Chapter 22 #3
“I’m only trying to help him see reason—”
“Dad—”
“Do you know,” I said, my voice cutting through their argument with a sudden, quiet intensity that silenced the room, “when I decided to marry Alessia?”
Two pairs of eyes fixed on me. But my gaze stayed locked on the back of the silver picture frame on my desk, the one turned away from the room.
Inside was our wedding photo. I didn’t need to see it.
Every line, every shadow, every expression was burned into me: us at the courthouse, just after signing the license.
She was looking up at me, laughing, the world narrowed to the space between our faces.
“It was after our first real date,” I began, my voice losing its edge, softening with the memory. “We went to an escape room. I’d thought we’d do one, maybe an hour, then go to dinner. Standard first-date protocol.”
I could almost smell the dry, dusty air of the first room, hear the exaggerated creak of a prop bookcase.
“We did every room they had. The staff started giving us looks after the third one. By the fifth, they were openly sighing every time our timer buzzed and we’d burst out, laughing and arguing over which clue we’d missed.”
A real, unguarded smile touched my lips. I wasn’t in the office anymore. I was there.
“She was… radiant. Her mind worked in these astonishing, lateral leaps. She’d see a pattern in the wallpaper and connect it to a line of poetry scribbled in a fake ledger.
And her laugh…” I shook my head, the sound echoing in the chambers of my memory.
“God, her laugh. It was this full, bright, triumphant sound that filled the whole puzzle-box room. It was the sound of a problem being solved, of joy being unlocked.”
“The whole drive home, I kept hearing it. Over the engine, over the radio.” I could still feel the steering wheel under my hands.
“I realized I wanted to be the reason for that sound for the rest of my life. I didn’t just want to hear her weird ideas about logic puzzles; I wanted to hear her thoughts on everything—the news, our future, what to have for breakfast. I didn’t want to escape.
I wanted to stay locked in a room with her for as long as I lived. ”
My hand found the cool metal of her ring on my pinky, turning it in a slow, familiar circle.
“When I got home, to my empty, quiet apartment, the thought was just… there. Fully formed. I’m going to marry her.
I wanted my ring on her finger. I wanted to wear hers.
I wanted to walk into a room and have people know, without a word, that I was taken.
That I was chosen. That Alessia Quinn, against all odds, had looked at me and seen something worth choosing. ”
My mind was miles away, back in the past.
“Marriage… it was never a goal. I dated one person before her, in high school. To see if I was built for that kind of thing. The results were inconclusive.” A dry, quiet laugh escaped me.
“So imagine my utter shock when, after two meetings, my entire internal architecture rebooted around a single, non-negotiable command: Make her your wife.”
My eyes traced the invisible lines of the photo in the frame.
“But the thought didn’t terrify me. It felt like the first clear instruction my heart had ever given me.
It made me want to build. A life, a home, a future.
All with her. I spent every day after that wishing for the moment I could finally call her my wife. ”
I let my eyes come back to him, the warmth of the memory hardening into resolve.
“Marriage,” I said, the word clear and final, “is Alessia to me. The concept, the word, the vow—it has no meaning, no weight, if it isn’t associated with her.
She gives it meaning. She gives me meaning.
So, no, Mr. Hartley. I will not marry your daughter. Or anyone else.”
Only Alessia. Only ever Alessia.
He didn’t break eye contact. Slowly, with the stiff dignity of a deposed king, he pushed himself up from my chair.
“You’re being a fool,” he spat, the paternal facade finally gone, burned away by sheer frustration. “A stupid, lovesick fool. You need to look at the bigger picture, at what’s actually at stake here—”
“And you,” I cut him off, my voice flat with finality, “need to leave. We’re done.”
A muscle in his jaw jumped, a tic of pure, furious frustration. His eyes, burning with contempt, flicked to Liam.
“Do you always just stand there and let him do everything? Is that how you two run this place? You’re just his lapdog?”
Liam shrugged, completely unbothered. “Honestly? I love it when a man takes charge so I don’t have to lift a finger.” He turned his head and blinked slowly at me, the expression on his face almost absurdly adoring. “It’s one of the things I love most about him.”
Hartley huffed, a sound of pure, impotent rage. He jabbed a finger toward me.
“You are going to regret this decision. Mark my words. And when you do…” His eyes locked onto mine. “You’re going to come crawling back to me. On your knees.”
I smiled then.
A genuine, effortless smile.
It seemed to unnerve him more than any scowl.
I met his threat with unshakeable calm. “I wouldn’t hold my breath.”
He gave me one last, disgusted shake of his head and turned toward the door.
He was halfway there when Liam spoke, his voice stripped of all its earlier laziness.
“Cassandra isn’t picking up my calls. Mrs. Morris said she’s back at your house. Why?”
Mr. Hartley stopped.
He turned slowly, and that familiar calculating glint returned to his eyes.
“Why don’t you come home and ask her yourself?”
Liam’s eyes narrowed.
“Why. Isn’t. She. Picking. Up. My. Calls?”
Hartley spread his hands in a show of baffled innocence. “How should I know? Perhaps you did something to earn her silence.”
Liam’s jaw clenched. A small ripple of tension moved across his face, but he said nothing. He just held Hartley’s smug gaze.
With one final, dismissive glance at both of us, Hartley left.
I turned to Liam. The playful ally from moments ago was gone, replaced by a man coiled with tension.
“Everything okay?”
His eyes remained fixed on the closed door, as though he could still see his father standing there.
“I’m not sure,” he said quietly. There was a note of worry in his voice that I rarely heard.
“I’ve been calling Cassandra ever since… you know. The scene. She didn’t pick up once, which, okay, I understood. I figured she’d need a few days to cool off. But when I went to her apartment, it was locked. So I called Mrs. Morris. Cassandra doesn’t go anywhere without telling her.”
He finally looked at me, his expression troubled.
“Morris said she’s back at the house. I thought maybe she just needed a break at home to reset, you know? But now…” His eyes narrowed. “With Dad waltzing in here with his fucking marriage contract…”
The worry in his face gave way to suspicion.
“I need to check what’s actually happening in that house. Something doesn’t feel right.”
I frowned.
The idea of Liam walking into that den alone, especially with Hartley’s plans freshly thwarted, left an unpleasant knot in my gut. I didn’t want to be within a mile of Hartley or his daughter ever again. But I also wasn’t going to let my friend walk into a potential ambush alone.
“Do you need any help?” I asked.
He looked at me, and some of the tension in his face eased.
“Nah, it’s fine. I’ll handle it. It’s probably just her sulking on a grander scale. I’ll… figure it out. I’ll tell you if I need backup, I swear.”
He glanced at his watch and let out a long, weary sigh.
“Man, that was exhausting. You want to take an early lunch? I need a break. And a beer. Possibly several.”
I shrugged, following his lead back toward something normal.
“Sure. Let’s go.”
As we passed Rohan’s desk, I told him to take his lunch break. Then I turned to Liam.
“We are not going to that place you picked last time.”
The last “new spot” Liam had chosen had been a culinary crime scene.
My roasted chicken, which should have occupied its own dignified sector, had been carelessly leaning against a mound of mashed potatoes, gravy seeping into the crispy skin.
The green beans had been scattered across both like afterthought casualties.
The waiter had presented the travesty with a triumphant smile, as though he’d created art.
I never wanted to set foot inside that place again.
When Liam didn’t immediately answer, I stopped walking and planted a firm hand on his arm, halting him in the middle of the hallway.
“Tell me we are not going there, Liam. I am not leaving this building unless you swear on your vintage sneaker collection that we are not going there.”
“Oh, for God’s sake.” He groaned and pulled out his phone. “Fine! You giant baby. I’ll find some other overpriced, clinically sterile establishment that meets your exacting standards. Now stop whining. You’re hurting my ears.”
I didn’t move until he’d pulled up the page for another restaurant.
Then I commandeered his phone.
I scrolled meticulously through the reviews and photo gallery, zooming in on every plated dish to check for any sign of reckless ingredient fraternization.
Satisfied, I handed it back.
We stepped into the elevator.
Another thought struck me. I glanced at him.
“Should I get a new chair? One that isn’t good for your back?”
Liam turned to me, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face.
“You know what? That’s not a bad idea. I’m sure Rohan can source us a list of suitably intimidating, throne-like options that scream ‘authority’ and ‘bad back be damned.’ I should get one for my office, too.”
I was already pulling out my phone.
“I’m texting him now.”
The elevator hummed as it descended.