Total pages in book: 57
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56624 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 283(@200wpm)___ 226(@250wpm)___ 189(@300wpm)
I told her to sleep. She didn’t need convincing.
Maybe we should move to the bed. Or maybe… maybe it’s perfect right here with the floor beneath us, a blanket tangled around our legs, and the soft glow of winter light sneaking in through the curtains.
She stirs, and her lashes flutter against her cheeks as her eyes slowly open. Her freckles are scattered across her nose adorably, and her warm brown eyes look sleepy and soft. That mess of brown hair? She used to call it mousy. Thought she was plain. Plain Jane, she’d say.
I thought it was perfect even then.
"Hey, you," she whispers, her voice barely audible. I smile down at her, my throat raw, and my ears ringing a little from the silence. Her fingers trail across my chest, slow and light, almost absent-minded.
"You know," she murmurs, "I think I fell asleep right there." Her lips curve into a small half smile.
I lean down and press a kiss to her temple. She shifts even closer, somehow.
"Aye, I think you did."
"Owen," she says. There’s that tiny furrow between her brows, the one I know like the back of my hand. "I didn’t really know that you were into me. I thought it was… I thought it was one-sided."
She looks away, and something in my chest tightens, pulling my ribs in like a vice. I look away, too, my jaw clenched.
"I couldn’t let you know, Emma. Could I?"
"Why not?"
"You were too fucking young. And I was already half in love with you." My voice is quiet now. "It wasn’t right. You deserved better than some obsessed older boy who couldn’t stop watching you. I knew that if I let it slip—if I said anything—then maybe… maybe I’d ruin it. I didn’t want you to deal with the aftermath. Not with your mom, not with my father, not your friends. No one."
She swallows hard. There’s something behind her eyes—hurt, maybe, or a memory.
"And you let me go," she says.
"Jesus, Emma." My chest aches. "Do you think I wanted to? Do you know what it was like? Watching you drive away with that fucking loser? I remember everything. The letter I wrote and never sent. The silence. The years."
She glances at me, just for a moment, and then her eyes dart away. She bites her lip—not embarrassed, just… resigned.
"I got pregnant," she whispers. “That was… why we got married.”
I go completely still.
What?
She doesn’t have any kids. I would know.
Her lip trembles, but she holds my gaze for a beat. "It felt like the right thing to do at the time. I was pregnant and not even in college yet. My mom and your dad and their old-fashioned ways…" She trails off.
I sit up straighter, every muscle pulled taut. "You were? How the hell did I not know that? How did that get past me? Was I really that fucked up in my own head that I didn’t even see it?"
Does Emma have a child?
Her voice is thinner now, breaking. "I lost the baby, Owen.” She sighs. “But by then… it was too late. We were already married."
A violent, hot fury twists in my gut. Jesus fucking Christ. I remember those wedding photos plastered all over social media. My stepmother’s smug face, dripping pearls and pride. I couldn’t eat for two weeks. Couldn’t think straight for longer.
"Your mother was thrilled," I mutter, bitterness thick as tar. "Marrying into money. Fancy new son-in-law. She didn’t have to worry about you anymore."
Emma lets out a dry, hollow laugh. "Joke’s on her. Wasn’t even his money—it was his parents’. He blew through every cent the second he got it."
She tucks herself into my side, and her voice dips low. "We lived on credit cards. Some weeks, we barely ate. The only thing that saved us was when my first book got published."
I feel the rage harden inside me, deep and unmoving.
"But we were still in debt," she adds.
"I’m gonna find that fucking bastard." My fists clench. I breathe slowly, trying to keep the storm inside.
"And to think that’s who your mother wanted you with," I say. "And she sure as hell didn’t want you with me. What would that have looked like at church, huh? With her little Bible study group? What would she have said when that news came out?"
Emma blinks up at me, something raw in her gaze.
"Of course," she says, like she’s realizing it all again. "That’s exactly it. Our parents met in the goddamn choir. Wednesday night practice. Matching casseroles on Christmas Eve. It was always about the image. Always about control. About what people would think."
"And we fell for it," I say.
"But that was then," she murmurs. "And this is now."
The fire in the hearth has died down to embers, soft and low. I rise, still naked, and wrap the blanket tighter around her.