48 Hours

The guest wing was bigger than my entire apartment.

Marble floors. Silk curtains. A fireplace.

And one bed.

King-size one. In the middle of the room.

My stomach dropped.

“Mr. Harrison, Mrs. Harrison,” the maid said with a smile. “Your suite for the weekend. Dinner will be served at 8. Mr. Elias requests your presence.”

She closed the door behind her.

Silence.

I turned to Damian. He glanced at the bed, then at me, before looking back at the bed.

His jaw was clenched.

“There must be another room,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “A couch. Anything.”

Damian rolled to the door and opened it. “There isn’t.”

He closed it again.

“For 48 hours,” he said, his voice flat. “We act like a couple. For him.”

His own words from earlier. Now they sounded like a prison sentence.

I sat on the edge of the bed. It was huge. We wouldn’t even touch.

Right?

That’s when my phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number:

[Photo of me kissing Damian at the gala]

Message: I know it’s fake. $50,000 or I send this to the press with the contract. -R

Rachel.

She knew.

My hands started shaking. “Damian—”

He rolled over immediately. Saw the screen. His face went dark.

“Delete it,” he said.

“I can’t. She has—”

“I said delete it.” His voice wasn’t loud. But it was cold. Final.

He took my phone. Blocked the number. Then he looked at me.

“No one is ruining this,” he said quietly. “Not her. Not anyone.”

He meant the contract. He had to mean the contract.

The night was long.

We ate dinner with Elias. We laughed at the right times. We held hands under the table.

We acted like a couple.

Back in the suite, it was almost midnight.

Damian rolled to the bathroom and came back in sweatpants and a T-shirt.

But he was struggling with the buttons on his shirt.

I hesitated. Then I stood up.

“Let me,” I whispered.

He didn’t say no.

I knelt in front of his wheelchair. My hands shook as I undid the last buttons.

His skin was warm under my fingers. I could smell his soap and his aftershave.

I helped him slip his shirt off. His shoulders were tense—broad and marked by faint scars from the accident. Then my eyes betrayed me. His body was sculpted like a Greek god’s. The sharp V-line, the defined six-pack, the strong lines of his torso... everything about him was unfairly perfect. Even if he was...crippled...he is indeed the perfect man I knew.

Then I sat on the floor at his feet.

“What are you doing?” His voice was low.

“You’ve been in that chair all day,” I said quietly. “Your feet... they must hurt.”

Before he could answer, I took off his shoes. Then his socks.

And I started massaging his feet.

Slow. Gentle.

Damian went completely still.

I didn’t look up. I couldn’t.

But I felt his eyes on me. Burning.

“Arabella,” he said. My name was barely a whisper.

I kept going. Because if I stopped, I’d have to face what this was.

I helped him make his way to his side of the bed.

I turned the lights off.

I crawled into bed on my side. He was on the other. Far.

In the dark, I could hear him breathing.

And I could feel the ring on my finger. Heavy. Hot.

“Damian?” I whispered.

“What?”

“Are you awake?”

A pause.

"Obviously.”

I turned on my side, facing him. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was staring at the ceiling.

“Do you... do you think Elias believes us?”

Another pause. Longer.

“I don’t care if he believes us,” Damian said in the dark. His voice was rough. “I care that you’re safe.”

My heart stopped.

Before I could answer, the door down the hall creaked open.

Footsteps.

Stopping right outside our door.

A knock. Soft.

“Damian? Arabella? Are you both asleep?”

Elias.

At 2 AM.

Damian sat up in bed instantly. “No, Grandpa.”

I quickly moved to his side and rested my head against his chest.

The door opened.

Elias stood there in a robe. And behind him, a photographer. With a camera.

“I just wanted to get a photo,” Elias said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “For the family album. My new granddaughter and grandson. In bed. Together.”