Chapter 3

A week passed, and the routine settled in quietly.

Mornings were filled with soft greetings and quiet breakfasts. Afternoons were spent apart—Tymm either exploring the city or staying home with her thoughts, while Harrison buried himself in meetings and business calls. Evenings were polite, sometimes even comfortable, though still wrapped in the cold familiarity of two people pretending not to notice the awkwardness between them.

They didn’t argue.

They didn’t touch.

They didn’t ask questions.

But something was shifting.

It started with the piano.

Tymm had been playing it more lately—late in the afternoons, when the light came in just right and she felt like herself again. Simple melodies at first. Then fuller pieces. Music was the only part of her day that felt like breathing. She didn’t think Harrison noticed.

But one night, after playing a soft version of Clair de Lune, she turned to find him standing quietly by the living room doorway.

“How long have you been there?” she asked, startled.

“A while,” he admitted, stepping inside. “You’re really good.”

Tymm felt her cheeks warm. “It’s just something I’ve always loved.”

“You should play more often. The place feels less... sterile when there’s music.”

She blinked. Was that a compliment?

“Noted,” she said softly.

He sat down across from her, loosening his tie. “I’m sorry if I’ve been... distant.”

Tymm tilted her head. “You’ve been polite. I wasn’t expecting more than that.”

“That’s the problem,” he said, looking directly at her. “You didn’t expect anything from me. And I took advantage of that.”

The honesty caught her off guard.

“I don’t know what this is supposed to look like,” she admitted. “I’ve never been in a fake marriage before.”

Harrison gave a small chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I don’t want it to stay fake,” he said after a pause.

Tymm stared at him, heart picking up pace. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… maybe we don’t have to pretend. Not entirely. We could try being honest. Start over, even if we started wrong.”

She looked down at the keys beneath her fingers. “Are you saying you want us to get to know each other? Like... actually try?”

“Yes,” he said. “If you're willing.”

Tymm didn’t answer right away. Part of her wanted to believe he meant it. That this cold, distant man might be willing to build something real with her. But another part was terrified—of wanting too much again.

Still, something inside her cracked open. A door she’d closed the moment she said “I do.”

“I’m willing to try,” she whispered.

The following days were different.

Not in grand, dramatic ways—but in small, almost imperceptible changes.

Harrison started leaving handwritten notes on the kitchen counter. Simple ones.

“Morning. Hope your meeting goes well.”

“Made coffee. It’s strong, just how you like it.”

Tymm replied with sticky notes.

“Thanks. Piano recital on Saturday if you’re interested.”

“I don’t actually like strong coffee, but points for effort.”

They began having dinner together more intentionally—no longer eating in silence. Harrison asked about her music, her favorite composers, her old friends. Tymm, in turn, asked about his work and slowly discovered he had an unexpectedly dry sense of humor buried under the suits and silence.

The first time she saw him laugh—really laugh—was during a documentary they were watching. It wasn’t even that funny, but something struck them both at the same time and suddenly they were laughing, not as strangers, but as people who actually liked being in the same room.

The shift was slow, but undeniable.

They were learning.

Learning how to speak without flinching.

How to share space without apology.

How to breathe the same air without tension.

But with the growing comfort came the growing questions.

Tymm began to wonder if Harrison’s change of heart had something to do with her—or simply with his guilt. Was he truly trying, or just trying to make the best of a situation he couldn't back out of?

And Harrison, though more open than before, was still careful with his words. Still hesitant to let her see what lay beneath the surface.

Then, one evening, it happened.

They were walking home after dinner with Harrison’s business partners—an event Tymm had attended as his wife, for the first time in public. She had worn a simple navy dress and kept her head high, answering questions politely and pretending it didn’t bother her when people whispered about their rushed marriage.

On the way back, she finally asked the question that had been lingering.

“Do you regret it?”

He turned to her, puzzled. “Regret what?”

“This. Us. The arrangement.”

Harrison didn’t answer immediately. He looked ahead, jaw tight, hands in his pockets.

“Not anymore,” he said at last.

Her breath caught. “That’s not the same as saying you don’t regret it at all.”

He stopped walking, turned to face her fully. “Tymm, I didn’t ask for this. Neither did you. But we’re here now. And every day, I see more reasons why I don’t want to walk away.”

The vulnerability in his voice was new. Raw.

“I don’t want this to be just survival,” he continued. “I want something... real. If we’re willing.”

Tymm searched his eyes, her heart pounding.

It wasn’t a love confession.

But it was the closest thing to hope they’d had so far.

***

The next morning, Tymm woke up to an unusual quiet.

The kind that didn't feel peaceful—but anticipatory.

Harrison had already left for work. A small note was left on the counter again:

“Early meeting. Dinner tonight? Just us. — H”

She smiled softly. His notes had become part of her mornings—tiny gestures that carried more weight than either of them could admit. Their marriage wasn’t a fairytale, but it had begun to feel... livable. Even warm.

She was sipping her second cup of coffee when her phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

She hesitated, then answered.

“Mrs. Salvador?”

“Yes. Who’s this?”

“This is Celine Torres. I’m an old friend of Harrison’s. I was hoping we could meet.”

Tymm froze. The name sparked recognition—she’d heard it once during a dinner with the Salvador patriarchs. A family friend. A former flame. A woman with history. Too much of it.

“What is this about?” Tymm asked carefully.

“I’d rather talk in person. No drama—I just think there are some things you deserve to know.”

Tymm nearly hung up. But curiosity—and the growing dread in her chest—got the better of her.

“Where?” she asked.

They met in a quiet café in BGC. Celine was already seated when Tymm arrived—poised, stunning, and confident in the way only women with nothing to prove could be. Her beauty wasn’t loud; it was controlled. Her eyes scanned Tymm like a silent assessment.

“You look... younger than I expected,” Celine said smoothly.

“And you look exactly how I imagined,” Tymm replied, sitting down. “Let’s not waste time. Say what you came to say.”

Celine raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Direct. I like that.”

Tymm remained silent.

Celine folded her hands. “I know you and Harrison are newly married, but I’m sure you realize your marriage wasn’t exactly a love match.”

“I’m aware,” Tymm said curtly.

“I’m not here to fight,” Celine continued. “I’m just here to remind you—Harrison and I go back a long way. Years, in fact. And we weren’t just a fling.”

Tymm’s pulse quickened. “So what do you want from me? Permission to chase a married man?”

“I just want you to understand something,” Celine leaned in. “Men like Harrison don’t change overnight. He doesn’t believe in love the way you think he might. He only believes in obligation. In deals.”

Tymm stiffened. “You sound more bitter than concerned.”

“I’m both,” Celine admitted with a smile. “But mostly—I’m honest.”

Tymm stood, clutching her bag. “Then let me be honest, too. If Harrison truly wanted to be with you, he would be. But he’s not.”

Celine didn’t flinch. “For now.”

Tymm turned without another word and left the café, her heartbeat louder than the traffic outside.

That night, Harrison noticed immediately that something was off.

He had cooked—well, reheated takeout—but it was the effort that mattered. Their quiet dinner was usually a welcome routine. But tonight, Tymm barely touched her food.

“Long day?” he asked.

She nodded. “Unexpected.”

He watched her carefully. “Something happen?”

“I ran into someone.”

Harrison froze slightly. “Who?”

“Celine Torres.”

His grip on the fork tightened, barely. “I see.”

“She asked to meet me. I agreed.”

He set his fork down. “I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”

“She made it sound like she knows you better than I ever could.”

Harrison leaned back in his chair. “She probably does. But that doesn’t mean she knows the person I am now.”

“She said you don’t believe in love.”

His eyes met hers, steady and unflinching. “I didn’t. Not until you.”

Tymm blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“I didn’t believe in love because I only knew versions of it that were conditional. People wanted the Salvador name, the power, the money. Even Celine. She said the right words, but her loyalty was always to what I could give her—not who I was.”

“And me?”

“You didn’t want anything,” he said quietly. “That’s what scared me at first. But it’s also why I started to trust you.”

Tymm looked away, overwhelmed. “I don’t know what we’re doing, Harrison.”

“We’re trying,” he said gently. “That’s more than I’ve done in a long time.”

They sat in silence again, the weight of Celine’s presence lingering—but not suffocating.

Tymm stood. “I think I just need some air.”

He didn’t stop her—but as she stepped out onto the balcony, she heard him say softly behind her:

“I don’t want to lose what we’re building.”

And that was the most honest thing she’d heard all day.