The following days passed like I was floating through someone else’s life, a life I hadn’t chosen but had been forced to wear like an ill-fitting dress.
Everything about James’s world had a rhythm a cold, calculated schedule that operated like clockwork. Breakfast at seven sharp, meetings behind closed doors by nine, appearances at public functions as needed, and evenings that always ended with the same unbearable silence hanging between us.
And I, Lila Williams, the girl who once thought she’d build her life through hard work and merit, had become nothing more than a piece of decoration in James Sinclair’s perfectly curated world.
But beneath the calm surface of polished floors, glistening chandeliers, and whispered staff greetings, there was a quiet, growing storm brewing between us.
