Page 113 of Broken Blades

"He didn't have a son." Her voice went flat. Clinical. "So I became the next best thing. Smart enough to learn, pretty enough to represent the brand, obedient enough to follow his lead."

My jaw tightened. "That's a hell of a way to talk about your own kid."

"That's how he saw it." She met my eyes. "Still sees it, probably. I'm an investment. A legacy piece. The future face of Harrington Development."

"And you wanted that?"

She hesitated. "I wanted him to be proud of me."

I watched her carefully. "What changed?"

Her fingers stilled on the table. For a long moment, she didn't answer. Then, "Nothing changed. I just… started seeing it differently."

"When?"

She looked at me. Really looked. "When he agreed to let you have me for thirty days without asking if I wanted that."

I should've felt satisfied. This was working. The plan was fracturing her loyalty exactly as intended.

Instead, I felt sick.

The doorbell rang before I could respond to what she'd just said. I stood, grateful for the interruption, and grabbed cash from my wallet.

The delivery guy handed over two boxes—I'd ordered breadsticks too, figuring she'd need comfort food after the cooking disaster. When I returned to the kitchen, she was already pulling plates from the cabinet like she lived here.

Maybe she was starting to.

We ate in relative silence. She demolished three slices faster than I expected, humming slightly after the first bite. The sound did something strange to my chest.

"Better than your chicken?" I asked.

She glared at me, mouth full. Swallowed. "Significantly."

I grabbed a breadstick. She reached for one at the same time, our fingers brushing. She pulled back like I'd burned her, cheeks flushing pink. I pretended not to notice.

Halfway through her fourth slice, she gestured while talking about something—couldn't even remember what—and a piece of melted cheese stuck to her chin.

She kept talking, completely oblivious.

I watched it sit there for three seconds. Four. She still didn't notice.

Without thinking, I leaned across the table.

Her words cut off mid-sentence as my thumb swept across her chin, collecting the cheese. Her eyes went wide—startled, uncertain, locked on mine.

I should've grabbed a napkin. Should've told her. Should've done literally anything else. Instead, I brought my thumb to my mouth and licked the cheese off.

Her breath caught. Audible. Sharp. Color flooded her face—not embarrassment this time. Something deeper. Hotter. Her gaze dropped to my mouth, then jerked away like she'd been caught doing something forbidden.

She stared hard at her plate, suddenly very interested in her crust. Something shifted inside me. Unsettled. Wrong-footed.

That wasn't calculated. Wasn't part of the plan. Wasn't strategy or revenge or manipulation.

That was instinct.

Possession.

The kind of casual intimacy that belonged to couples who'd been together for months, not a fake relationship built on blackmail and lies.