Trevor didn’t look surprised when I walked back into the mansion. Maybe he expected me to come home. Maybe he knew I wouldn’t vanish, not with the media ripping everything apart outside these gates. Or maybe he just understood me in ways I never wanted to admit. He stood at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, posture tight like he had been working through a problem for hours. I set my bag down and met his eyes. “I’m not backing out.” For a moment, nothing moved, not his expression, not even the rhythm of his breathing. Then his shoulders eased by just a little, almost too subtle to notice. “All right,” he said. The quiet between us felt familiar in a way I couldn’t ignore. I reached for my bag again, mostly to steady myself, to have something solid to hold on to. Before I could step away, Trevor spoke. “I made arrangements this morning.” I paused. “You already told me that.” He studied me for a moment like he was deciding whether to repeat himself. Then he continue
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