Chapter 2

We stayed distant and unmoved until one month before the contract ended.

That was when things began to change.

One night, I worked until two in the morning. My stomach cramped hard from years of irregular meals. It felt like something inside was squeezing it over and over.

I pushed the door open, expecting darkness and silence. Instead, the kitchen light was on.

Grant stood at the counter in gray loungewear, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He was cooking. The air carried the faint smell of chicken soup.

"Why are you still up?" I asked, pressing a hand to my stomach, frowning.

"I made extra," he said, without looking at me. His voice stayed cool, but the way he turned off the stove felt slightly stiff.

I sat down at the table and looked at the steaming bowl in front of me. For no reason at all, my heart skipped a beat.

After that, the "extra" food showed up more and more.

He started coming home on time for dinner. When I worked late, he would drive over in the middle of the night, leave a hot meal downstairs at my office, and go without saying a word.

At the time, I thought nothing of it. To me, he was just a businessman wrapping things up cleanly. I thought it was a final gesture of goodwill before the contract ended.

That illusion lasted until one Wednesday afternoon. I went into his study to find a copy of the old contract.

There was a black leather notebook in the center of his desk. That was off-limits. He never let it out of his sight, whether he was at work or at home.

But that day, he must have left in a hurry. The notebook was not locked away.

Before I could stop myself, I reached out. My fingers brushed the cool leather.

There were no business secrets inside or schemes against the Wilkinson Group. Tucked between the pages was an old photo.

It was from a college debate competition. In the picture, I stood on stage in a cheap suit that didn't quite fit.

I held a microphone, speaking with all the fire and confidence of someone who had not yet been worn down by the world.

On the back, there was a faint line of handwriting. The ink was smudged as if someone had run their thumb over it repeatedly. [That was the first time I wanted to hide you away.]

My chest tightened. A chill shot up from my feet to the top of my head. It didn't feel like a pleasant surprise. It felt like walking alone at night and realizing the shadow behind you was alive.

My mind snapped back to the present. I hadn't even made it out of the hotel lobby when I heard fast, heavy footsteps behind me.

"Grace!" Grant's voice echoed through the empty corridor. It sounded rough and strained in a way I had never heard before.

I didn't stop. I walked faster. My palms were slick with cold sweat, dampening the clutch in my hand.

I thought about Isabella's smug look. I thought about that photo. My stomach turned, a wave of nausea climbing up my throat.

Then suddenly, a force pulled me back. My wrist was caught in a tight grip. The momentum spun me around, and my back slammed hard against a cold marble pillar.

"Let go," I said, my voice low and sharp. My eyes burned, and my vision started to blur.

Grant stood right in front of me. His tie was crooked. A few strands of his usually perfect hair had fallen across his forehead.

His eyes were bloodshot, so red that it looked like something inside him had finally snapped after being held down for too long.

The calm, controlled look he always wore was gone, replaced by panic and confusion.

"Why do you have to leave?" he asked. He stared straight at me. His fingers trembled as they gripped my wrist, tightening until it felt like my bones might crack.

"Have to leave?" I let out a cold laugh. Tears slid down my cheeks and into my mouth. They tasted bitter and salty.

"Grant, are you addicted to acting?" I asked. "Isabella is pregnant. If I don't leave, what am I supposed to do? Stay with the Fleming family, raise your kid for you, and watch the three of you play happy family?"

He froze. For the first time ever, that face that never changed showed something close to disbelief.

"What did you say?" he asked.

"Your first love is pregnant," I shot back. "You threw this birthday party for her just to give her a title, didn't you?"

I tried to shove him away, but before I could, he stepped forward and dragged me hard into his arms.

His chest burned against mine. His heartbeat was fast and heavy, slamming into me through the thin layers of our clothes.

He lowered his head. His breath, thick with alcohol, brushed against my ear and neck. When he spoke, his voice dropped so low that it almost sounded like he was begging. "What if I told you I never touched her?"

"Never touched her?" I jerked back. The back of my head hit the stone pillar behind me, and my vision blurred for a second.

I looked at him. Those calculating eyes were bloodshot now. A harsh, broken laugh slipped out of me, full of self-mockery.

"Grant, what am I to you?" I asked. "A corporate spy from the Wilkinson family? Do you really need to keep acting until the very last second?"