“Because for the first time in decades, someone looked at me and did not see leverage, advantage, fear, debt, or usefulness. You saw me. I tried to stop it. I tried to send you away. I told myself your youth made it a delusion, and when that didn’t work, I told myself your poverty made it vulnerability. But you kept choosing me without asking for anything except honesty, and I…” She swallowed. “I failed you there.”
That last part landed hardest.
Not the money. Not the danger. Not even the dead husband whose ghost apparently still funded half the room downstairs.
Honesty.
That had been the contract you asked for.
And she had broken it before the vows were dry.
You turned away from her and walked toward the terrace doors, needing air, space, a wall to punch, a childhood to go back to. Your reflection in the glass looked absurd: a twenty-year-old groom in formalwear, shoulders too tense, face too open, standing inside a fortress of wealth and secrets.
Behind you, Helena spoke in that infuriating calm legal tone.
“There is one more issue you need to understand immediately.”
You did not turn around. “I can’t wait.”
“By marrying Celia, you are now part of the line of legal succession for several shielded entities. Certain parties will interpret that as a threat.”
That got you.
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