Iris
Arthur arrives at exactly nine o’clock the next morning, looking remarkably different from his usual polished self. Instead of his customary tailored suit, he’s wearing worn jeans, a simple gray t-shirt, and work boots. His hair isn’t perfectly styled—even that single curl is visible across his forehead—and he has a tool belt slung low on his hips.
The casual look suits him—makes him seem more approachable, more human. More like the man I fell in love with.
And it makes him irresistibly handsome, so much so that I can hardly even look at him without turning red.
However, I notice something else as we drive—it’s just us. No Beta Ezra. No journalists following us. Even when we pull up to the orphanage, I don’t see any other cars.
Out of curiosity, I ask, “Did you te
