Font Size:

Emma straightened her posture, her chin tilting slightly upward. “They’re not fanciful,” she replied, a touch of defensiveness creeping into her tone. “Not entirely. They’re merely... pleasant distractions.”

“From what?” he asked, his tone as teasing as the glint in his eye.

“From reality,” she shot back, then regretted the honesty of her answer when his expression sobered.

“And here I thought you were the pragmatic sort,” he mused, his voice quieter now.

“I don’t believe in fairy tales or happily-ever-afters, if that’s what you mean,” she said, her fingers tightening on the book. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy a good story.”

His brow arched. “You don’t believe in happy endings?”

“I don’t,” she said firmly, though the conviction in her voice wavered under his steady gaze.

Evan looked as though he might press further, but before he could, a clap of thunder rattled the windows, louder than any before. Emma gasped, stepping back instinctively as her fear overrode her pride. She found herself moving closer to Evan, as though seeking protection against the storm.

To her surprise, he reached for her, his arms wrapping around her with a steadying warmth that belied his typically aloof demeanor. “It’s just thunder,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing. “You’re safe.”

The closeness left her breathless, her cheek brushing against the crisp linen of his shirt. She could feel the faint thrum of his heartbeat beneath her hand, the scent of him—something clean, like cedar and ink—wrapping around her senses. She should have stepped away, should have remembered every reason she distrusted him, but she didn’t.

Instead, she looked up, her gaze meeting his. His hand rose almost unconsciously, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her face. His touch was gentle, lingering for a moment longer than necessary.

“Emma...” he began, his voice rough, the sound of her name on his lips sending a shiver through her. His gaze dropped briefly toher lips, and for one reckless moment, she thought he might kiss her.

She stepped back abruptly, breaking the spell. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, her voice unsteady. “Thunderstorms have always unnerved me.”

He watched her, his expression unreadable, but something in his eyes betrayed a softness she had not expected. “There’s nothing to apologize for,” he said, his voice low.

The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken words. She could feel the weight of his gaze as she turned away, clutching the book to her chest like a shield.

“I should go,” she said, her words clipped and hurried. “Thank you... for the reassurance.”

He inclined his head, though his eyes never left hers. “Goodnight, Emma.”

“Goodnight,” she replied, her voice barely audible as she fled the library.

As she returned to the solitude of her chambers, the book still clutched in her hands, Emma tried to make sense of the tumult of emotions swirling within her. Ophelia’s words surfaced again: He’s not the man you think he is.

And yet, what was he?

She couldn’t say. But the memory of his arms around her, his voice steadying her, lingered long after the storm had passed.

CHAPTER 22

Evan

Evan descended the grand staircase, his boots echoing faintly against the polished marble steps as he adjusted his gloves. The morning sunlight streamed through the high windows, painting the walls with a soft, golden glow. His mind, however, was far from the brightness of the day. Thoughts of the previous night circled relentlessly, fragments of Emma’s startled gaze and the softness of her expression replaying over and over.

He had always known her as composed, unshakable, and spirited—qualities that had both irritated and intrigued him. But last night had revealed something else entirely: a vulnerable, deeply human side that lingered with him like a faint but insistent melody.

As he approached the door leading to the foyer, intending to set out for his morning obligations, he paused at the sound of quietclinking from the breakfast room. Curious, and inexplicably drawn, he veered toward it.

Emma was seated at the breakfast table, her figure bathed in the soft morning light filtering through the sheer curtains. She wore a pale lavender morning gown, modest but elegant, her hair pinned in a loose chignon with wisps escaping to frame her face. She was absently stirring her tea, her gaze distant as though her thoughts were far from the breakfast laid before her.

Evan hesitated in the doorway, a pang of memory catching him off guard. Years ago, he had often passed this very room to see his mother seated at the same table, her back straight and her movements precise, masking her loneliness. His father had rarely joined her, his attentions consumed by business or—more often—by his dalliances. The mornings, his mother had once confided to him in a rare moment of vulnerability, were the loneliest part of her day.

Evan clenched his jaw, the memory stirring a discomfort that had long lain dormant. He didn’t want to be that kind of man—absent, uncaring, cruel by neglect. Even if their marriage was pretend, they were married and Emma lived in his home. The image of his father loomed in his mind, a reminder of everything he had sworn he would not become.

His gaze returned to Emma. She had yet to notice him, her head tilted slightly as she sighed, the faintest trace of melancholy in the sound. Something in him shifted.