Chapter 213
“Nick…”
Khloe’s voice broke slightly as she whispered his name.
Something in her chest loosened all at once, as if the careful walls she had built around herself had finally cracked beyond repair.
She didn’t know what to say.
So she didn’t try.
Instead, she leaned into him, closing her eyes as her forehead brushed against his.
She had once promised herself she wouldn’t step into love again.
Not after everything.
Not after pain that had carved itself too deeply into memory.
But Nick…
Nick was different.
Too steady.
Too warm in places she didn’t know were still cold.
Too real to resist.
She had thought she could keep her heart guarded.
Now she realized she never stood a chance.
Even if it meant risk.
Even if it meant pain later.
She still wanted him.
Completely.
Without restraint.
The next morning came too early.
A pale light was just beginning to spread across the sky when Khloe stirred awake.
A soft pressure touched her lips.
She blinked.
Nick was already dressed.
Sitting at the edge of the bed.
His hand rested lightly around her wrist, as if he had been watching her for a while before waking her.
“Get up,” he said quietly. “I’m taking you somewhere today.”
Khloe rubbed her eyes, still hazy with sleep.
“Where…?”
Her gaze drifted to the clock.
6:30 a.m.
Far too early for anything that sounded serious.
In the morning light, Nick looked different.
The usual sharpness of his features was softened, almost subdued.
“To see my mother,” he said.
The words landed quietly.
But heavily.
Khloe went still.
She knew.
His mother had passed away long ago.
A wound that had never fully closed.
A part of him that rarely surfaced.
And yet he was bringing her there.
Bringing her there.
Without hesitation, Khloe nodded.
“Okay.”
Before they left, Khloe carefully prepared a bouquet.
She even tried asking what his mother had liked—what she might have preferred—but Nick only took her hand and stopped her.
“You don’t need to prepare anything else,” he said.
His thumb brushed over her knuckles once.
“Just showing up is enough.”
After a pause, he added more quietly,
“That alone will make her happy.”
Khloe didn’t argue.
An hour later, the car stopped at a quiet cemetery outside the city.
The world here felt still.
Almost suspended.
Nick held her hand the entire way.
Not loosely.
Not casually.
But tightly.
As if the closer they got, the more something inside him had to be held in place.
Khloe felt it.
The restraint.
The quiet weight he carried.
She didn’t speak.
She only stayed beside him.
At the gravesite, Nick placed the flowers down with careful hands.
Then he knelt.
Slowly.
As if even this motion required effort.
His fingers brushed over the headstone, wiping away a thin layer of dust.
Gentle.
Precise.
Almost reverent.
The morning mist still lingered between the rows of graves, softening everything except the silence.
Khloe stood just behind him.
Watching.
Her chest tightened.
For the first time, she didn’t see Nick Hunt—the man others described with fear, authority, and control.
She saw something else.
A son.
Standing at the edge of grief, he had carried it all his life.
His mother had died giving birth to him.
A truth that had never truly left him.
Loretta had once mentioned it carefully, but Khloe now understood what it meant in full.
A child growing up under the weight of a death he could not prevent.
A father who withdrew instead of healing.
A home filled with silence instead of warmth.
No wonder Nick had learned to stand alone.
Khloe’s fingers curled slightly at her side.
Her heart ached in a way she couldn’t explain.
Nick stayed silent for a long time.
Just looking at the photograph.
The woman on the stone was gentle.
Beautiful.
Her smile is soft, almost luminous.
And faintly—
Unmistakably—
resembling Nick.
Finally, he spoke.
“Mom.”
His voice was lower than usual.
Huskier.
As if it came from somewhere deeper than speech.
“I brought someone to see you.”
He turned slightly.
Held out his hand.
Khloe stepped forward without hesitation and placed her hand in his.
His grip tightened immediately.
Not possessive.
Not controlling.
But searching.
Anchoring.
“She’s Khloe,” he said.
A pause.
Then, with quiet certainty—
“She’s my wife.”
The words carried weight.
Not an announcement.
Not pride.
Something closer to offering.
Entrusting.
Khloe knelt beside him on the damp grass, not caring about the morning dew seeping into her clothes.
She looked at the photograph.
And spoke softly.
“Hello, Mom.”
“I’m Khloe.”
Her voice was steady, sincere.
“I’ll stay with him.”
A small pause.
“And I’ll take good care of him.”