Chapter 3

~Emily's POV~

His presence loomed like a storm cloud, silent, brooding, inescapable.

He sat at the dining table, buried in work. The sun had risen, casting a soft golden glow across the marble floor, but he hadn’t moved an inch.

I tugged the blanket tighter around me, the same one I’d found draped over me when I woke and curled deeper into the couch. My gaze drifted to the new phone on the table.

Why buy it for me?

“Not going to the office?” I asked, my voice raw from sleep and suspicion.

The soft clicking of his keyboard stopped. Then resumed. Then stopped again.

A pause.

“Is there a problem?” he asked, flatly.

I rolled my eyes and winced at the dull ache in my head. “No.”

Silence.

With a sigh, I got up and walked over, phone in hand.

He didn’t acknowledge me at first. Neatly stacked documents surrounded his laptop. His thumb tapped the edge of a black pen like a ticking clock.

When he finally looked up, his gaze was sharp. Guarded.

He leaned back in his chair, effortless in his cold composure.

“Can I help you?”

I studied him, annoyed by how perfectly composed he always was. Like none of this matter. The wedding, Ethan’s disappearance, me, meant anything at all.

I placed the phone on the table with a soft thud, crossing my arms.

“What’s this?” I asked, tipping my chin toward it.

He didn’t flinch. “What does it look like?”

I inhaled slowly. “I saw it earlier, over there,” I gestured toward the coffee table. “Is it… for me?”

“Yes.”

One firm nod. Nothing more.

The answer hit me in an unexpected place. Ethan might’ve done the same but with a teasing smile and a note that said just for you.

“Thank you,” I said softly, my voice barely holding together.

He hummed in response.

Then his eyes raked over me, down to my wrinkled wedding gown, messy hair, and bare feet. His lips curled in quiet disgust.

Shame crawled up my spine. I looked like a ghost of a bride.

His stare lingered for a beat too long before he shut his laptop. Without a word, he stood and turned to leave.

But just before disappearing down the hall, his voice drifted back.

“You should get changed. We’re leaving soon.”

I blinked. “Leaving? To where?”

He paused at the doorway, then turned. His amber eyes locked with mine.

Then, he smiled.

A rare, unexpected smile.

“You probably don’t want to spend all day sulking in a wedding dress, do you?”

I stared at him, stunned, clutching the phone like it was the only solid thing left in my life.

---

An hour later, I was dressed in a simple black dress. A silent funeral for the love I thought I had with Ethan.

I’d done my makeup twice, breaking down both times. If I had a choice, I’d have stayed in bed forever. But I didn’t want to anger him.

I avoided the mirror as I descended the stairs, each step heavier than the last.

His scent hit me first. Clean, masculine. Dangerous.

He stood at the base of the stairs, impatience etched into every sharp line of his face. His fingers tapped his watch, his eyes flickering toward the door.

But when he heard my footsteps, his head snapped up.

His mouth parted.

His eyes widened, then slowly, they trailed down my body.

I swallowed hard as a shiver raced across my skin. I hated that my body responded to him. The flutter in my stomach, the heat rising to my cheeks.

But worse was the guilt.

Ethan.

He left you, a bitter voice whispered. Without a word.

I looked away.

His expression tightened. Whatever flicker of surprise or interest had passed across his face vanished. He turned sharply and stepped outside, leaving me scrambling to catch up.

I barely managed to slide into the passenger seat before he sped off down the road.

He gripped the steering wheel like it had personally wronged him. His knuckles were bone white.

“Are you trying to kill us?” I blurted, clutching the dashboard.

He said nothing.

“Hey! Pull over.”

My stomach churned violently. Bile rose to my throat.

“I swear, I’m going to be sick—”

Still nothing.

“Pull the fuck over!” I screamed, slamming my hand against the dash.

The car screeched to a halt.

I flung the door open and stumbled out, barely making it to the side of the road before I vomited.

Behind me, I heard his door open. Then footsteps. Then his voice, shaky, too soft.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry.”

A warm hand gently rubbed my back. Another steadied my shoulder.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he repeated like a mantra.

I turned slightly, dizzy and disoriented and saw him.

His face wasn’t cold or cruel.

It was… panicked. Haunted. Human.

For the first time, I saw Alexander Westwood crack.

And it terrified me.

What the hell just happened?