Semua Bab Fallon’s Reid: An Arranged Contract: Bab 221 - Bab 230

~Reid~The office lights never go off anymore.Not since she left.They used to be on a timer—programmed to dim at 9:30, shut off at 10, and hum back to life just before dawn. A system I put in place years ago, back when I believed in boundaries. When I still thought control was the same thing as order.Now, the overhead lights stay on all night. So do the floor lamps. So does the monitor I never shut down.I don’t go home.There’s no point.The house is just square footage wrapped in glass and concrete. Clean. Expensive. Empty.The last time I walked into our—my—bedroom, I stood in the doorway for ten straight minutes, just staring at the space where her vanity used to be. Where her mug sat on the nightstand. Where the ghost of her perfume still teased the air if I imagined hard enough.I haven’t slept there since.So I come here. I pour myself into this office like it’s the only place I still know who I am.CEO. Son of a ruthless businessman. Man trying to outrun a mistake that keep

~Fallon~Months Later…By the time the headlines stopped, I barely noticed.Not because I didn’t care—at one point, I cared too much. But grief has a way of reshaping your focus. What used to feel urgent becomes background noise. And eventually, even the noise fades.People moved on. The story shifted. One minute, I was front-page heartbreak, and the next, I was another clickbait footnote. The public needed a new scandal to chew on. A younger starlet. A richer man. A messier split.Let them have it.The spotlight didn’t vanish overnight, but it dulled. I stopped flinching at my name in headlines. I stopped scrolling through gossip sites under burner accounts. And somewhere between my last sleepless night in LA and my first walk on the pier here, I realized something quietly profound:I was still here.Different, but here.I’d moved to a small coastal town that smelled like citrus and saltwater and didn’t care who you were as long as you didn’t cut in line at the farmer’s market. No as

~Fallon~The restaurant glowed like a postcard—candlelight flickering against glass, soft jazz drifting in from the speakers, waiters gliding between tables like they were part of a carefully rehearsed play. Outside, the world was cool and quiet, the streets dotted with small galleries and old bookstores that always smelled like paper and possibility. This city had a slower pulse than L.A., and I’d come here for exactly that.A gentler pace. A fresh start.Dean sat across from me, smiling at something the waiter said as he poured the wine. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, a small ink mark near his wrist where his pen must’ve leaked earlier. His hair was a little wind-tousled, and there was nothing manufactured about the way he looked at me—no agenda, no calculation. Just curiosity. Kindness.It should’ve been simple.He was good. Solid. Smart, thoughtful, patient in ways I hadn’t realized I needed until now. He was the kind of man you could build a life with. Or at least try

~Fallon~The kettle screamed like something was on fire.I moved on instinct, killing the burner before it boiled over. The air in my apartment was warm, still, filled with the scent of lemon balm and lavender from the loose leaf tea I’d poured into my favorite chipped mug. It was the kind of quiet that used to make me feel safe—until lately.Now it just made me feel like something was missing.I carried the mug to the couch, settling into the throw blanket I kept curled at the edge. My laptop sat open, the blinking cursor on a blank document reminding me how little I’d written today. Deadlines weren’t real when your soul was tired. I’d been rebuilding—my name, my brand, my self-worth—but some days the foundation felt like it was made of sand.Still, I kept showing up. Waking early. Taking deep breaths. Putting on lipstick even when I had nowhere to go.That was what healing looked like, apparently. Trying again even when your chest still ached with ghosts.It had been three months si

~Fallon~I stared at my phone for what felt like an hour before finally pressing Call.The line barely rang twice before Mia’s voice came through—bright, dramatic, and achingly familiar.“Fallon Prescott,” she said like it was a stage cue, dragging out my last name just enough to remind me I still wore it, if only in memory. “I was beginning to think you’d joined a silent monastery or died in a tragic yet elegant yoga accident.”I exhaled a laugh—small, shaky. “I know. I’ve been… everywhere. And nowhere.”“No kidding. Two texts in three days? Fallon, I’ve seen missing persons get more airtime.”“I’m sorry,” I murmured. “I didn’t mean to go quiet. I just… couldn’t figure out what to say.”Her voice softened instantly. “Then say nothing. Just tell me you’re okay.”I pulled the throw blanket tighter around me, glanced at the lukewarm tea I hadn’t touched since this morning. “I don’t know if I am.”Mia didn’t say anything right away. She knew better than to fill silence that wasn’t hers t