I heard her footsteps before I saw her.
Hell, I hadn’t seen her—not really. Just a glimpse through the window as Marco opened the door. She stepped into the house like she owned the place, orange cat in her arms like it was royalty. She didn’t even glance at the staircase leading to my wing.
I didn’t blame her.
I was hiding.
Pathetic, maybe. But what else do you call a man who’s too ashamed to face the woman he destroyed?
I hadn’t left my room since the day she screamed at me in the hallway. Her words still rang in my head—each syllable like a knife across my pride.
“You no longer have control over my life.”
“You’ve ruined me.”
“I’d rather die than serve you.”
She meant it. Every word.
And I deserved it.
I sat in the corner of my bedroom, wheelchair still, hands tight on the arm
