Ezra’s fingers hovered over his keyboard, but his focus had long since waned. His gaze flickered to the couch, where Blair had dozed off in the most uncomfortable position imaginable—her arm awkwardly tucked beneath her head, one leg bent at an odd angle, and her body barely fitting within the narrow space.

  Her beautiful face, typically guarded, appeared uncharacteristically soft in sleep. Dark strands of hair had fallen across her cheek, and the gentle rise and fall of her breath were steady and untroubled. For once, she looked at peace.

  He exhaled, running a hand through his hair before finally standing and stepping closer. He slipped one arm beneath her knees while the other supported her back. She barely stirred as he lifted her, a small sigh escaping her lips as she unconsciously curled into his chest.

  He paused for a moment, feeling the warmth of her body against him and the faint scent of something achingly familiar. It stirred something deep within him, something he was reluctant to name. Shaking off the thought, he carried her toward the adjoining bedroom connected to his office.

  Pushing open the door with his shoulder, he stepped inside. The room was minimalist, devoid of unnecessary clutter, yet it exuded an undeniable air of quiet comfort. Gently, he lowered her onto the bed, adjusting the pillows beneath her head. As he pulled the blanket over her, his gaze lingered on her sleeping face, her features soft in the dim light. The steady rise and fall of her chest should have been reassuring; however, the sight of her only intensified the gnawing guilt in his chest.

  Letting out a heavy sigh, he lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, pressing his elbows against his knees as he buried his face in his hands. His fingers ran through his hair before he leaned back slightly, tilting his head toward the ceiling. ‘Why did I let this happen?’ He asked himself with a sigh.

  Ezra’s fingers curled into fists as the memory of her 20th birthday replayed in his mind.

  That night, the tall walls of his restraint crumbled. For the first time, he allowed himself to hold her without reservation.

  It was excessively sweet—overly pleasant.

  For a fleeting moment, he allowed himself to forget his anger toward the Wilsons, the grudge he had vowed to maintain, and the reasons behind his opposition to their marriage.

  He exhaled sharply, his hands clenching against his thighs. More than anything, he felt a deep sense of regret.

  Not because of the tangled mess of the past or his hatred, but because he had forgotten his true intention that night.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Ezra exhaled slowly, his fingers gliding over the sheets beside Blair as if guided by an invisible force. His gaze lingered on her sleeping face, softened by slumber, and for the first time in years, he allowed himself to speak the truth aloud— only in a whisper, only to himself.

  “That night was too intoxicating… too good. I didn’t want it to end.” His voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “If you had only confessed to me as you always did… I was ready to make it official.”

  And before that night—the night they shared for the first time in the most intimate way—he resolved that if she confessed to him again, as she had so many times before, he would stop running and make their engagement official. He would tell her, she had won, that she had always won.

  But she never did until she went back home.

  He believed it was best to prepare a ring, knowing it was only a matter of time before she would propose again.

  However, fate had different plans.

  The moment his plane landed, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was an anonymous message containing a video file.

  Ezra hesitated for a while before pressing play.

  The screen flickered, initially grainy, before sharpening into clear focus. The scene that unfolded sent a chilling spike of dread through his chest.

  A hospital. Chaos. Doctors rush back and forth, and at the center of it all stands Kennedy Wilson, unwavering amidst the turmoil, his expression inscrutable.

  “Save her,” Kennedy commanded, his voice steady and unyielding. “Do whatever it takes. My granddaughter must survive.”

  Ezra’s grip on his phone tightened as the camera panned, revealing a desperate figure on the floor. Damon Taylor—his father.

  “Please,” Damon rasped, his hands gripping the hem of Kennedy’s coat. “Just one. Just one surgeon—she’s—she’s dying—”

  Kennedy didn’t even look at him. His eyes remained on the operating room door where Blair was being treated, as if the pleas at his feet were nothing more than background noise.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was void of warmth, only cold, unrelenting authority.

  “If she has even a shred of dignity left in her body, she should die quickly.”

  Ezra felt the air leave his lungs. The video ended.

  His fingers curled around the edges of his phone, knuckles turning white. The realization sank in like a slow poison.

  From that day forward, something inside Ezra shifted.

  The certainty—the quiet, resolute decision to accept Blair as his wife—vanished, fractured by the weight of what he had seen. It wasn’t just anger or grief; it was betrayal, deep and bone-deep, wrapping around his resolve like a vice.

  His mother had died. Not because she couldn’t be saved. But because Blair Wilson had to live.

  The moment that truth settled in his chest, everything changed. The engagement, once something he was prepared to honor, became something he could no longer bear.

  So he did the only thing he could.

  He pushed her away. Harder than ever.

  He mocked her in ways he knew would hurt, slipping taunts into their conversations with cruel precision. If she clung to him, he made sure she regretted it. When she smiled at him, hopeful, he turned away as if it meant nothing. He distanced himself, throwing up walls so high she couldn’t climb them. And when she looked at him with confusion, with heartbreak, with that raw, vulnerable affection she had never hidden from him—he told himself it was necessary.

  That she had to suffer.

  That she had to know what it was like to lose something.

  Because no matter how much she claimed to love him, Blair Wilson had still lived.

  And his mother had died.