Nerissa POV
I wake up wrapped in Thaddeus's arms, and for one perfect second, I forget everything.
Forget Dashiell's betrayal. Forget the baby I lost. Forget the locked room full of his dead wife's photos.
Then reality crashes back.
I'm in bed with a man who might be a murderer. A man who kept obsessive photographs of his first wife. A man who just got a threatening text from a woman who claims to have evidence about Isabella's death.
I saw the text. He doesn't know I saw it, but when his phone lit up at 3 AM, I was still awake, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what I'd gotten myself into.
"Tick tock, Thaddeus. Tomorrow, I give her the full story. Including the part about what really happened in that car."
My stomach twists.
What really happened in that car?
Thaddeus's breathing is slow and steady. Still asleep. One arm is draped over my waist, holding me close even in sleep. Like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.
Maybe I should.
Maybe I should grab my things and run before Vivienne reveals whatever bomb she's planning to drop. Before I end up like Isabella—dead in a car with cut brake lines.
But I can't move.
Because despite everything—the secrets, the obsession, the danger—something shifted last night when we took down those photographs together. When he held me while I cried. When he promised to let me go if I wanted to leave.
I believed him.
God help me, I believed him.
His eyes open, finding mine immediately. "You're awake."
"So are you."
"I don't sleep well." His voice is rough from sleep. "Haven't in years."
"Because of Isabella?"
He flinches slightly at her name. "Because of a lot of things."
We lie there in the gray pre-dawn light, studying each other.
"I saw the text," I say quietly. "From Vivienne."
His whole body tenses. "Nerissa—"
"What really happened in that car?" I touch his chest, feeling his heart race under my palm. "What is she going to tell me?"
Thaddeus is silent for a long moment.
Then he sits up, running both hands through his silver hair. "The truth is complicated."
"So uncomplicate it."
He looks at me, and I see genuine fear in his eyes. "If I tell you, you'll leave."
"If you don't tell me, I'll leave anyway." I sit up too, pulling the blanket around myself. "Vivienne is going to tell me her version today. Don't you want me to hear yours first?"
He stands, pacing to the window. The city is waking up below us—lights flickering on, cars beginning to move. A world that doesn't care about our drama.
"Isabella's brake lines were cut," he says finally, his back to me. "That's true. The mechanic was prosecuted. That's also true. But what the police reports don't show is that the mechanic was paid."
My blood runs cold. "By who?"
"I don't know." He turns to face me. "The money came through offshore accounts. Untraceable. But someone wanted Isabella dead and made it look like an accident."
"Vivienne thinks it was you."
"I know what Vivienne thinks." His voice is bitter. "And she has evidence that suggests I might be right."
"What evidence?"
"Financial records showing large withdrawals from my accounts around the time of Isabella's death. Phone records showing I called the mechanic's shop three days before the accident." He meets my eyes. "On paper, it looks damning. Like I paid to have my wife killed."
I can't breathe. "Did you?"
"No." The word is fierce. Final. "But I can't prove I didn't. The withdrawals were for a surprise I was planning for Isabella—a trip to Paris to try to save our marriage. The phone call was to schedule maintenance on her car because I knew she'd been putting it off. But with no proof and only my word?"
"You look guilty."
"Exactly." He moves back to the bed, kneeling in front of me. "Vivienne has those records. She's been sitting on them for six years, waiting for the perfect moment to destroy me. And now that I've married you—now that I have something to lose again—she's ready to strike."
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"Because I'm a coward." His honesty surprises me. "I thought if I gave you a year of good memories, if I showed you I wasn't the monster everyone thinks I am, maybe when the truth came out you'd believe me anyway."
"That's manipulative."
"Yes."
"And controlling."
"Yes."
"And exactly the kind of thing a guilty man would do."
He flinches like I slapped him. "I know."
I should run. Should grab my things and never look back.
Instead, I ask, "If you didn't kill Isabella, who did?"
"I've spent six years trying to figure that out." He sits back on his heels. "I hired investigators. Offered rewards. Followed every lead. Nothing. Whoever paid that mechanic covered their tracks perfectly."
"What about enemies? Someone who wanted to hurt you?"
"I have dozens of enemies. I've destroyed a lot of people building this empire." His voice is hollow. "Any one of them could have wanted revenge. Vivienne's father. Competitors I crushed. Business partners I betrayed. The list is endless."
"That's not reassuring."
"I know." He takes my hands. "Nerissa, I understand if you want out. If you want to walk away before this gets worse. I'll honor the contract—you'll still get the money for your mother, your father's debts will be paid. I won't hold you to the year."
I look down at our joined hands. His are larger, rougher, scarred from whatever life he's lived. Mine are smaller, trembling, wearing his massive diamond ring.
"What if Vivienne's right?" I whisper. "What if you did kill Isabella and you've just convinced yourself you didn't?"
Pain flashes across his face. "Then you should run. Fast and far."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." He squeezes my hands. "If there's any chance I'm dangerous to you, you need to leave. I'd rather die alone than hurt you."
The raw honesty in his voice breaks something in me.
This man—this complicated, damaged, possibly dangerous man—is giving me an out. Begging me to save myself even if it destroys him.
Dashiell never gave me anything. He took and took until I was empty.
But Thaddeus keeps offering me choices. Freedom. Truth.
Maybe that's the difference between them.
"I'm not leaving," I hear myself say.
His eyes widen. "Nerissa—"
"Not yet, anyway." I pull my hands free. "But I need you to promise me something."
"Anything."
"If Vivienne shows me evidence today—real, damning evidence—you won't try to stop me from seeing it. You won't control the narrative or manipulate the situation. You'll let me decide for myself what to believe."
He's quiet for a long moment.
Then: "I promise."
"Even if I decide you're guilty?"
"Even then." His voice cracks. "I'd rather you know the truth and hate me than love a lie."
The word "love" hangs between us, inappropriate and dangerous.
We barely know each other. This is a contract. A business deal.
But lying here in the dawn light, his confession still echoing in the room, it feels like more.
It feels like the beginning of something that could destroy us both.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
I grab it, expecting my father or the hospital.
Instead, it's a text from an unknown number: "Meet me at Riverside Café, 9 AM. Come alone. I'll show you everything about your husband. Everything he's hiding. —Vivienne"
I show Thaddeus the message.
His jaw clenches. "Don't go."
"I have to."
"She'll lie. Show you doctored evidence. Twist everything to make me look guilty."
"Maybe." I meet his eyes. "Or maybe she'll tell me the truth you're too scared to admit."
"I've told you everything—"
"Have you?" I stand, wrapping the blanket tighter. "Because I'm starting to think everyone has secrets. Dashiell had secrets. You have secrets. Maybe Vivienne has secrets too. And I'm tired of being the only one in the dark."
Thaddeus stands too, backing me against the wall. Not threatening—desperate.
"If you go to her, everything changes. You understand that? Once you hear her side, once you see whatever evidence she has, there's no going back."
"Good." My voice is steadier than I feel. "I don't want to go back. Back is a cheating husband and a lost baby and a life I hated. Forward is the only option I have left."
"Even if forward leads to discovering I'm a monster?"
"Even then." I touch his face, feeling stubble rough under my palm. "Because at least I'll know. And knowing is better than wondering."
He leans into my touch, eyes closed. "You're braver than I deserve."
"Or stupider."
His eyes open, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Probably both."
We stand there for a moment, the air between us charged with everything we're not saying.
Then I step back. "I need to get ready. The meeting is in three hours."
"I'm coming with you."
"No." My voice is firm. "She said alone. If you show up, she'll think you're trying to control the situation."
"I am trying to control the situation!" His mask cracks completely. "Because I'm terrified of losing you before I ever really had you!"
The confession hangs in the air.
"You don't have me," I say quietly. "We have a contract. That's all."
"Is it?" He steps closer. "Because last night felt like more than a contract. Taking down those photos together. You sleeping in my arms. That felt real."
"It was grief and exhaustion."
"Was it?" His voice drops. "Or was it two broken people finding something that might save them both?"
My heart pounds. "Thaddeus—"
He kisses me.
Not gentle this time. Desperate. Hungry. Seven years of wanting compressed into one moment.
I should push him away. Should remember the contract, the boundaries, the danger.
Instead, I kiss him back.
We stumble toward the bed, hands grabbing, pulling, needing. The blanket falls away. His shirt comes off. My resistance crumbles.
"Tell me to stop," he gasps against my mouth.
"Don't stop," I breathe back.
We fall into bed together, and this time, there's no hesitation. No contract. No rules.
Just two people drowning in each other, trying to forget the world is burning around them.
An hour later, I lie in his arms, my body still trembling, wondering what we just did.
Thaddeus runs his fingers through my hair, gentle now. Careful.
"We broke the contract," I whisper.
"I know."
"This changes everything."
"I know."
"I'm still going to meet Vivienne."
His hand stills. "I know."
I look up at him. "And if she convinces me you're dangerous?"
"Then I'll let you go." He kisses my forehead. "Like I promised."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him.
But as I get dressed and prepare to meet Vivienne, one thought keeps circling my mind:
What if I just slept with a murderer?
And what if I'm already falling in love with him anyway?
My phone buzzes again.
Another text from Vivienne: "Tick tock, little bride. Three hours until you learn the truth. Hope you enjoyed your last night with a killer. It might be your last night alive."