8. Paige
PAIGE
The scent of aged leather lingers in the hallway, thick enough to taste, as muffled voices seep through the heavy oak doors of his office.
I'm about to head back to my room, when I hear it.
...challenge the inheritance...
The words punch through the wood, low and deliberate, like a gavel striking. My pulse stutters, then kicks into a gallop.
...fraudulent marriage...
The phrase lands like a stone in my gut. Fraudulent? My mother's marriage had been practical, yes, but not fake.
A chair scrapes against the hardwood, the sound jagged enough to make my shoulders hitch.
The meeting's ending.
I backpedal, my bare feet silent against the runner, but not fast enough.
The door swings open before I can retreat fully, and two men in tailored suits step out, their briefcases gleaming under the chandelier's light.
Their expressions are carved from stone—lips pressed thin, brows furrowed—like they've just delivered a death sentence.
They nod at me as they pass, their polite smiles not reaching their eyes.
Nathan follows, pulling the door shut with a quiet click. His gaze finds mine immediately, and the way his mouth softens at the corners tells me everything I don't want to know.
"Miss Davis." His voice is measured, but there's a thread of something beneath it…sympathy, maybe, or warning.
I swallow. "What's going on?"
He exhales, long and slow, like he's bracing himself. "There's been a legal challenge to Mr. Miller's inheritance."
The words don't make sense at first. They hang in the air between us, heavy and wrong. "What?"
"A distant relative is contesting the validity of his marriage to your mother."
My fingers dig into the hem of my sweater, the fabric bunching under my nails. "Why would anyone?—"
"There are just some people who want to claim something they don't deserve," Nathan says, cutting me off before I can finish. His eyes flick toward the office door, then back to me. "We couldn't contain your relationship. He doesn't want to hide it."
The air leaves my lungs in a rush. Heat floods my cheeks, my neck, my ears… every inch of me burning under the weight of what he's not saying.
Oh.
Of course. Because Paxton can't hide it when he looks at me like I'm something precious. He has to touch and hold me like he owns me.
And now the whole damn town has been watching, whispering, judging.
"They're trying to use your relationship to claim the marriage was a sham," Nathan finally explains, his voice low.
I shake my head, but the motion feels sluggish, like I'm moving through water. "That's ridiculous."
"I agree." He doesn't hesitate. "But the accusations don't need to be right to cause damage."
My throat tightens. I know that better than anyone.
Nathan dips his chin. "I should return to my duties. Mr. Miller has a great deal to address."
He turns on his heel, his polished shoes echoing down the hall, leaving me standing there with the weight of his silence pressing down on my ribs.
The hallway stretches endlessly, the silence so thick it's suffocating.
Paxton's been fighting for this place since the day he inherited it…
restoring the vineyards, turning this estate into something that feels like a home instead of a gilded cage.
And now, because of me, because of us, it's all at risk.
I wrap my arms around myself, my fingers trembling against the soft fabric. The staircase looms ahead, each step heavier than the last, like I'm climbing through wet cement.
By the time I reach my bedroom, the door clicking shut behind me, the walls feel too close, the air too still.
I sink onto the edge of the bed, my gaze fixed on the vineyards beyond the window. The rows of grapes stretch out like soldiers, orderly and unyielding, but even they look fragile from here—tiny leaves trembling in the breeze, vulnerable to the first frost, the first storm.
Paxton's voice echoes in my head, rough and sure.
I don't lose what's mine.
But what if I'm the thing he can't keep? What if, for the first time, the one thing he wants is the one thing that could cost him everything?
My chest aches, a hollow, gnawing pain that spreads through my ribs like cracks in glass. I press my palm against my sternum, like I can hold myself together if I just push hard enough.
I know what I have to do.
The suitcase lies open on the bed, its gaping mouth waiting to swallow the few things that feel like mine.
A sweater, soft and worn from too many nights curled against Paxton's chest. The silk scarf he draped over my shoulders the first time we walked through the vineyards at dusk. My toothbrush, still damp from after dinner.
I fold a pair of jeans with shaking fingers, the denim stiff under my palms. The fabric smells like lavender and like the estate, like him.
My throat tightens.
This is the right thing to do.
The thought slithers through my mind, slick and convincing. If I leave, the whispers will fade. His relative will have nothing to sink their teeth into. Paxton can keep his inheritance, his home. He can go back to being untouchable.
And I can go back to being... what? Lonely? A ghost in someone else's story?
I shove the jeans into the suitcase with more force than necessary. The zipper snags when I try to close it, the metal teeth catching on a loose thread. I yank at it, my breath coming faster, my pulse a frantic drumbeat in my wrists.
Stupid. Stupid, stupid?—
"Going somewhere?"
The voice cuts through the room like a blade.
I freeze, my fingers still tangled in the zipper. The air between us thickens, charged with something electric and dangerous. Slowly, I turn.
Paxton stands in the doorway, his massive frame filling the space, blocking the light. His emerald eyes are dark, unreadable, but his jaw is set like granite.
He's still in his clothes from earlier—a crisp white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose the tattoos snaking down his forearms, the top button undone like he's been tugging at it all day. His gaze flicks to the suitcase, then back to me, sharp and assessing.
"Paxton." My voice cracks. I clear my throat. "I thought you had an early day tomorrow."
"Yes," he says, stepping forward. The floorboards groan under his weight. "Doesn't mean we won't be doing the usual."
The words hang between us, heavy with meaning.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry. "I was just?—"
"Packing." His tone is flat, final. He reaches the bed in three long strides, his fingers brushing mine as he takes the zipper from my grip.
The contact sends a jolt through me, heat pooling low in my belly despite the fear coiling in my chest.
He zips the suitcase shut with a single, smooth motion, then lifts it off the bed like it weighs nothing. "Where are you planning to go?"
I open my mouth. Close it. My hands twist together in front of me, my nails digging into my palms. "It doesn't matter."
"Bullshit." The word is a growl, low and dangerous. He sets the suitcase down with a thud, then turns to me, his hands coming up to cup my face. His thumbs brush over my cheekbones, rough and calloused, and I have to fight the urge to lean into the touch. "You think I don't know what you're doing?"
My breath hitches. "I'm trying to fix this."
"By running?" His fingers tighten, just enough to make my pulse spike. "By leaving me?"
"I'm not—" The lie dies on my lips. I can't even look at him. My gaze drops to the hollow of his throat, where his pulse beats steady and sure. "I'm making it easier. For you."
"Easier." He repeats the word like it's something foreign, something he's never heard before. His hands slide down to my shoulders, his grip firm but not bruising. "You think I give a damn about easy?"
I flinch. "You should. This is your life, Paxton. Your home. Your?—"
"And you're mine." The words are a snarl, his voice dropping into that dangerous register that makes my knees weak. His hands slide down my arms, his fingers wrapping around my wrists like manacles. "You don't get to decide what's best for me. You don't get to walk away."
"I'm not walking away," I whisper, but the protest sounds weak even to my own ears. "I'm saving you."
His laugh is dark, humorless. "You think I need saving?"
"I think you're about to lose everything because of me."
For a heartbeat, he's silent. Then his hands are on me again, rougher this time, his fingers digging into my hips as he hauls me against him. The heat of his body seeps through my clothes, branding me, and I gasp as his mouth crashes down on mine.
The kiss is punishing, possessive. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, claiming me, and I whimper against him, my hands flying up to clutch at his shirt. He tastes like whiskey and sin, like every dark promise he's ever made me. My head spins, my thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm.
When he pulls back, his breath is ragged, his eyes burning into mine. "You listen to me, Paige Davis," he growls. "I don't want easy. I want you. Messy, stubborn, mine. And if you think for one second I'm going to let you walk out that door, you don't know me at all."
My chest aches, my heart hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break free. "Paxton?—"
"No." His hands slide up to frame my face again, his thumbs brushing over my lips. "You don't get to leave. Not now. Not ever."
I want to argue. I want to tell him he's being reckless, that he's not thinking straight. But the words die in my throat as his mouth claims mine again, softer this time, coaxing instead of demanding.
His hands slide down my back, pulling me flush against him, and I melt into the kiss, my fingers tangling in his hair.
When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against mine, his breath warm on my lips. "You're staying," he murmurs. "And if I have to tie you to the bed to make sure of it, I will."
A shiver runs down my spine, half fear, half something far more dangerous. "You wouldn't."
His smile is slow, wicked. "Try me."