Chapter Seven #2
The words hung in the air between us, ugly and stark under the soft lighting of the dining room. I watched Connor's face closely, saw the moment incomprehension gave way to disbelief.
"Sold me? That's ridiculous. My parents are awful, sure, but they wouldn't—" He stopped, his mind clearly racing through memories, piecing together fragments that suddenly made terrible sense.
"To Alex Harris," I continued, my voice steady even as I felt a wave of rage at what had been done to him. "A pharmaceutical magnate with a sideline in human trafficking. He specializes in acquiring young men from families desperate enough or greedy enough to look the other way."
Connor's face drained of color so rapidly I was concerned he might faint. The fork he'd been holding clattered against fine china, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence that had fallen between us.
"You're saying my own mother..." he whispered, unable to finish the sentence. “And that was why Harris was there?”
"Yes, she sold you to him for a considerable sum of money, according to Michael's investigation. The dinner was arranged specifically to facilitate the exchange. The drug in your drink was meant to make you compliant, easy to transport."
Connor pushed back from the table abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. For a moment, I thought he might flee the room, but instead he stood frozen, hands braced against the polished mahogany, head bowed.
"The text messages," he said, voice hollow. "My mother kept texting me, insisting on this dinner. She never cared about family meals before. And my father asking all those questions about my job, my schooling..." He looked up, eyes haunted. "They were setting me up."
I nodded, wishing I could spare him this pain. "The man at the hotel—Harris—was there to collect what he'd paid for."
Connor sank back into his chair, his movements unnaturally stiff. "I was merchandise," he said, his voice breaking on the final word. "Something to be sold when they needed money."
The raw anguish in his voice made my chest tighten painfully. I'd faced down corporate raiders and hostile takeovers without flinching, but Connor's pain cut through my defenses in a way nothing else had since the accident.
"Yes," I said, not insulting him with false comfort. "To them, you were."
Connor's hands began to shake, first subtly, then visibly enough that he clasped them together on the table, knuckles white with the effort of maintaining control.
"All those years," he said, staring at nothing.
"All those birthdays I spent waiting for a call that never came.
The holidays where I made excuses for why they couldn't make it.
The tuition bills I paid myself because they said they couldn't afford to help.
" He laughed bitterly. "And all along, I was just an asset they were saving for a rainy day. "
I couldn't bear the distance between us any longer. Without conscious thought, I wheeled myself around the table to his side, reaching across to take his trembling hands in mine. His skin was cold, fingers still rigid with shock.
"You were never merchandise to me," I said firmly, my thumb tracing small circles on his palm. The gesture was instinctive, comforting, something I couldn't recall doing for anyone else.
Connor looked up, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "Why did you marry me, Julian? Really?" The question was raw, vulnerable in a way that made my throat tighten. "Was it pity? Some twisted sense of rescue?"
"No," I replied, the single syllable carrying more weight than I'd intended. "At first it was... practical, protection for you and something unexpected for me." I hesitated, unused to such honesty. "But it's become more than that."
"What has it become?" he pressed, his fingers curling around mine.
The half-eaten meal grew cold between us. The antique clock on the mantel ticked steadily, marking seconds that stretched into a silence filled with things I wasn't ready to name.
"I don't know," I admitted finally, the words costing me more than million-dollar decisions in boardrooms ever had. "But I want to find out."
Something shifted in Connor's expression—the shock and betrayal not gone, but joined now by a softness, a tentative hope that made him look younger and more vulnerable than I'd seen him before.
"They really sold me," he whispered, as if saying it aloud might help him process the unthinkable reality. "To a man who—what? What would he have done with me?"
I tightened my grip on his hands, unwilling to detail the horrors Michael's investigation had uncovered about Harris's previous "acquisitions." The trafficking network. The disappearances. The bodies eventually found.
"Nothing good," I said simply. "But it doesn't matter now. He didn't get you. He won't get you." My usually guarded expression softened as I added, "You're safe here. With me."
The words felt like a vow, more binding than the hasty ceremony that had made Connor legally mine. In that moment, as the chandelier light played across his features and his hands slowly warmed in mine, I realized I meant every word.
He wasn't merchandise. He was Connor. And somehow, in the span of days, he had become essential.
Later that night, Connor sought comfort in my arms, his body pressing against mine in the dimly lit bedroom of the master suite.
Unlike our previous encounters, fueled by desperation or discovery, this was different—a seeking of solace, a desire for connection that transcended the physical.
His hands moved over my chest with deliberate slowness, each touch a question his voice couldn't form after the devastating truths I'd revealed at dinner.
I found myself responding with a tenderness that surprised me, my usual need for control giving way to something more vulnerable, more honest. The revelation about his family had stripped away another layer between us, leaving us both raw and exposed in ways neither of us had anticipated.
"I need to feel something real," Connor whispered against my collarbone, his breath warm on my skin. "Something that isn't built on lies."
I didn't answer with words. Instead, I cradled his face between my palms, studying the planes and angles that had become so familiar in such a short time.
His eyes held a wounded quality that awakened something fiercely protective in me, something I'd thought had died in twisted metal and broken glass three years ago.
When our lips met, it wasn't with the urgent hunger of our first night together or the playful exploration that had followed.
This was slower, deeper, each movement deliberate and weighted with unspoken emotion.
His hands traced the contours of my chest, careful around the scars as if they might still cause pain.
"You won't hurt me," I murmured, guiding his hands more firmly against my skin. "Not like this."
Something shifted in his expression—understanding, perhaps, or relief. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the center of my chest, directly over my heart. The gesture was so unexpectedly tender that I felt my throat tighten, emotion threatening to overwhelm my carefully maintained control.
My hands moved of their own accord, tracing the smooth expanse of his back, the curve of his shoulders, memorizing him through touch alone. This was unfamiliar territory for me—not the physical act, but the vulnerability it exposed.
For three years, I'd kept others at arm's length, using my wheelchair and my wealth as twin barriers against genuine connection. Yet here was Connor, slipping past those defenses as easily as he'd slipped into my hotel room that first night.
Our bodies moved together with a synchronicity that defied our brief acquaintance, finding rhythm in shared breath and racing heartbeats.
The city lights filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting his skin in shifting patterns of shadow and illumination that made him appear almost otherworldly.
I watched his face as pleasure overtook him, his eyes locked on mine with a trust that humbled me. In that moment, I understood that what was happening between us had little to do with our hasty marriage or mutual protection and everything to do with a connection neither of us had anticipated.
My body responded to him with an intensity that still amazed me, nerve endings I'd thought permanently deadened coming alive under his touch. The scientific impossibility of it had become secondary to the emotional revelation—that Connor could reach parts of me I'd thought forever closed.
Afterward, we lay tangled in the expensive sheets, both of us breathing heavily, neither willing to break the fragile peace that had settled between us.
Connor's head rested on my chest, his fingers absently tracing patterns on my skin, moving from one scar to another without hesitation or revulsion.
When his touch drifted to my left shoulder, lingering on the tattoo partially obscured by a surgical scar, I felt him shift to get a better look.
"I didn't notice this before," he said softly, tracing the outline of the geometric design. "What does it mean?"
I glanced down at the tattoo I rarely thought about anymore. "It's a phoenix. I got it after graduating law school, before taking over at Montgomery Industries."
Connor's finger continued its gentle exploration. "Before the accident."
"Yes."
"Fitting though, isn't it? The symbol of rebirth, rising from destruction." His voice held no pity, only a quiet understanding that made it easier to bear.
We fell silent again, the distant sounds of the city providing a gentle backdrop to our breathing. Connor's hand moved from the tattoo to a particularly prominent scar that ran along my ribcage, his touch questioning.
"Tell me about your accident," he said softly, the request hanging between us in the dimly lit room.