Chapter 4

"You don't like it? And what gives you the right to say that?" I shot back.

All the frustration I'd been holding in all night finally exploded.

"James, don't forget what this is! We're in a contractual marriage—it's all fake! Who are you to tell me who I can hang out with?" I snapped.

"Fake?" James narrowed his eyes, his aura growing even more intimidating.

"Is our marriage certificate fake, too?" he asked.

I was stunned into silence by his question.

Stamp from City Hall couldn't be more real.

"So what! I can't stand you trying to control me!" I retorted, reckless and fed up.

The car went utterly silent, save for our ragged breathing.

After a long pause, James let out a wry, self-deprecating laugh.

"Fine, I won't bother with you anymore," he said.

He turned to the driver. "Drive."

Not another word passed between us for the entire ride back to the villa.

The moment the car stopped, James strode inside and went straight up to his study, closing the door firmly behind him.

Alone in the vast, silent living room, I felt a confusing storm of emotions—frustration, resentment, and a hollow ache I couldn't name.

Big deal. If he stopped meddling, at least I'd finally get some peace and quiet.

Fuming, I stormed over to my best friend, Emily Summers' place, seeking refuge from the chaos at home.

After I'd finished my embellished rant about James' "tyrannical" behavior, Emily didn't share my outrage. Instead, a knowing, almost smug smile spread across her face.

"Babe, are you sure James is really mad at you, or is he just jealous?" Emily teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Jealous?" I burst out laughing, like she'd just told the world's biggest joke. "Him? Jealous because of me? Emily, are you feeling okay?"

Emily said, ticking off the points on her fingers, "Think about it. Why did he just 'happen' to show up at that restaurant?

"Why did he keep stressing you had to be home by ten? And why did he specifically tell you to stay away from Alex?"

"Well..." I stammered, totally thrown off.

"Sophia, are you seriously that dense?" Emily poked me in the head like she was scolding a kid, totally exasperated. "When a guy gets all worked up about another guy, what else could it possibly be about if not you?"

Emily suddenly asked, "And do you seriously believe James has always hated you since you were little?"

"Obviously!" I shot back, rolling my eyes.

"Remember in third grade, when you broke that specimen in the school lab and were bawling your eyes out?

"Who was it that secretly fixed it for you, took the blame, and got stuck standing in detention all afternoon?" Emily asked, her voice full of mischief.

I froze, totally stunned.

Of course I remembered that. I always thought the teacher was just being nice and didn't make a big deal out of it.

"And in eighth grade, when those punks from the other class cornered you in that alley?

"Who was it that jumped in, took on all three of them, ended up with a busted face but kept you safe behind him the whole time?" Emily went on, exasperated.

I was completely stunned.

It was so dark that day, all I saw was a tall, lanky silhouette. When the teacher showed up, the punks ran off, and that guy just disappeared, too.

I always figured it was a Good Samaritan passing by.

"All those times—it was James," Emily said, making sure I heard every word.

My mind went blank, as if someone had flipped a switch in my brain.

No way. James—the guy who was always messing with me for fun—actually did all that for me, quietly, behind my back?

Later, I drifted back home, feeling lost and empty inside.

The villa was shrouded in darkness, except for a faint strip of light spilling out from the crack of the study door.

I found myself drawn to the door, almost without thinking. I reached out, about to push it open, but hesitated and pulled my hand back.

Back in the guest room, I finally realized I'd scraped my finger on the doorframe when I left earlier. It was still seeping blood.

I was about to hunt for a Band-Aid when I turned around and spotted a first-aid kit sitting quietly on the nightstand.

The kit was open, everything inside perfectly organized—iodine, cotton swabs, band-aids, all lined up just so.

Next to it was a note, written in James' bold, dramatic handwriting: [Dummy, don't you even know that hurts?]