Semua Bab I Was Hired To Seduce My Boss : Bab 111 - Bab 120

LiamThe porch swing groans beneath us as I push off with my foot, the motion slow and rhythmic, carrying us back and forth across the weathered boards. The lake stretches out before us, its surface dark, and still mirroring the scatter of stars above. Zoe leans against me, her head resting on my shoulder, her breathing slow and even."Liam," she says, her voice soft. "What do you think they will remember?"I am silent for a moment, the question settling into my chest. "Who?""Our children. Their children. The ones who come after."I look out at the water, at the reflection of the moon rippling across its surface. "I think they will remember that we fought. That we never gave up. That we chose each other."She is quiet for a long moment. Then she says, "That is a good legacy."I press a kiss to her hair. "It is the only one that matters."The days that follow are slow and unhurried. I find myself in the garden, my hands buried in the soil, planting new bulbs beside the ones that have

LiamThe salt wind whips across the cliff face, carrying the sharp tang of brine and the distant cry of gulls. I press my palm against the weathered stone of the lighthouse, feeling the grain of it, the history of it, and I wonder how many keepers stood in this exact spot, watching the horizon for ships that never came.Zoe is behind me, her footsteps silent on the worn grass. She does not speak, and I am grateful for the quiet. Some moments do not need words.I turn to look at her. "I used to come here with my father."She tilts her head, her grey eyes soft. "What did you do?"I look back at the lighthouse, at the cracked windows, the rusted door. "We would climb to the top. He would point at the ships and tell me where they were going. He always knew."She steps beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. "He sounds like he was a good man.""He was." I pause, the words catching in my throat. "He made mistakes. But he was a good man."She does not push. She simply stands beside me, her pr

LiamThe attic smells of dust and cedar and something faintly floral, a ghost of lavender that has seeped into the wood over decades. I push aside a stack of old blankets and find the box tucked against the wall, its surface covered in a fine layer of grime. I do not know what draws me to it. Perhaps it is the weight of the day, the quiet ache of memories pressing against the edges of my mind.I lift the lid, and the scent of old paper rises to meet me. Inside are photographs, yellowed and faded, their edges soft with age. I pick up the top one and study the image: a woman standing in a garden, her hand resting on the shoulder of a young girl. The girl is smiling, her dark hair blowing across her face, her grey eyes bright with the unguarded joy of childhood.I recognize the woman. It is Eleanor, younger, her face softer, her smile genuine. The girl beside her is Zoe.I feel the weight of the photograph in my hands, the weight of the years it represents. I wonder who took it. I wonder

LiamThe cemetery gate groans as I push it open, the rusted hinges protesting against the weight of the iron. I step onto the gravel path, my footsteps crunching against the stones, and I follow the winding trail toward the old oak tree at the far end. The headstones rise around me like silent witnesses, their surfaces weathered by decades of rain and wind.I have not been here in years. I told myself I did not need to come. I told myself the past was buried, that visiting this place would change nothing. But the letter changed something. It cracked open a door I thought I had sealed shut.I stop in front of a simple stone marker, its surface worn smooth, the name barely legible. I kneel and brush the moss from the letters, revealing the words beneath.Arthur Cole. Beloved Father. Rest in Peace.I press my palm flat against the cold stone, feeling the grain of it, the weight of it. "Hello, Dad."The wind rustles through the trees, and I close my eyes, letting the silence settle over m

LiamThe wood groaned as I leaned into the plane, the blade shaving a thin curl of oak from the beam. Sawdust clung to my shirt, my arms, the back of my neck, and I welcomed the grit—the honest weight of work that left no room for thought.Marcus had called it a waste of time. "You could buy a new beam for less than the cost of your afternoon," he had said. But that was not the point. The beam had been here for sixty years and had held up the roof of the old mill through storms and neglect. It deserved to be saved.The shed door swung open, and I looked up, my hands still gripping the plane.Zoe stood in the doorway, her silhouette dark against the afternoon light. She had a letter in her hand, the paper creased, the edges soft from handling."Liam," she said. "I need to show you something."I set down the plane and wiped my hands on my trousers, the sawdust falling away like tiny scraps of time. She crossed to me and held out the letter."I found it in the box," she said. "The one fr