and lighting specs. Chase spent his time with his inner circle—investing in private equity ventures, testing track cars, and drifting between high-end lounges, rarely making it back before the small hours of the morning. On the rare occasions our paths crossed over breakfast, we exchanged brief, courteous nods, eating our meals on opposite sides of the marble island. I carried my old prejudices with me, assuming he was merely another trust-fund baby coasting on family capital, good for nothing beyond burning cash. Yet living under the same roof has a way of stripping away secondhand rumors. Whenever my design drafts were scattered across the living room coffee table, he walked around them, never disturbing a single page. If I accidentally left a pair of diamond studs or a delicate chain on the sofa, he would use a clean linen napkin to lift them, placing them neatly on the entryway credenza without leaving a fingerprint. Once, after a late shower, I realized I’d forgotten my robe in my third-floor suite. Wrapping myself in a bath towel, I hurried across the landing just as he came up the stairs with a glass of water. The second his gaze registered my silhouette, he averted his eyes, pivoted smoothly on his heel, and started back down. “Take your time,” he called over his shoulder, his voice completely casual. “I’ll hang out in the den for a bit. No rush.” I stood frozen in the hallway. The infamous playboy from the gossip columns was displaying a level of restraint that bordered on monk-like. Another night, our housekeeper took personal leave, and we ended up ordering takeout from an upscale Thai bistro. I casually mentioned in passing that I couldn’t stand cilantro. Chase sat with his phone for three solid minutes, meticulously adding a custom note to every single dish: No cilantro. None. Not even as a garnish. When I glanced up, he was separating a pair of wooden chopsticks, his dark lashes casting soft shadows over the clean, sculpted bridge of his nose. Something in my chest stirred, brief and unexpected. Then his phone lit up on the counter. A message notification flashed from a contact saved simply as Lindsay. Chase, usual spot tomorrow night? Right. The brief flutter in my chest evaporated into cold air. A man like Chase didn’t suddenly grow domestic wings just because he put a ring on his finger. A habit of charm was merely second nature to him. I lowered my eyes, quietly chewing on my rice without saying a word. He seemed to pick up on the sudden chill in the room. He looked up, his brow furrowing slightly. “Something wrong? Food not good?” I shook my head. “Just tired from a client pitch.” “Ah,” he murmured, not pushing further. That night, I stood in front of the vanity mirror and gave myself a stern warning: Caroline, don’t be an idiot. What he does is standard charm school etiquette. It doesn’t mean a thing. 5 A week later, I was drafting a commercial proposal until two in the morning. When I went downstairs to the kitchen looking for iced water, the island pendant light was on. Chase was leaning against the counter in an oversized gray crewneck and lounge pants, waiting for a small pot of sweet stewed pears and honey to simmer down on the induction range. His hair was unstyled and slightly mussed, stripping him of his usual worldly edge. He arched an eyebrow when he saw me. “Still awake?” “Finishing a pitch deck. Came down for water.” He turned, ladled a portion of the warm, golden pear broth into a porcelain bowl, and slid it across the marble toward me. “Don’t drink ice water at two in the morning. It ruins your stomach. Have this—it’s warm.” I stared at the bowl, hesitant. “How did you know I liked sweets?” “Mrs. Gable mentioned you never skip dessert,” he said, taking a casual spoonful from his own bowl. “Educated guess.” The warm yellow glow of the pendant illuminated his face, softening the sharp angles of his jawline. I took a slow sip. The sweetness was delicate, perfectly balanced, sending a wave of comfort straight down to my core. He leaned in slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Good? If it passes inspection, maybe Chef Chase will keep it in regular rotation for you.” A sudden warmth rushed to my cheeks. I ducked my head, offering a quiet, clipped thank you. My heart was thumping against my ribs like a trapped bird. Lying in bed that night, I tossed and turned, silently cursing my own foolishness. It was just a bowl of stewed fruit. Isaac Bennett had never once remembered whether I took sugar in my iced Americano during those four long years, yet here I was, losing my composure over a simple midnight snack from Chase. I forced myself to build another wall inside my mind, reminding myself not to mistake basic decency for devotion. 6 The following morning, a matching porcelain bowl sat on the breakfast table. Warm, fragrant, precisely sweetened. Mrs. Gable smiled as she poured my tea. “Mr. Holloway was up at six to simmer that for you, ma’am. Said you were working late and needed something soothing.” I held the silver spoon, my fingertips tingling from the heat. From that day on, I found myself noticing the small, invisible ways he occupied our shared space. Whenever he returned home late, the heavy front door clicked shut with barely a sound, and only the soft amber strip beneath the baseboard in the foyer would be left on so I wouldn’t lose my footing in the dark. Whenever Mrs. Gable prepared garlic-butter prawns—my absolute favorite—he would never reach for the platter until I had taken my first helping, quietly leaving the best pieces for me. At the end of our first month, he took me to a private dinner with his oldest circle of friends. The private dining room at the club was filled with the city’s young elite—Luke Harrington of Harrington Capital, Garrett Reed from Reed Global. Men who normally carried themselves with frigid, high-stakes authority, yet greeted Chase with easy, backslapping familiarity. Halfway through the evening, Luke had a heated phone argument with his partner, who reportedly stormed off to an upscale lounge in Soho in a fit of temper. Garrett, grinning knowingly, nudged Chase with an elbow. “Standard playbook, Chase. Head over there, walk her out to her car, give Luke a reason to sweat a little. He’ll be out the door in five seconds.” I leaned back, sipping my sparkling water, quietly waiting to see how Manhattan’s premier wingman would handle the assignment. Chase didn’t move. He threw Garrett an unvarnished, withering look. “Screw that. I’m a married man. You don’t know what boundaries are? Go do your own dirty work. I’m not giving my wife any reason to question me.” He turned his head toward me, took a slow sip of his bourbon, and tilted his chin with an easy, softened grin. “Right, sweetheart?” The entire table erupted into groans and laughter, accusing him of trading his loyalty for domestic bliss. Chase leaned back against his leather armchair, swirling the amber liquid in his crystal glass, the corners of his eyes flushed with a faint, lazy warmth. “What did you expect? My wife comes first.” I knew it was performance art. We had a contract, after all. We were supposed to look like a golden couple. For someone as socially agile as Chase, delivering lines like that was child’s play. Yet, my traitorous heart skipped a beat all the same. In the back of the town car on the drive home, I looked out the window and spoke quietly. “You didn’t have to put on a show like that for my benefit. I wouldn’t have minded.” He sat beside me, keeping a respectful cushion of space between us, turning his head to look at me in the dim interior of the car. The streetlights strobed across his features, lending an unexpected, unreadable gravity to his gaze. “It wasn’t a show.” “…” “If you’re married, you act married,” he said, his tone unusually grounded. “Boundaries exist for a reason.” I looked at his profile in the shifting shadows, suddenly realizing that the reckless playboy the world talked about was far more solid—far more protective—than anyone had ever given him credit for. 7 The days drifted along in an easy, predictable rhythm, and before I knew it, we were entering our third month. I had assumed we would continue indefinitely in this state of comfortable civility laced with faint, unspoken tension. Until one evening, when I wrapped up a site visit early. As my cab pulled up to the driveway of our estate, the scene under the carriage lights stopped me cold. Chase was stepping out of a town car, helping a woman in a silk slip dress find her footing. The evening breeze carried the familiar citrus undertone of his cologne, mingled with a heavy, cloying floral perfume. His upper body was slightly bent, his palm hovering protectively just behind her waist to keep her steady, his head tilted down as he murmured something to her. His movements were attentive, familiar, and painfully sharp to the eye. The rumors had echoed for years—Chase Holloway changes partners like seasons, living out of VIP lounges for days at a time. I had known this before signing the marriage certificate. I had recited the terms of our prenuptial agreement like a mantra: Mutual benefit. Zero interference. Yet standing there on the cobblestones, the strap of my leather handbag dug into my fingers until my knuckles turned white. Chase looked up and caught sight of me. His posture stiffened for a fraction of a second before he straightened up. “You’re home early,” he said. His tone was completely normal, even punctuated by that easy, familiar grin with the slight flash of his canine tooth. The woman beside him, clearly unsteady from alcohol, swayed slightly and leaned into his shoulder. I pulled my gaze away, forcing a cool, brittle smile. “Quite the lively evening, Mr. Holloway. Entertaining right on our front steps?” The words left my mouth before I could stop them. We had agreed to keep out of each other’s private affairs, yet the sting in my voice sounded embarrassingly like a jealous spouse catching her husband in the act. The smile on Chase’s face faded. He parted his lips to explain, but I didn’t give him the chance. I brushed past them without another glance, pushing through the heavy front doors. In the foyer, the low amber nightlight was already glowing—the light he always insisted on keeping on so I wouldn’t stumble after dark. Just days ago, I had thought it was a mark of deep consideration. Now, it felt like the polished reflex of an experienced charmer who offered the same casual courtesies to every woman in his orbit. I marched up to my suite, locked the heavy oak door behind me, and leaned against the wood, fighting for breath. I couldn’t tell if what I was feeling was anger or humiliation. We were a strategic union; his private life was none of my business. But the suffocating tightness in my chest was impossible to rationalize away. Over the past three months, he had been too good at this. He remembered my aversion to cilantro; he kept warm pear broth ready when I pulled late nights; he seamlessly deflected drinks for me at corporate dinners. I had almost allowed myself to forget that he was the city’s most practiced wingman, an expert in reading the room and catering to people’s moods. That tenderness had never belonged exclusively to me. The incident remained lodged in my chest like a fine splinter—too deep to pull out, too sharp to ignore. I didn’t bring it up, and neither did he. On the surface, our domestic life continued uninterrupted, but internally, I began pulling my defenses back into place. A few days later, the remaining doubt was decisively crushed. I went to his private study on the second floor to retrieve an iPad I had left behind after a floor-plan review. As I reached the heavy double doors, which stood slightly ajar, his low voice drifted out into the hallway. He was on a call, his tone hushed and dismissive: “…It’s just an arrangement to keep the families happy. You’re overthinking it. Her heart belongs to someone else—I’ve always known that.” I stood on the threshold, the blood draining from my limbs until I felt entirely numb. Of course. The entire social circuit knew about my four-year crusade for Isaac Bennett. Chase had agreed to this marriage simply because I was low-maintenance and came with an aligned balance sheet. I wouldn’t cling to him, wouldn’t demand his affection, and would allow both of us to live separate lives without friction. The woman at the front gate was simply one of many. And I had actually begun to wonder if there was something real between us? How utterly pathetic. I stepped back silently into the shadows, leaving the iPad where it lay, and returned to my room. From that day forward, I drew a hard line between us. When he left sweet soups on the counter, I claimed I was cutting sugar. When he offered to accompany me to an architectural retrospective over the weekend, I claimed client emergencies. When he ordered late-night takeout to share in the living room, I stayed behind locked doors with my own delivery. He noticed the shift, of course. He asked me once if something was wrong. “Just swamped with project deadlines,” I replied flatly. He let out a quiet ah, and didn’t press further. We reverted back to the stiff, formal politeness of the first week. It left a hollow ache in my chest, but I told myself this was the only proper way. It was an arrangement. Real feelings had no place here. 8 Life, however, rarely stays quiet for long. Two weeks later, the Holloway family held an extended family gathering at their country club estate. Two long tables were packed with relatives, a cacophony of polite laughter and thinly veiled social posturing. Chase’s paternal aunt, Cynthia, was infamous for her sharp tongue and lack of tact. She cornered me over the second course, holding my wrist with synthetic warmth while her words dripped with condescension. “Caroline, dear, I heard through the grapevine that you spent four years chasing after that brilliant academic boy? The one who packed up and moved to the UK without you?” The table quieted noticeably, several relatives casting covert glances in our direction. My fingers tightened around my silver fork. Before I could formulate a polite deflection, Aunt Cynthia pressed the knife further. “Not that I’m lecturing you, darling, but a young woman really ought to maintain a little decorum. Our Chase might be a bit of a free spirit, but he comes from an honorable house. You can’t be holding onto old flames while wearing our family ring.” The insinuation was vile. My face hardened, and I was about to fire back when a hand reached past my shoulder, gently guiding me backward into a protective stance. It was Chase. He had just stepped into the private dining room, carrying a small, ribbon-tied box of artisanal strawberry mochi from a boutique bakery in the historic district. He dropped the box onto the linen tablecloth with a soft thud. His voice was completely relaxed, yet carried a frost that instantly dropped the temperature in the room. “Aunt Cynthia, eat your food, but watch your mouth.” “Chase, I was only—” “I pursued Caroline,” Chase interrupted, his eyes narrowing into cold slits. “I chased her for a very long time before she finally agreed to give me a chance. The fact that she was willing to marry me is my greatest fortune.” He leaned in slightly, resting a hand on the back of my chair. “Besides, what’s the point of digging up ancient history? If you have this much free time on your hands, maybe you should spend it checking in on your son. The debt collectors from his Atlantic City runs were pounding on the corporate doors again yesterday, waiting for my brother to bail him out.” Aunt Cynthia’s face went entirely pale. Her mouth opened and closed, but not a single sound came out. The entire dining room fell into absolute silence; even the clinking of cutlery ceased. I stood half a step behind Chase, staring at his broad shoulders, my chest suddenly overwhelmed by a fierce, burning heat. During all those years of chasing Isaac Bennett, I had always been the one standing on the front line. When people mocked me for being desperate, when whispers circulated that I was punching above my weight, Isaac had never once defended me. He had only frowned, muttering, “Can you please keep things low-profile? It’s embarrassing.” In twenty-four years, this was the first time someone had stepped in front of me to absorb the blows on my behalf. After the dinner concluded, I stood by the car in the private lot and thanked him. He scratched the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically sheepish. “What are you thanking me for? You’re my wife. If I don’t back you up, who will? My aunt’s mouth has been asking for a reality check for a decade.” He handed me the pastry box. “Grabbed these on the way over. Heard you liked this bakery.” I took the box. The cardboard was still faintly warm. That tiny bakery was tucked away in a quiet alley across town; only my three closest friends knew it was my secret comfort spot. I looked up into his eyes. “How did you know about this place?” He paused for half a second, then brushed it off with a lazy grin. “Lucky guess. Don’t all women have a thing for boutique sweets?” I didn’t call him out. Yet the embers I had tried so hard to stamp out flared back to life, roaring through my chest. On the drive back, I watched his profile in the rearview mirror. Several times, the question of what he had meant on that phone call in his study rose to my throat, but I forced it back down. What difference would it make? If the truth was something I didn’t want to hear, it would only tear down the fragile peace we had built. Being shielded by him, even under a contract, was enough. I had no idea that the fragile peace was about to be shattered by Isaac Bennett himself. 9 Three months into our marriage, Isaac returned to the country. Our former class president organized an alumni reunion, sending me a long, effusive message insisting that Isaac was back, everyone was gathering, and my absence would be unthinkable. Initially, I had no intention of attending, but a small, unresolved corner of my mind wanted closure. I needed to stand in front of the past and verify that I was truly, completely free of it. Before leaving, I mentioned the dinner to Chase. He was in the middle of buffing the visor of his racing helmet. His hands paused, and he looked up at me. “Want me to drop you off? Or come along?” His dark eyes were deep, carrying an undercurrent of vulnerability that I thought must have been a trick of the light. I smiled lightly. “No need. It’s just an alumni dinner. I can handle myself.” He gave a slow nod, not pressing the issue. “Call me when it’s over. I’ll pick you up. Don’t take a rideshare alone late at night.” I gave a casual wave and left. When I stepped into the private room at the restaurant, Isaac was already seated at the center. Two years abroad had refined his edges. In his tailored white shirt, Italian wool blazer, and wire-rimmed glasses, he retained every ounce of the immaculate, untouchable scholar persona. The moment I entered, his gaze locked onto me and never wavered. Throughout the meal, old classmates dropped heavy hints and teasing remarks, asking if the Mercer heiress and the golden boy were about to pick up where they left off now that he had returned. I laughed them off with practiced deflection, refusing to take the bait. Isaac watched me quietly, drinking in silence. When the dinner finally wound down and the others had filtered out to their cars, Isaac called my name outside the entrance. We stood beneath the awning, the autumn wind carrying a crisp chill. “Caroline,” he said, stepping closer. “I made a mistake back then. I was too obsessed with my academic milestones and took your presence for granted.” I stared at him, feeling nothing but a profound, icy disbelief. Obsessed with academic milestones? Was that his retrospective justification for accepting my devotion for four years while keeping me at arm’s length? He took another step forward, his voice low, measured, and dripping with absolute self-assurance. “I’m back permanently now. I want to make it right. Let me pursue you properly this time. Let’s give us a real chance.” The night air was dead quiet. I could hear my own breathing. Two years ago, hearing those words would have sent me over the moon. Now, standing before him, I felt nothing. No excitement, no vindication—only a faint sense of absurdity. Before I could speak, a familiar, drawling voice cut through the darkness behind me, laced with effortless amusement. “Hate to break it to you, pal, but she’s married. Your window closed.” I turned around. Chase was leaning against his dark sedan, wearing a black leather jacket, holding my wool coat over his forearm. He walked over with lazy confidence, draped the coat around my shoulders, and pulled me flush against his side, his arm locking firmly around my waist. Then he looked at Isaac, his tone impeccably polite and razor-sharp. “Mr. Bennett, right? Caroline has mentioned you. I really ought to thank you for letting her slip through your fingers. Otherwise, how would I have gotten lucky enough to land the best woman in this city?” Isaac’s expression darkened instantly. He stared at me, ignoring Chase. “Caroline, your marriage is just a corporate merger. You don’t love him. Have you forgotten who he is? He was an aimless playboy back then, and he’s just entertaining himself with a new toy now.” A laugh escaped my lips. I gently shifted in Chase’s hold, stepping half an inch forward to look Isaac dead in the eye. My voice was calm, clear, and unyielding. “Isaac, years ago, I admired you because you were brilliant and successful, and I wanted to be worthy of standing beside you.” “…” “But now I know that in a real partnership, brilliance doesn’t mean a thing if it isn’t kind. Being with you meant spending every second on tiptoe, constantly terrified that I wasn’t impressive enough for your standards.” “With him, I don’t have to pretend.” “And as for what kind of man he is,” I added, holding his gaze, “I know him far better than you do. It’s not your place to pass judgment.” Without waiting for his response, I reached down, laced my fingers through Chase’s, and pulled him toward the car. Chase’s palm was broad and warm, with faint calluses along the knuckles that felt immensely grounding. Once we were inside the car with the doors shut, I exhaled a long breath. “Thanks for stepping in again. Sorry for the trouble.” He turned the key in the ignition, casting a sidelong glance at me, his eyes dark and fathomless. “No trouble,” he murmured, his voice soft against the low hum of the engine. “I was just terrified you’d listen to him and walk away.” The words were tossed out casually, almost like an afterthought. Yet my heart skipped an entire beat. I stole a glance at his profile as the streetlights swept over the leather dashboard. His jawline was set tightly, carrying an authentic, nervous tension. Was I imagining things? After that night, the invisible barrier between us began to dissolve entirely. When I stayed late at the studio, he would sit in my lounge area reviewing portfolio reports. When I had a craving for a specific pastry across town, he would make the detour without a word. On quiet evenings, we would curl up on the sectional watching old films, and during the suspenseful scenes, his hand would instinctively reach over to cover my eyes. The line between contractual obligation and genuine affection grew blurrier by the day. I didn’t dare ask. I was terrified that the truth would shatter the illusion, and even more terrified that if he realized I was falling for him, he would find it laughable. After all, I was the one who had once called him an aimless slacker to his face. To lose my heart to him now felt embarrassingly late.
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