Chapter 2

The Cross estate loomed before me, a sprawling mansion of weathered stone and gleaming windows that stretched across the Hamptons shoreline. The iron gates parted with a mechanical groan as the driver navigated the sleek town car up the winding driveway. My stomach twisted into knots. What had seemed like a bold act of defiance in the quiet of my bedroom now felt like madness in the harsh light of day.

I was about to meet—or rather, see—the man I had legally married three days ago. Sebastian Cross. Comatose heir. My husband.

"We've arrived, Ms. Harper," the driver announced, his voice startling me from my thoughts.

"It's Mrs. Cross now, technically," I murmured, more to myself than to him. The name felt foreign on my tongue, a costume I wasn't sure I could wear convincingly.

Before I could reach for the door handle, a woman in a crisp charcoal suit appeared, her silver-streaked hair pulled into a severe bun that matched her expression. Beside her stood an older man in formal attire, his posture as rigid as the hedges lining the driveway.

"Olivia Harper?" The woman's voice was clipped, professional. "I'm Eleanor Vance, the Cross family attorney. This is Stanton, the estate manager."

Neither offered a hand to shake. Eleanor's eyes swept over me with the clinical precision of someone appraising furniture rather than greeting a new family member. The weight of their suspicion was palpable.

"Thank you for meeting me," I said, forcing confidence into my voice. "I understand this is... unconventional."

"'Unconventional' doesn't begin to cover it," Eleanor replied. "The family is still processing Sebastian's parents' decision to arrange this... situation during their absence."

Stanton cleared his throat. "If you'll follow me, Mrs. Cross, I'll show you to your quarters."

Mrs. Cross. There it was again. A name that belonged to someone else—someone who hadn't made a life-altering decision out of spite and heartbreak.

I followed Stanton through the grand entrance hall, my heels clicking against marble floors that reflected sunlight from towering windows. The house felt both oppressively large and stifling, filled with artwork worth more than my father's entire home and furniture too pristine to actually use.

"Your suite is in the east wing," Stanton explained, his voice echoing. "Sebastian's medical facility is in the west wing. You won't be expected to—"

A shrill alarm cut through his words, the sound bouncing off the high ceilings. Stanton froze, his professional mask slipping to reveal genuine alarm.

"What is that?" I asked, my heart suddenly racing.

Before he could answer, the hallway filled with activity. Medical staff in scrubs rushed past us, pushing carts of equipment. A woman in a white coat barked orders into a phone as she hurried by.

"Stay here," Eleanor commanded, appearing beside us. She and Stanton exchanged a look heavy with meaning before they both rushed after the medical team.

Left alone in the massive hallway, I stood frozen, wondering if I'd somehow caused this chaos simply by arriving. Was Sebastian—my technical husband—dying at this very moment? The thought sent an unexpected pang through me.

Hours passed in a blur of hushed conversations and hurried footsteps. I was eventually led to a sitting room where I perched awkwardly on the edge of an antique sofa, feeling like an intruder. No one told me anything until Eleanor returned, her composed exterior now showing cracks of genuine astonishment.

"He's awake," she said, the words hanging in the air between us.

"Who's awake?" I asked stupidly, though I knew the answer.

"Sebastian. He's awake. After six months, he just... opened his eyes." She stared at me with new intensity. "On the exact day you arrived."

The implication in her voice was clear: this couldn't be coincidence. And from the whispers I caught from passing staff, the doctors agreed. Words like "unprecedented" and "impossible" floated through the halls.

"He's asking for you," Eleanor finally said, studying my reaction carefully.

My throat went dry. "For me? But he doesn't even know me."

"Apparently, he knows he's married." Her tone suggested this information had been shared against medical advice. "He wants to meet his wife."

The walk to Sebastian's room felt like a march to my own execution. What would I say to this stranger whose life had become entangled with mine through the most bizarre of circumstances? What would he think of the woman who had agreed to marry him while he lay unconscious?

The medical wing was a stark contrast to the rest of the mansion—modern, sterile, filled with beeping machines and the antiseptic smell of a hospital. Two doctors stepped aside as Eleanor led me to a sunlit room at the end of the hall.

"Five minutes only," one of them instructed firmly. "He's still stabilizing."

I nodded, my pulse thundering in my ears as Eleanor opened the door and gestured for me to enter alone.

The man in the bed was nothing like I'd imagined. Despite months of unconsciousness, Sebastian Cross looked vibrant, alert—handsome in a way his photographs hadn't captured. Dark hair fell across his forehead, and his eyes—a startling blue—locked onto mine the moment I stepped into the room.

A smile spread across his face, transforming his features from merely handsome to devastating. "So you're my wife," he said, his voice surprisingly strong and tinged with amusement. "Excellent taste on my part."