On our way back from La Belle Row, after what might have been the most confusingly perfect afternoon of my life, Killian wouldn't stop staring.
And I couldn't take it anymore.
"Why are you staring at me?" I asked, turning my face away, pretending to be fascinated by the pedestrians blurring past the tinted windows.
"Nothing," he said casually—too casually.
I opened my mouth to push it, to press just a little, but I was cut short by the feel of his fingers brushing behind my ear. My breath hitched.
His voice dropped low.
"Where's the tattoo you had back here?"
A gentle kiss followed at the base of my neck.
I shivered.
Tattoo?
Oh my God.
I'd forgotten. Selena has two tattoos—tiny ones, but real. One behind her ear. One on her waist.
And I… don't.
I turned toward him, trying not to look like my soul just exited my body.
"Laser," I said flatly.
He tilted his head. "What was it again? I can't remember."
Bullshit.
He remembered.
He just wanted to see if I did.
"Infinity symbol," I replied, silently thanking the gods for whatever whispered that answer into my brain.
He hummed, still tracing the back of my neck with his finger, slow. "Why'd you remove it?"
"I just wasn't feeling it anymore."
I turned my head back, my posture screaming end of discussion.
But the silence that followed?
It was too quiet.
Too aware.
And in it, the question echoed:
Does he know?
The car rolled to a stop in front of the mansion.
Just as I was about to step out, Killian caught my hand.
"Wait," he said.
I narrowed my eyes at him, unsure what game he was playing now.
Still, I leaned back against the seat, sighing softly, and closed my eyes.
A few seconds later, the car door opened with a quiet click.
I blinked them open—only to see his hand extended toward me.
Killian.
Offering his hand like some kind of modern-day prince in a suit worth more than my entire year's rent.
A blush crept up my cheeks before I could stop it.
I took his hand, sliding out of the car.
"Hmm… A gentleman. I like," I whispered, letting the words roll out more like me than Selena for the first time in days.
If I was going to keep living this lie…
The least I could do was leave room for a little piece of myself.
"I'm a gentleman to you, my love," he whispered back, intertwining our fingers as we walked to the front door.
That single sentence?
Dangerously warm.
Like a match near gasoline.
We stepped inside, and one of the maids was already waiting by the entrance. She took our coats, then turned directly to Killian, her tone clipped with urgency.
"Sir, Mr. Carrington is here. I told him you weren't available, but…" she hesitated, "…he refused to leave."
My stomach dropped a little.
The name meant nothing to me.
But it clearly meant something to Killian.
Because the air around him shifted.
Subtle—but sharp.
He gave a slow nod. "Where is he?"
"In the study, sir."
Killian didn't even look at me when he turned and started walking.
And just like that, the warmth was gone.
I followed him—quietly.
Just a few steps behind.
But I stopped short at the front of the study.
Something about the heaviness in the air made my feet still.
I stood there, undecided, until I finally exhaled and turned back toward the stairs.
This wasn't my place.
Selena might have barged in.
But I knew better.
Just as I started walking away, Killian's voice drifted out—sharp, restrained, and tinged with irritation:
"Mr. Carrington, what was so urgent that you couldn't wait until tomorrow?"
I paused for half a breath.
But his voice faded behind me as I climbed the stairs.
Back in the room, I let Mr. Carrington slip from my mind. There were only so many things I could hold onto in one day, and tonight, I needed quiet.
I slipped off my dress, letting it fall to the floor, and stepped into the bathroom. The hot water hit my skin like relief, washing away the lingering tension, the confusing feelings, and the kiss I hadn't stopped thinking about. When I finally stepped out, I wrapped myself in a towel and moved to the vanity to dry my hair, humming softly to myself without realizing it.
A knock came at the door.
"Madam?" a soft voice called from the other side. It was one of the maids.
"Dinner is ready."
I sighed. Of course it was. Back to pretending.
**************
Slicing into the well-cooked chicken and bringing a piece to my mouth with a fork, silence graced the dining room with a regal calm. But it wasn't uncomfortable. It was welcomed.
The clink of cutlery against fine china echoed softly in the vast room, like background music in a movie I hadn't agreed to star in. I chewed slowly, savoring the tender flavor, letting the moment stretch. No questions. No lingering stares. Just peace.
Killian sat at the far end of the table, scrolling through something on his phone. He hadn't said much since we got back. A small part of me wanted to ask about Mr. Carrington, but a larger part didn't want to open that door—especially not over dinner.
So I kept eating.
For once, I let myself enjoy the food. No pretending. No lines to remember. Just me, my stolen identity, and an expensive dinner in a stranger's house.
I could get used to this.
Almost.
"What do you think about trying for a baby?" Killian said, breaking the silence in the worst way possible.
My fork paused mid-air.
"What?" I asked, confused, needing to be sure I'd heard him right.
"A baby," he repeated, his tone maddeningly calm. "We've been married for four years now. I need an heir."
I blinked, heartbeat picking up just slightly. Not now. Not this conversation.
"This isn't something to talk about over dinner," I said, setting my fork down more gently than I felt. "Let's eat. We'll discuss that later."
He didn't argue. He just nodded once and went back to his meal like he hadn't just shattered whatever illusion of peace the evening had offered.
I picked up my fork again, but the taste of the chicken had faded completely.
After dinner, we both went into our room. I went straight to bed, while he disappeared into the bathroom to freshen up.
The soft whoosh of the sliding door caught my attention. I raised my head just in time to see him step out, steam curling behind him like fog. His towel was slung over his shoulders as he ran another through his hair, his movements relaxed.
"You're not asleep yet. Good," he said, walking toward the dresser. "I have something for you."
His voice was casual, but it made my stomach twist. I watched as he opened a drawer and rummaged through it with one hand, the other still towel-drying his hair.
My body tensed slightly under the covers. Something for me?
God, please let it be a necklace or a bracelet or a new phone and not a fertility treatment brochure.
Finally, he brought out a small red jewelry case.
My eyes narrowed slightly, watching him as he walked over and sat beside me on the edge of the bed. The velvet box rested in his palm like a secret.
"I was going to give this to you over dinner," he said, his tone unreadable. "But you didn't seem in the mood."
Smart man.
He extended the box toward me. I hesitated, then took it, fingers brushing against his.
Opening it slowly, I was met with the sparkle of a delicate necklace. Thin gold chain, small pendant—an infinity symbol, polished and precise.
I stared at it for a second too long.
An infinity symbol.
I wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. The universe clearly had a sense of humor.
"Well?" he asked, watching my face.
"It's… beautiful," I managed, closing the box carefully.
Of all the things he could've picked.
Of all the symbols in the world.
An infinity.
Just like the tattoo I didn't have.
I reached behind my neck and clipped the necklace on, careful not to let my hands tremble.
"There," I said softly, adjusting the pendant so it sat right at the center of my collarbone.
Killian leaned in, brushing his thumb lightly over it.
"Looks perfect," he murmured.
I smiled.
A lie, but a convincing one.
Then he bent his head and pressed a kiss to the base of my neck, right where the pendant rested.
I held my breath.
It was gentle. Intentional. Dangerous.
"You wear it well," he whispered against my skin.
I closed my eyes and prayed my heart wouldn't give me away.
His lips trailed upward, and before I could prepare myself, he kissed me on the mouth.
Slow. Certain. Like he meant it.
I didn't move at first.
Then, against all logic, I kissed him back—just enough to keep playing the part. Just enough to make myself feel even more like a traitor.
The kiss deepened suddenly, catching me off guard. His tongue slipped into my mouth, exploring with a kind of hunger that sent a jolt through me.
Heat bloomed in my chest, curling lower, and I hated how easily my body responded.
This wasn't supposed to happen.
Not like this. Not with him.
He hovered over me, his body warm against mine, his eyes locked onto me like he was trying to read every secret I had ever buried.
"Mine," he whispered, the word landing like a brand against my skin.
Then he kissed me again—slow, deep, and consuming. It made my head spin, made my heart stutter.
I felt drunk on him.
Like an addict getting her first taste.
"You're mine," he whispered again, his voice a low, possessive murmur against my lips.
His fingers trailed slowly down my stomach, igniting sparks across my skin. I gasped, my breath catching as he found the heat between my thighs—every part of me betraying the panic spiraling in my chest.
I wasn't supposed to want this.
But in that moment, I couldn't think. I could only feel.
His fingers brushed against my heat, slow and deliberate. My breath hitched, quickening with every stroke, and my toes curled instinctively.
I gripped the sheets, trying to ground myself, but the sensation drowned out reason.
Every line I'd drawn in my head blurred.
And still, I didn't stop him.