Bound by Decree

With Yes, Came This

(Angela’s POV)

It started with a voice, low, urgent.

"Angela, come on. Breathe."

A hand cradled the back of my neck and grounded me. I gasped, my eyes wide open as light came in too quickly and too brightly. I had a brief moment of confusion about where I was.

I knew the world was too loud, the air too thin, and my pulse sounded like war drums in my ears.

"There you are," William said sharply, relieved.

I blinked. The boardroom ceiling came into focus above me, angular and sterile. Somewhere nearby, papers shuffled and a phone buzzed. But William was crouching next to me, his hand still supporting my back, his normally enigmatic face hardened with worry.

"You were out cold," he said. "What the hell happened?"

My throat burned, raw and dry, like I’d swallowed something sharp and wrong. “I’m fine,” I croaked. “Just... a little dizzy, that’s all.”

William didn’t look convinced. His brows knit together.

“People get dizzy,” he said quietly. “They don’t just drop unless something knocks the wind out of them. What did the message say?”

I turned my head away, but Jonathan’s name still echoed behind my eyes. That message—the one that cleared everything—informed me that the blonde I met earlier was just his cousin. Nothing more, nothing less. And yet, it had come too late.

"Nothing important," I lied. "I just need to go home and get some rest. It's been quite a hectic day."

William studied me. "Your place or mine?"

I hesitated, caught off guard by the question—and the quiet way he asked it, as if the answer mattered more than he let on.

"Mine," I said. "Just for today. I’ll start moving my things to your place tomorrow."

He nodded slowly. "Alright. Let’s get you out of here."

He helped me to my feet with surprising gentleness, like I might fall apart if he pulled too hard. The boardroom had mostly cleared out, but I could feel the silence humming beyond the doors—gossip waiting to be born.

Angela Kings fainted during the signing.

The headline was already writing itself.

"I barely remembered getting to the car—just the feel of William’s hand at the small of my back, steady and unobtrusive. The moment I slid into the leather seat, I let my head fall back and closed my eyes."

But rest wouldn’t come.

Jonathan’s message kept looping in my mind like a script I couldn’t shut off.

Why hadn’t I waited—just a little longer—for an explanation?

Why did I assume the worst? That the blonde was anything more than she appeared to be?

My pulse quickened. The years Jonathan and I had shared pressed down on me—stolen weekends in quiet corners of the world, whispered promises, a love that lived in the shadows of my father’s empire.

My father had loomed over us like a hurricane that never broke. He hated Jonathan. Called him reckless. Too slick. Too clever with words and contracts, not the kind of man who built things—just one who borrowed, reworded, and rebranded.

But I’d loved him anyway. Fiercely. Secretly. Deeply.

Or at least, I thought I had.

What would he think now, knowing I had gone through with the terms of my father’s will without even giving him a chance to intervene? Without asking if, as a lawyer, he might’ve found a loophole, a clause, a legal miracle?

I hadn’t even tried.

And now here I was—wearing another man’s marriage ring.

The Bentley moved through the city with silent ease, its engine barely a whisper beneath the sound of passing cars. I sat in the front seat beside William, the leather cool against my aching back.

He drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting near his side. His movements were smooth but intentional. If the pain from the gunshot still bothered him, he didn’t make it obvious—except for the occasional shallow breath or the way he leaned back just a little too carefully, like every inch mattered.

I looked at him in the soft glow from the dashboard. His jaw was tight, eyes fixed on the road. Still composed. Still seemingly in control. Even now, William Briggs carried himself like a man who didn’t know how to take a break, like he could will the pain away through sheer force of habit.

Then his voice broke the silence, low and planned.

"You’ve said nothing since we left Kings Tower. Are you sure everything is okay?"

I turned to him this time, keeping my gaze. The once-crisp suit he wore was now creased and rumpled from kneeling beside me. There was something almost human in the way he looked tonight—not the polished titan I’d always seen from a distance, but a man caught in the same turbulence as I was.

"I'm just... trying to process everything," I murmured.

He gave a slow nod, his voice low. “Yeah. Today hit like a freight train.”

“It sure did,” I muttered, the bitterness slipping through before I could catch it.

The car began to slow, headlights washing over the familiar curve of my secluded street.

“Here we are,” he said gently.

I looked out the window as the stone steps of my apartment building came into view—solid, unchanged. It wasn’t just home. It was the one piece of my life I still had a say in. The last bit that hadn’t been bargained.

I unbuckled my seatbelt with measured calm, then turned to William. My voice was steady, almost cool, but not ungrateful.

“Thank you… for earlier,” I said, my voice low. “You didn’t have to help, but you did. And for that, I’m genuinely grateful.”

His brow creased. "Angela. If something else is going on... if you are troubled about—"

"I'm fine. You need some rest—so you can heal properly," I said, cutting in. The words came out softer than I intended.

He didn’t argue. But his gaze held on to me a bit longer than necessary.

Not probing. Just... aware.

Like he could already feel the weight of what I wasn’t saying.

Like he’d calculated the silence between my sentences and found it full of answers I wasn’t ready to share.

"I’ll call you tomorrow," I said.

He nodded. "Alright. Just keep me on the loop."

I gave a small, polite smile. "I will try."

He waited until I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. Only then did the car ease away, its taillights disappearing into the night.

Once the door shut behind me, I exhaled—a long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

The apartment was quiet. Still. Nothing out of place. And yet I felt the shift. Like something unseen had brushed against the walls.

I set my phone on the counter and stood still, unmoving. Outside, the city lights spilled through the tall windows, slicing across the marble floor in long, fractured lines. I didn’t bother turning on the lamp. The darkness suited me.

My fingers hovered over my phone, itching to call Jonathan.

To explain. To confess. To say something that might make any of this make sense.

But what would I even say?

Hi. Sorry I married William Briggs. My inheritance was on the line. You know how these things go.

A sour laugh escaped me. Dry. Hollow.

I hurried to the kitchen sink and poured cold water on my face, hoping to wash away the heaviness that clung to me.

My hands trembled while I dried them. Then, almost instinctively, I crossed to the liquor cabinet tucked in the corner of the kitchen, which my father had stocked before his death.

I hadn't touched it in quite some time. Too many thoughts dwelt there.

What about tonight?

Tonight, I wanted silence. I needed something to calm the blazing waves in my head.

I poured myself a tumbler of Scotch. The scent alone evoked recollections of my father's study—oak, leather, and the faint click of a lighter.

I resented the taste.

But tonight, it seemed well-deserved.

I took a slow sip. Allowed the heat to anchor me. And then another sip. Until the day's sharp edges softened.

I eventually wandered toward the couch, my phone in hand, the screen lighted up with texts I couldn't stand to read. I sat down, hoping to look into the calm corners of the sitting room.

But sleep did not seek for permission.

It crept in quietly and uninvited, claiming me before I even realized I had surrendered.