Chapter 1
The whole town of Havenshore knew Marcus Thornton had my name inked over his heart.
It was a Thornton family tradition: the heir must tattoo the name of his true love on the left side of his chest. If the tattoo stayed intact for three full years, only then could the couple marry.
But the "Charlotte" on Marcus's skin never survived a year. It kept breaking open, festering, burning him with fever.
The first year, the wound rotted for weeks and nearly sent him into septic shock.
The second year, it got infected over and over again, leaving a brutal scar.
The third year, he collapsed with myocarditis and spent seven days and nights in the ICU.
People were moved to tears by his devotion. They asked what on earth I, Charlotte Ashford, had done to deserve a man like him.
And then tonight happened. Through a crack in the half-open door, I saw his tattoo clearly: perfectly healed, smooth as untouched skin.
Before joy could even rise in my chest, I watched him take out a small tube of ointment and dab it carefully around the ink.
Within moments, the skin reddened and split open.
While working the cream in, he said to his doctor, his tone almost casual, "The more it breaks down, the better. This way I can stay by Evelyn's side a little longer."
*****
For three years, Marcus had been dancing on the edge of death, all because he wanted to marry me.
I used to wake up at night shaking with guilt. I lit candles in every church I could find, begging for his pain to end, even if it meant losing years of my own life.
Until tonight.
Tonight I watched him uncork that black tube and spread the cream around the tattoo like it was part of his nightly routine.
Moments later, the skin blistered and tore.
His private doctor stood beside him, respectful and worried. "Mr. Thornton, this Skinbane Ointment is extremely strong.
"If you keep using it for another year, the tissue may never heal. It could even affect your heart and lungs. Are you sure delaying the wedding is worth this?"
Marcus paused only for a moment. Then he pressed the cotton swab harder, twisting until blood surfaced.
He said, "If I stay sick, no one questions why I live on the top floor of the hospital. Evelyn gets terrified at night. She cannot sleep unless I am nearby."
"As for Charlotte, she is already mine. Marriage will not change anything. And she is too softhearted to blame me."
His words slammed through me with a clarity that hurt to breathe.
Evelyn Hawthorne, the Thornton family's adopted daughter, had a severe clotting disorder. She was delicate in a way that made everyone treat her as if she might break at the slightest touch.
Marcus cared for her with absolute devotion. I never questioned it.
He once told me her father died saving his father, and the Thorntons owed her more than they could ever repay.
For him, I had given up my chance to study overseas.
I spent years standing in the Thornton ancestral hall, begging the elders to forgive me for burdening their "gravely ill" heir.
I chased every folk remedy, every whispered cure, even pricked my own finger to add a drop of blood because someone told me it might help.
What did all of that become now? Some twisted joke?
Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a message from my mom.
She said: [Charlotte, the youngest Caraway boy just returned home. Old Mr. Caraway thinks highly of you. If you agree, the Ashford and Caraway families can arrange the marriage immediately.
[I only want one thing, sweetheart. I want you safe, without fear, without tears.]
Through the narrow opening of the door, I watched Marcus wrap strip after strip of gauze around the wound he had created himself.
Those layers were not covering pain.
They were covering the part of him that had already turned rotten.
With shaking fingers, I typed back to my mother: [Okay.]