Chapter 7 Nolan #2
The top one shows Erik and me standing in his penthouse, looking like we actually want to be there. We’re not touching, but we’re angled toward each other.
There’s one of us signing the marriage certificate, our heads bent close together. If you didn’t know better, you’d think we were sharing an intimate moment.
And there, at the bottom of the box in an ornate silver frame—the kiss.
I stare at it for a long time.
Sara must have been positioned perfectly, because the angle makes it look romantic. Tender, even. Erik’s hand cupping my face, tilting my chin up toward his. My eyes closed. Our lips pressed together like we mean it.
Looking at it, you’d never know I wanted to kill him.
Looking at it, it looks like the kiss had sent electricity crackling through every nerve in my body and made me spend every day since dreaming about it.
Okay. Maybe kill him and fuck him. What a messed up wedding that turned out to be.
There’s a note from Sara tucked into the packaging: Place these around the apartment. Bureau inspection could happen anytime.
I shove the photos in the hall closet without displaying a single one. I’ll deal with it later. Or never.
Work is a relief. The hospital café is busy, the way it always is. Doctors grabbing coffee before rounds. Nurses coming off night shifts, desperate for caffeine. Family members shuffling in with hollow eyes and rumpled clothes.
Here, I’m just the barista who remembers everyone’s orders and doesn’t have a complicated arrangement with a pharmaceutical CEO.
I’m steaming milk for a cortado when my phone buzzes. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.
Sara’s name. Three missed calls.
“Cover me for a sec?” I ask Hazel, and duck into the storeroom.
Sara picks up on the first ring. “Nolan. I heard you’re working.”
I don’t bother to ask her how she knows. It’s clear that Nilsson doesn’t trust me any more than I trust him.
“Hello to you too.”
“This is serious. The husband of one of the richest men in the city shouldn’t be working as a barista. It doesn’t fit the narrative. The Bureau will be suspicious.”
“Then tell them I like staying busy.” I lean against a shelf of coffee supplies. “I’m not giving up my independence for this fake marriage, Sara.”
A long pause. I can practically hear her calculating.
“Fine. But keep a low profile.”
“Wasn’t planning on wearing a sign.”
During my break, I slip away to see Ellie.
Ellie’s wing is quieter than the main hospital, this where the long term patients stay. There are fewer people coming in and out.
When I walk in, she’s sitting up in bed with her tablet.
“Nolan!” She sets the tablet aside, and her whole face lights up when she sees me. “They’ve got me scheduled for the first round starting Monday.”
“That’s great.” I pull up the chair I’ve sat in a thousand times before and sink into it. “Really great, Ellie.”
“I still can’t believe you got me in.” She’s studying me with those sharp eyes that have never missed a thing, not since she was old enough to walk.
The same eyes that caught me sneaking out at sixteen, that knew I was lying about being fine after Alistair, that see through every mask I’ve ever tried to wear.
“The Barclay trial was closed. They weren’t taking new patients.
And then suddenly I get a call saying I’m in? How did you manage it?”
“I know people. Made some calls. You know how it is,” I say it in a joking tone like I am the kind of person who ‘makes some calls’ and has the world fall at his feet.
“Nolan.” She draws out my name the way she always does when she’s about to call me on my bullshit. “You’re doing that thing. That thing where you won’t look at me properly because you’re hiding something.”
“I’m not hiding anything.”
“You’re a terrible liar. You know that, right?
You’ve always been a terrible liar and you haven’t gotten any better at it.
” But there must be something in my face, because she lets it go, reaching out to squeeze my arm with fingers that are still too fragile.
“Whatever you did... thank you. I know it couldn’t have been easy. ”
“It’s nothing,” I say instead. “You’re my sister. I’d do anything for you.”
That, at least, is true.
That night, alone in the apartment again, I search. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Evidence. Ammunition. Something I can use against Erik when this farce is over.
I go through every drawer, every cabinet, every shelf.
Check the pockets of his old clothes and find nothing but lint and a faded receipt from a coffee shop dated eight years ago.
Examine the books, looking for... what? A signed confession?
Dear Nolan, I knew Alistair stole your research. Sincerely, your nemesis.
I search until two in the morning, finding nothing, then collapse on the bed.
The days blur together.
I work. I visit Ellie. I come back to the apartment and exist in this strange half-life of staged domesticity.
Every morning I wake up surrounded by Erik’s scent, my body already half-hard before I’m fully conscious. Every night I lie in his bed and fight the urge to touch myself again, to give in to the fantasies that plague me. Sometimes I win that fight. Usually I don’t.
I leave Erik’s toiletries artfully arranged in the bathroom and put extra dishes on the drying rack after every meal.
I make the bed like two people slept in it, even though the other side stays cold and empty.
I keep his clothes in the closet and pretend not to notice when I catch myself touching them, running my fingers over the fabric of his old shirts like some kind of lovesick idiot.
I am not lovesick. I am not anything-sick. This is just chemistry, just pheromones, just my stupid omega biology reacting to an alpha it’s decided is a good match. It’ll be a hard withdrawal but I know it’s possible.
I hear nothing from Erik himself. Not a call, not a text, not even a message passed through Sara. He’s keeping his distance exactly like he promised, and I should be grateful for that. I am grateful for that.
Mostly.
Which is fine. Perfect, actually. Exactly what we agreed to.
Three weeks pass.
Then my phone rings at work. Caller ID: Omega Match Bureau.
“Mr. West. David Sun. I’m calling about your matching status.”
“Is something wrong?”
“We’ve flagged the Nilsson-West match for non-compliance. Zero cohabitation evidence. No joint appearances. No indication of good-faith effort.”
My heart hammers. “We’ve been busy. We live together. We’re adjusting—”
“You have seventy-two hours to demonstrate compliance or face a tribunal hearing. I suggest you speak with your husband.”
The line goes dead.
I stand there for a moment, phone in hand, trying to think through the sudden roar of white noise in my head. Seventy-two hours. Three days. I need to call Sara. I need to figure out what we’re going to do. I need—
My phone buzzes again. The hospital.
Everything else disappears.
“Mr. West? This is Dr. Burke. I wanted to let you know that Ellie had a minor episode this afternoon. A seizure. It’s a known potential side effect of the treatment, nothing to be alarmed about. She’s perfectly fine now, resting comfortably. We’re monitoring her closely.”
The world goes white at the edges. I can hear Dr. Burke still talking, something about vital signs and expected reactions and nothing to worry about, but the words don’t make sense anymore. Seizure. Ellie. Seizure.
I don’t remember hanging up. I don’t remember telling Hazel I had to go. I don’t remember leaving the café, or taking the elevator up to the oncology wing, or walking through those familiar halls that suddenly feel like they’re a thousand miles long.
One second I’m behind the counter with a cloth in my hand, and the next I’m standing in Ellie’s doorway, heart trying to claw its way out of my throat, lungs refusing to work properly.
“Let me guess. Dr. Burke called you.”
“You had a seizure.”
“A tiny seizure.” She pats the bed beside her, utterly unimpressed by my obvious panic. “More of a seizure-adjacent experience. A seizure-ette, if you will. Sit down before you pass out and make this about you.”
I don’t sit. I can’t sit. I’m frozen in the doorway, taking inventory—color in her cheeks, steady rise and fall of her chest, the annoyed furrow between her brows that means she’s feeling well enough to be irritated with me. She really is okay.
“Nolan.” Her voice softens. “I’m fine. Look at me. I’m fine.”
I make myself move. Cross the room on legs that don’t feel entirely solid and sink into the chair beside her bed. Up close, I can see she’s telling the truth—she looks tired, maybe a little paler than usual, but not scared. Not in pain. Just exasperated with her overprotective brother.
“It lasted thirty seconds,” she says, grabbing my hand like I’m the one who needs comforting. “It’s a known side effect. They warned me it might happen. And you know what? Dr. Burke said my numbers are actually improving. The treatment is working, Nolan.”
“You should have called me.”
She squeezes my fingers. “I’m okay. You can stop looking at me like I’m about to shatter.”
“You’d tell me,” I say. “If it was bad. You’d tell me.”
“Of course I’d tell you.” Her gaze holds mine, steady and sure. “I’m not the one in this family who keeps secrets, remember?”
I don’t flinch, but it’s a near thing.
“I just mean you worry enough,” she says, softer now. “You don’t need to add ‘minor expected side effects’ to the list. Save the panic for the big stuff.”
“There isn’t going to be any big stuff.”
“Right. I’m going to get better, and you’re going to stop looking at me like every visit might be the last one. Deal?”
I don’t know what to say to that. So I just hold her hand and stay until she falls asleep.