Chapter 3
The morning light filtered through the heavy curtains of my suite in the east wing, casting golden patterns across the antique furniture. I'd barely slept, my mind replaying yesterday's impossible moment on loop: Sebastian Cross, awake and smiling at me with those startlingly blue eyes, calling me his wife with an ease I couldn't fathom.
"Excellent taste on my part," he'd said, as if choosing me had been his decision rather than a desperate arrangement made while he lay unconscious.
I reached for my phone on the nightstand, needing to ground myself in something familiar. A notification banner made my heart skip—a New York Times alert. I tapped it with trembling fingers and nearly dropped the phone when I saw the headline:
"MIRACLE AWAKENING: CROSS HEIR EMERGES FROM COMA TO MEET NEW BRIDE"
Beneath it was a photo of the Cross estate and an older image of Sebastian at some charity gala, looking impossibly polished in a tailored tuxedo. The article detailed his "miraculous recovery" coinciding with the arrival of his "new wife, Olivia Harper-Cross, a recent Yale graduate."
My stomach twisted. It was real now—public, documented, impossible to take back. I scrolled through the article, my breath catching when I read: "Sources close to the family describe the timing as 'beyond coincidence' and 'almost supernatural.'"
A soft knock at the door interrupted my spiraling thoughts.
"Mrs. Cross?" It was Stanton, his voice formal but gentler than yesterday. "Mr. Sebastian has requested your presence for breakfast in the solarium, if you're feeling up to it."
My husband—the stranger—was asking for me again.
---
Two hundred miles away in Connecticut, Ryan Mitchell's coffee mug shattered against the kitchen wall, dark liquid streaming down the pale paint like blood.
"What the FUCK is this?" he roared, brandishing his phone at Jake, who sat frozen at the breakfast table. "She MARRIED someone? While we were—"
"Taking care of Madison," Jake finished quietly, his eyes fixed on the same New York Times article that had sent Ryan into a rage.
"This has to be bullshit," Ryan paced the kitchen, crunching over ceramic shards. "Some billionaire in a coma? She wouldn't—she couldn't—"
"She did," Jake said, scrolling through the article. "It says they were married three days ago. While we were at the health center with Madison."
Ryan grabbed his phone back, scanning the article again as if searching for evidence of a cruel joke. "This is insane. She belongs with us. She always has."
"Well, she's with him now," Jake said, a strange hollowness in his voice. "And apparently, he just woke up."
Ryan's face contorted. "We need to go get her. Now."
---
The café on East 79th Street was crowded with the morning rush, but Ryan and Jake had claimed a corner table, heads bent together like conspirators. Between them lay a printout of the Times article, now covered in Ryan's angry scribbles.
"She's being manipulated," Ryan insisted, jabbing his finger at Sebastian's photo. "Look at this guy—he's exactly the type who'd prey on someone vulnerable."
"He was in a coma," Jake pointed out, stirring his untouched coffee. "Hard to manipulate someone from a coma."
"His family, then! They're using her for something." Ryan's voice rose, drawing irritated glances from nearby tables. "You know Olivia—she's too trusting, too nice. She would never do this unless she was being coerced."
Jake nodded slowly, wanting to believe it. The alternative—that Olivia had willingly married a stranger to escape them—was too painful to consider.
"We need to go to the Hamptons," Ryan decided, already pulling out his phone. "Today. We'll bring her back home where she belongs."
"And if she doesn't want to come?" Jake asked quietly.
Ryan's eyes hardened. "She doesn't know what she wants right now. We'll make her see reason."
---
The Cross family dining room was a cavernous space with a table that could seat thirty, though tonight it held only eight: Sebastian at the head, me beside him, Eleanor, three Cross cousins, and Sebastian's aunt and uncle who had flown in from London upon hearing the news.
I felt like an insect under glass, every movement scrutinized by cold, assessing eyes. My silk dress—hastily purchased that afternoon with the Cross credit card I'd been given—felt simultaneously too formal and not nearly elegant enough.
"So, Olivia," Sebastian's aunt Vivian began, her British accent making even this simple address sound like an accusation, "how exactly did you and Sebastian meet?"
Before I could stammer out some version of the truth, Sebastian's hand covered mine on the table.
"Actually," he said, his voice warm and sure, "Olivia once saved me from complete embarrassment at a charity marathon in Central Park. I collapsed from dehydration near the finish line, and she was the only person who stopped to help while everyone else just ran past."
I stared at him, bewildered. This never happened. We had never met before yesterday.
"She stayed with me until medical help arrived," he continued, his thumb tracing circles on my hand. "I never forgot her kindness—or her intelligence. Did you know she graduated summa cum laude from Yale? Art History."
The table fell silent. Eleanor's fork paused halfway to her mouth.
"I've always admired people who understand beauty," Sebastian said, his eyes never leaving mine, filled with something that looked remarkably like genuine admiration. "People who see value in things others overlook."
Across the table, I could see his relatives exchanging glances, reassessing me. No longer just an opportunistic stranger, but someone Sebastian—inexplicably—seemed to genuinely value.
As the servers brought in the main course, Sebastian leaned close to my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "Play along," he whispered, so softly only I could hear. "I'll explain everything later."
A chill ran down my spine. What game was he playing? And why did I feel, despite every rational thought, that I could trust him?