LOGINFive years ago, policemen beat down the doors of our house and arrested my father for financial fraud. Just as I was about to despair, my friend’s father proposed that I marry his son—Mason. In my grief over daddy’s imprisonment, and unexpected happiness of marrying my childhood love, I was blinded. I vowed to myself that I would be the best wife I could be. But my husband would never love me the way he loved Jade—my best friend who died eight years ago. I pretended everything was fine and kept being a good wife for all these years. However, when I found Jade’s ring in Mason’s pocket and saw her face, alive and beautiful, appear in the live stream, the illusion—my game of house—was shattered.
View MoreFLORENCE’S POVONE YEAR LATER If someone had told me this was where I’d be a year ago—standing at the edge of everything I once dreamed of—I would’ve laughed. Or cried. Or both. Probably both.Because life has a funny way of folding chaos into calm. Of giving back in ways you never expected, but always hoped for.Blackwood PR was thriving.We’d survived scandals, takeovers, and tear-streaked nights, and somehow come out the other side sharper, braver, and more united than ever. Raiden—ever the enigma, ever the visionary—ended up right where he belonged: at the helm of his father’s business empire. But not before handing me the reins to Blackwood for good.And in true Raiden fashion, he didn’t go quietly.He leveraged Blackwood to lead a full rebrand of the multinational his father built from the ground up. The foundation was strong, respected, traditional, and deeply trusted—but Raiden had the foresight to modernize it. We handled everything from the messaging to the media rollouts
FLORENCE’S POVSomewhere between the late-night gelato runs and the quiet mornings tangled in each other’s arms, I realized I’d let go. Of the past. Of the pain. Of the version of Mason I used to brace myself against.He was different now — or maybe just real. No longer the image I’d clung to or the man I had to shield myself from. He was present. Steady. Kind, in a way that wasn’t performative. And I had stopped waiting for it to fall apart.We weren’t perfect — God, no — but we were finally on the same page.In the months that followed the chaos, life slowly, mercifully began to resemble something soft again. We cooked together, made fun of terrible movies, and argued over what to name the new cactus I bought. He’d bring sandwiches or pasta to the office on days I forgot to eat. I’d wait up for him when he had late meetings. We made room for each other, even in the small ways. And in that space, we healed.And when bits and bobs of news came out as time went on, we allowed each o
FLORENCE’S POVMason had barely been home for twenty-four hours before he declared a full ban on work emails, deadlines, and productivity of any kind.“I almost died,” he’d said that morning, as I tried to roll out of bed. “I’m invoking post-trauma privileges. You're staying here with me. Cancel everything.”“Post-trauma privileges aren’t a thing,” I told him, standing at the edge of the bed, hands on hips.“They are now,” he replied, smug and half-naked, propped up against three pillows and looking far too pleased with himself for someone with a healing shoulder and a still-bruised rib cage.So I stayed.It had been like that for days.Breakfast was brought up on trays. Lunch appeared like magic. My favorite milk cake from a tiny place in Capri showed up in the afternoon. And when I made the mistake of mentioning those salted pistachio macarons I used to get from that bakery in Paris, they arrived the next day. Boxed, chilled, flown in.“Are you trying to seduce me or spoil me into s
FLORENCE’S POVMason was discharged the same day as my father. The doctors called it a miracle. Something about where the scaffolding hit, how the beam just missed the vital arteries in his neck, how his body somehow took the brunt of the fall without collapsing entirely. I’d stopped trying to make sense of how close I’d come to losing him. I was just grateful I didn’t.The morning of his release, I wheeled my father through the hospital lobby, trying to keep the blanket from slipping off his knees while balancing my bag on my shoulder and navigating a wheelchair that kept veering slightly to the left.Clarke came around the corner at the same time, wheeling Mason beside him. Mason looked better than he had a few days ago—less pale, more upright—but the bruising around his temple was still there, and his wrist was still bandaged. I stopped close to the Whitehills and took my phone out to book a taxi home. He gave me a lopsided smile when he saw me.“You know, if you ever learned






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