Without thinking, I reached up and touched his cheek. His breath caught.
Then I leaned forward, my lips brushing his, and murmured through tears,
“Tell me the truth… are you really Harold?”
Before he—before Nathaniel pretending to be Harold—could give me an answer, a furious shout tore through the room.
“Harold, what do you think you’re doing?!”
I stiffened. Delilah was standing at the doorway, her face pale, her chest rising and falling as if she had run all the way upstairs. Her eyes flicked from his face to mine, then locked on our barely separated lips.
Her expression twisted.
“You disgusting little snake!” she shrieked, rushing forward and shoving me with both hands. I stumbled backward, my spine slamming against the bedframe. “Did you just make a move on my husband?”
My throat closed. I couldn’t even form a sound.
Her finger stabbed toward my face. “So this is your plan? Your husband is dead, your son is gone, and now you’re trying to steal what belongs to me?”
“Honey, it’s not like that,” he said hurriedly, stepping toward her. “I was trying to calm her down. She leaned in first.”
Each word felt like a hammer to my ribs.
This was the man who once shielded me from raised voices, who used to stand between me and the world whenever I was afraid. Now he had thrown me in front of the fire without hesitation.
My chest burned, the air refusing to go in properly, like my lungs had forgotten their job.
Delilah sneered as she closed the distance. Her hand shot into my hair, jerking my head back so hard stars exploded behind my eyes.
“No—he’s my husband!” I blurted out, desperate, foolish hope driving the words from my mouth. Maybe if he saw her hurting me, he’d finally tell the truth.
Instead, Delilah laughed. It wasn’t a sound of humor. It was sharp and ugly.
“You’ve really lost your mind,” she said. “That man is Harold. And he belongs to me.”
The door slammed open again.
Lucinda rushed in, eyes flashing. She used to call me her daughter. She used to hug me when I cried.
Relief surged through me. This time, she would make things right.
“What is going on here?” she demanded.
But before I could answer, she crossed the room in two strides and slapped me hard across the face. My head snapped to the side, my cheek exploding with pain.
“Get a grip,” she said icily. “Your husband is dead. Stop humiliating yourself.”
I swayed, dizzy, barely staying upright.