Asher
She wasn’t pregnant.
I paused on the hormone section longer than was strictly necessary.
My moronic son didn’t know what he’d lost. He would come to understand that soon enough.
The PI I’d hired had accrued a significant amount of incriminating material—enough to ensure Gabriel understood the precise nature of his position before this was over.
He wouldn’t stop his destructive trajectory until someone was damaged beyond repair. Or dead.
I wasn’t prepared to let either happen.
I lifted my phone.
The champagne wedding dress had made her look like something from another plane entirely. Her bronze skin seamless against the fabric. Dark hair intricately woven into an elaborate bun beneath the veil—gold, bronze and brown catching the light like she’d been designed for it.
They had looked so happy that I’d almost believed the lie.
Almost.
I zoomed into her face. Something I had done thousands of times.
Bright eyes, shining. Plump lips spread wide. Those white teeth beaming at a future she thought she understood.
She would smile again. Be carefree again. The girl in this photograph wasn’t gone—she was simply buried under two years of him.
Under my care, she would flourish.
I locked the phone and set it face down on the desk.
The first set of rules were implemented.
More would follow.
?
?
?
The loose fitting sports apparel I’d bought for her was practical. Necessary for now.
But there was so much more that I’d squirrelled away.
All the type of pretty dresses she used to wear. The timeless classics. The vibrant ones for when she felt daring. The everyday pastels that suited her colouring in a way she’d probably never been told.
The physio therapist adjusted her posture and they worked through her breathing again.
I quietly closed the door to the gym.
I could have monitored her from the camera. It would have been easier. But seeing her in person was so much better after years of seeing her only on screen.
One day she would go back to being the princess she was.
That’s why she was in the princess room.
The one next to mine.
?
?
?
“Don’t you have a job?” she asked in between bites.
“I spent years creating wealth. All my work requires now is an internet connection,” I said, scooping more fresh strawberry ice cream onto the spoon. My work was a little more complex than that—but she didn’t need to concern herself with the possibility of me leaving.
She opened her mouth and for a moment her hand closed over mine as she licked the spoon. Her eyes met mine.
The swelling was gone. The black had faded to purple, edged with green and a hint of yellow beneath her olive skin. The deep bronze she’d carried when she used to be in the sun was gone entirely. Every part of her seemed to have wilted—like something that had been kept from light for too long.
Her hand released mine as she swallowed.
Her lashes lowered.
“Will you be taking a nap this afternoon?” I asked, scooping up the remnants.
“Will you tuck me in?” she whispered, tugging at her sleeve before tucking both hands inside it. Hiding in plain sight.
“Anything for my princess,” I said, raising the spoon.
She never mentioned the rules.
I never mentioned the rules.
Yet every day she grew more compliant. Every day she pushed back in small ways.
The contradiction was everything.
“I don’t believe in princesses,” she said. Her voice dull and bitter.
She left the word unsaid.
Anymore.
“After a few painkillers you’ll believe in unicorns,” I murmured, holding the last spoon before her mouth.
The sadness left her eyes.
She took the final bite, her hand finding mine again.
In a few weeks that sadness would lessen. Parts of her were conflicted—missed him, hated him, grieved for what could have been. That was natural. Expected. The heart didn’t simply update itself because the mind had caught up.
I’d be here.
Watching.
Waiting.
Always.