Sara was his most important person—and he was hers. They had grown up together in the orphanage, two pieces of driftwood clinging to each other in a stormy sea. No relatives, only each other.
Just like the curtains in this room—no one but Sara was allowed to open them.
"I knew you were bluffing. You can't bear to see me go." A triumphant smile crossed her face as she pulled him toward the dining table. "Now, eat."
Simon used to be a chatterbox. Now he finished the entire meal without uttering a single word.
Sara's heart ached.
Starting at sixteen, he'd worked part-time jobs while studying. No childhood. No fun. He sacrificed his youth, even giving up a chance at graduate school, just so Sara could live like a normal girl. He refused to let her feel inferior to her classmates because of money.
The year of the accident, he had finally caught a break. A good job. On the verge of becoming a regular employee.
Then came the explosion at the restaurant where he moonlighted.
He didn't make it out in time.
Massive burns. ICU. Life hanging by a thread.
It was to scrape together the astronomical medical fees that Sara had entered into this absurd marriage contract with Adrian.
After Simon was discharged, she rented this place and hid him here. The Harding family's drivers and nannies were all Adrian's spies, so she couldn't visit often. She'd hired a caretaker, but this morning, the woman's resignation text arrived.
"Everything was fine—why did you fire her?" The thought of him alone was unbearable.
Simon knew why she'd come. "I have hands and feet. I don't need a babysitter."
"The caretaker's wages come from money I borrowed from a friend. Don't feel burdened. If the Hardings didn't forbid their women from working, I would have gotten a job long ago. Just six more months—once the divorce is final, we won't have to hide anymore."
He listened in silence.
Then he spoke. "I had a dream last night."
He rarely shared anything personal these days. Sara leaned in, feigning bright interest. "Tell me about it."
Half-serious, half-joking, he said, "I dreamed you were getting married, and I went to crash the wedding to steal the bride."
A melodramatic soap opera plot. Sara smiled gently. "Did you succeed?"
"No." His answer was crisp, his expression solemn—as if recounting a memory rather than a fantasy. "You rejected me because I was penniless. You even had security beat me up."