Ch-22

•~•Solane’s POV

Steam curled in the air, thick with the scent of jasmine and something faintly sweet—probably one of the ridiculously expensive bath oils the Grant estate provided.

I sank deeper into the massive porcelain tub, resting my head against the edge as warmth lapped at my skin. 

This was supposed to be relaxing. A chance to clear my mind. But his words kept replaying, looping like a song I couldn’t turn off.

"I’m not a player. I did love her. I just… didn’t show it enough. Didn’t tell her how much I loved her."

Regret had settled in his voice, deep and raw, written into the lines of his face.

I wanted to believe it was a lie. Another well-crafted deception. But his eyes—those damn green eyes—had been too sincere.

Why? After what he did to me. After what he made his mother do. How dare he claim love with such sincerity? It didn’t make sense.

Unless…

My fingers traced aimless patterns in the water.

What if he hadn’t been talking about me at all? What if there was someone else? 

The thought hit me like a slap to the face.

Nathaniel had always been surrounded by women back in university. But of them all, the one who had clung closest to him was Shoshanna.

Her constant presence around him, along with the rumors of him being a player, had made me hesitant to accept him as my boyfriend.

But he had sworn they were just friends—that the rumors were nothing but baseless gossip.

I had believed him—until I learned the truth during my recovery, after his mother tried to kill me. Those weren’t just rumors. Shoshanna wasn’t just a friend. She was his fiancée.

So if he was telling the truth now… if he never loved her, if their engagement had been nothing more than a business deal between their families… then there had to be someone else.

Another girl entirely.

Someone with blue eyes like mine.

But who was she?

Or… was she another victim of his mother? Someone erased long before I ever entered his life?

Because that night—the night his mother pushed me off that cliff, she had spoken as if there had been others. Other girls she had gotten rid of.

If she had dealt with them the same way she thought she had dealt with me, then could the girl he claimed to have loved and who had died have been one of them?

I squeezed my eyes shut and let out a sigh, trying to push my thoughts away, but they wouldn’t budge—just kept circling like vultures.

Frustrated, I slammed my hands into the water, sending a splash over the side.

I pressed my palms against my temples, breathing hard. Fuck.

I needed to stop thinking about this.

Why was I even letting it get to me? His words—every last one of them—were lies.

And I couldn’t afford to let them mean anything. Not now. Not ever.

I had a goal, a reason for coming back into his life. If I slipped up—like I had with the garlic—I might expose myself.

He had believed my excuse, that I’d simply done my research on his likes and dislikes. But one more mistake, and he’d start connecting dots he had no business connecting.

And the last thing I needed was for Nathaniel to figure out the truth about my identity.

I forced myself to finish my bath, drying off with one of the plush towels before reaching for my robe.

The silk slid over my skin like a second skin, smooth and weightless as I tied the sash securely around my waist.

Stepping into the bedroom, I ran another towel through my damp hair. My thoughts were still tangled, circling back to things I shouldn’t dwell on—until I saw him.

Nathaniel.

Seated in his wheelchair. Watching me with an infuriatingly unreadable expression.

A startled breath slipped past my lips. My fingers tightened around the towel.

“Jesus Christ, Nathaniel! You scared me.”

His lips curved slightly, but there was no real amusement in his voice.

“Sorry, love.”

My brows lifted. “Love?” I echoed, my tone edged with disbelief and a touch of sarcasm.

He let out a quiet sigh, gaze shifting away. And that was when I noticed it—the tension in his hands gripping the arms of his chair, the faint clench of his jaw.

Something about him seemed... off.

Troubled.

But why? What could possibly—

No.

I was entertaining unnecessary thoughts again.

Whatever was weighing on him wasn’t my concern.

I shook the thought away and walked over to the vanity table. Its large mirror gleamed under the bedroom lights, the ornate gold edges catching the glow.

Setting the towel aside, I untied my robe, letting the silk slip from my shoulders and pool at my feet.

Bare before the mirror, I reached for a bottle of body oil—expensive, foreign, the kind that belonged on vanity tables in homes like this.

Pouring some into my palms, I rubbed it into my skin, taking my sweet time as I finally broke the silence.

“When did you get back?” My voice was deliberately nonchalant. “You just left me all alone after we got back.”

“Just now,” he replied. “There was something urgent I had to take care of. I’m sorry for leaving you alone.”

A soft, absent hum left my lips. The air between us felt charged, like a storm waiting to break.

I felt his eyes on me, watching as my hands moved over my arms, my collarbone, my stomach.

“Why are you dressing here and not in the dressing room?” His voice was calm, but there was a tension beneath it, like a wire pulled too tight.

A smirk pulled at my lips. I met his gaze through the mirror.

“Why? Does seeing me standing here naked and oiling my body make you uncomfortable?” My voice dipped slightly, teasing.

His jaw tightened. His gaze stayed on mine, unwavering.

I turned to face him fully, unbothered by the way his gaze dragged over me. If anything, I welcomed it.

With deliberate slowness, I let my fingers glide down my arms, smoothing the oil into my skin, watching—waiting—for any reaction.

His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes… they simmered. Cold, restrained. Yet beneath all that control, something lurked.

Something dark.

Something hungry.

A smirk pulled at my lips. “Or,” I mused, tilting my head, “is it making you feel aroused?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared. His jaw was set, his breathing measured, but the heat in his eyes gave him away.

Finally, he exhaled, his voice low. “Aroused… and angry.”

I blinked. “Angry?” My frown deepened in mock confusion. “Why would you be angry when a literal goddess is standing bare in front of you?”

His gaze flickered downward, his mask cracking for the first time.

I followed his eyes.

And my breath hitched.

Ah.

That.

The scar.

The jagged line from my hip bone to my ribs. The one that had carved itself into my skin—and into everything I was.

Inwardly, I sighed. This again?

My fingers twitched before I crossed my arms over my chest, tilting my head, feigning amusement.

“What about my scar is making you so angry?” My voice was light, teasing, but inside, something twisted.

His silence stretched, thick and unbearable.

“You had the same look in Paris,” I went on, my tone deceptively casual. “Back when I undressed in front of you. Do you hate girls with scars?”

Still, he said nothing.

A scoff left my lips. “I bet you don’t like your women marked, huh? I bet the girl you loved had flawless skin. No blemishes, no stretch marks. No reminders of pain. Just perfect.”

I tilted my head, watching his expression darken. “Must really piss you off that you married someone with flawed skin like me.”

His jaw clenched. His fingers curled into fists against the armrests of his wheelchair.

“She wasn’t flawless, okay?” His voice was tight, edged with something raw. “She had normal skin stuff—stretch marks, spots—”

“But she didn’t have a scar like mine, did she?” I cut in.

His gaze dropped to his lap, his fingers curling against his thighs. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “Forget it. It doesn’t matter.”

A bitter laugh scraped my throat. My nails dug into my palm.

“No, it does matter, Nathaniel.” My voice rose, sharp with anger—anger I didn’t even know why the hell I was feeling. Or why I was letting it spill out like this.

“Back on the plane, I asked if you married me as some kind of replacement for the girl you actually loved.” My breath came quicker, uneven. “And now I realize—you never answered. Because you still love her, don’t you?”

Silence.

He didn’t need to speak. The answer was written all over his face.

Something cracked inside me. A strange, sharp ache settled in my chest—one I refused to acknowledge. I let out a hollow, humorless laugh.

“So my scar…” My voice faltered before I found my footing again. “That’s the only thing that sets me apart from her, isn’t it? It reminds you that I’m not her. That’s why it makes you angry.”

“It’s not that,” he muttered.

“Then what is it?”

Nathaniel exhaled, long and slow. “I wish it were that simple to explain.”

“It is.” My voice wavered. “I’m third-wheeling in my own damn marriage, competing with a ghost. It’s as simple as that.”

I turned sharply, snatching my robe off the floor. The silk slipped over my skin as I yanked it on, tying the sash tight—too tight.

My hands were trembling, but I masked it with sharp, deliberate movements.

Behind me, he let out a breath. Then, quietly, he spoke.

“Irene.”

I froze.

The name slashed through the air, through me.

My breath caught in my throat. Slowly, stiffly, I turned to meet his gaze.

Then he blinked once, as if grounding himself. “That was her name.”

Relief crashed over me so fast, so violently, I almost staggered. For one agonizing second, I had thought—had feared—that he had figured out my real identity.

But just as quickly as relief came, so did the realization.

I was the girl he loved.

I wanted to deny it, to shove the thought away, but his eyes—damn his eyes—were too raw, too open.

The girl he hadn’t shown enough love to.

The girl he hadn’t told enough—Was me.

I swallowed hard.

But how?

How could he have betrayed someone he supposedly loved so cruelly? How could he have stood back and let his mother destroy me like that?

Something wasn’t adding up.

He had called it complicated. Said his mother had already mapped out his life. And while that was true—her control over him was undeniable—this… this felt deeper. Darker.

I clenched my fists. Or maybe I was just overthinking again. Maybe I was letting those damn eyes manipulate me.

Because at the end of the day, none of this changed what had happened five years ago.

It wouldn’t change the fact that his mother only had him marry me because of my supposed uncle—my real father.

Because he was filthy rich. Because she probably had some devilish plan brewing, some twisted scheme to seize our wealth.

And maybe—just maybe—this was all a calculated move.

Gain sympathy. Win emotional support. Then enslave the mind.

Just like he had done before.

He finally spoke again, his voice softer this time, breaking through my thoughts.

"It’s true. I still have feelings for her, even though she’s dead. And yes, part of the reason I married you is because you remind me of her… I’m sorry."

I didn’t care.

I shouldn’t care.

Whatever he was saying—none of it should matter. And more importantly, I shouldn’t fall for it.

Shoving my emotions down, I straightened my posture, my expression turning cold.

"I don’t care about her name or whatever happened between you two," I said flatly. "So stop telling me."

Then I turned, moving toward the bed.

"I assume there are other rooms in this mansion," I added coldly. "You can sleep in one of them tonight."

Without another word, I slid under the covers, pulling them over my head.

I heard the soft hum of his wheelchair moving, the creak of the door as it opened.

Then, just before it closed, he spoke—

"You know… I wish you and I met under different circumstances, Solane."