All Chapters of Belonging to You: Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

Abigail’s POVI’ve never liked the sterile scent and stale air of hospitals. But after years as a nurse, I’d grown used to it. The smell had stopped feeling unbearable—mostly.The locker room smelled faintly of antiseptic and stale coffee. With trembling hands, I folded my scrubs, a motion I’d repeated countless times. But this time felt different. Like I was packing away pieces of myself.Who was I kidding? Maybe I was. Tears pricked my eyes, but I blinked them back. I wouldn’t cry here. I couldn’t. I couldn’t risk anyone seeing me become a sobbing mess.“You did what you were told,” everyone kept saying.As if that helped.It didn’t bring comfort. Not when Daniel’s face flashed in my mind—his wide, frightened eyes, his small hand clutching mine, and that moment the light went out of them.The hospital called it “an unfortunate complication.” His family called it “negligence.” But to me, it was my worst mistake.I could’ve fought back. I could’ve told them Dr. Keating was the one wh

Abigail’s POV I didn’t remember how we made it through the crowd of swaying bodies or how we stumbled into the car. Everything was a blur—laughter, the thump of bass, the weight of his hand at the small of my back.All I remembered was the room—his hotel room perhaps. Dim lights. His breath. The sound of my heartbeat pulsing in my ears.Our lips met before the door even closed. It wasn’t gentle—it was desperate, like we had just found water in the middle of a desert. The kiss was electric and the only time we broke apart was to tug our clothes away from our bodies.Every brush of his mouth, every drag of his fingers against my skin made the rest of the world dissolve.He tasted like whiskey and recklessness. Like a promise I shouldn’t believe but wanted to anyway.The next thing I knew, I was tossed onto the bed with enough force to make the mattress groan. He hovered above, his gaze dark and intent—as if he was memorizing the shape of me, the way I breathed, the sound I made when he

Christian’s POVThe Castillo estate looked exactly as I remembered it. Too big, too bright and too full of ghosts.Eden. That was what my grandfather liked to call it, as if giving it a biblical name made it less suffocating. The stone walls still gleamed like money. The manicured lawns stretched endlessly under the morning sun. And the gates—those damn gates—swung open as if they’d been waiting for me to finally stop running.I almost didn’t come back.If it hadn’t been for the phone call—Martha’s voice trembling as she told me Abuelo had been unwell—I would still be in Camden, pretending London was a lifetime ago and not just a plane ride away.But here I was.It had been years, and yet standing here again felt like no time had passed at all. Same house. Same air. Same ghosts.The tires crunched against the gravel as I pulled up to the front steps. I sat for a long moment, hands locked around the steering wheel, staring at the house that had been both home and hell.London had tau

Christian’s POV Fate had a cruel sense of humor.The moment she had stepped into the dining room, clutching the clipboard like a shield, my brain short-circuited.That woman wasn’t supposed to exist outside my memory—not outside the blur of neon lights and the taste of whiskey and her lips.The nameless woman who’d disappeared from my hotel room before I could even learn her name.The one who’d kissed me like she meant it—then vanished like a ghost.And now, she was real.Abigail Davenport.My grandfather’s caregiver.Well, wasn’t that poetic.Of all the people Abuelo could’ve hired, it had to be her.*****Martha had someone show me to my room, though she didn’t need to.I knew every inch of this house—every creak of the floorboard, every shadow the chandeliers threw against the walls.But when the door opened, I froze.It was my childhood room.Untouched.Unchanged.The same polished desk by the window. The same bookshelf lined with old novels and model cars. Even the bedspread was

Christian’s POV “I asked her not to come in today,” Abuelo said over breakfast when Lola asked about Abigail.I didn’t look up from my plate. “Why?”“She’s been working nonstop since she started,” he replied. “The girl deserves a day to breathe.”I only nodded, pretending the conversation didn’t matter to me.But it did.Not because of her, of course.Except maybe a little because of her.The table gleamed under the soft glow of the chandelier, silverware perfectly arranged, the air thick with the polite kind of tension that only money and shared blood could buy.Abuelo sat at the head, flanked by Isabella and me. The others filled the remaining seats—chatter, clinking glasses, cutlery against china, and subtle side glances aimed my way.“So,” Xavier said, forking a piece of bacon into his mouth, “you’re really back for good this time?”“That seems to be the case,” I replied, keeping my tone even.“London must have been quite the escape,” Isabella added, a thin smile curving her lips