His mother . . . well, she never approved of me. To her, I was nothing more than a gold digger, someone who’d latched onto her son for his family’s wealth and status. She’d look at me with this cold, scrutinizing gaze that made me feel small, unworthy. No matter what I did, no matter how much I loved him, I couldfeel her judgment hanging over me, like I was constantly being measured and found lacking.
And maybe that’s why there’s this little voice in my head now, whispering that I don’t belong here either—that I’m still just a visitor in someone else’s world. Haydn’s world is open, dazzling, filled with light, and I’m . . . I’m the girl from a small town who still can’t believe she’s standing here, the one who hasn’t broken through, who hasn’t quite made it.
A girl with big dreams and a lifetime of bad luck.
Someone who doesn’t know the first thing about being with someone like him—someone loved by an entire city, someone whose life seems touched by every kind of success.
I look at Haydn, at the easy way he moves through this world, like it’s as natural to him as breathing, and I wonder how I’m supposed to fit into this picture. How can I stand beside him, this man who’s adored by strangers, who’s built a life on a foundation of fame and admiration, and not feel like an outsider?
I want to tell myself it’s different with him, that Haydn has never made me feel like I have to prove myself or hide. But that voice—the one that keeps reminding me of all the ways I don’t measure up—is hard to ignore. It’s the same voice that whispered in my ear when Keane’s mother looked at me with disdain, the same voice that told me I was never quite enough, that I’d always be a stranger in someone else’s life.
I swallow, trying to push down the doubt, to silence that voice. But it lingers, a quiet ache, a reminder that maybe I’ll always be standing just on the edge of his world, wondering if I’m brave enough to step fully inside.
Haydn glances back at me, noticing my silence, and reaches over, his hand wrapping around mine with that quiet, calming warmth that’s so him. Just the feel of his fingers laced through mine is enough to steady me, to remind me to breathe.
“Hey,” he says softly, giving my hand a gentle squeeze, his touch reassuring in a way that always makes me feel like I can face anything.
“It’s just a house,” he murmurs, his voice low, as if he can see every worry flickering through my mind. “Just walls and windows. It’s me wanting to share my world with you the same way you share yours with me.”
I hesitate, my gaze slipping from his, because we both know it’s not just a house. “But you didn’t want to move into my apartment with me,” I reply, trying to keep my tone light, though I know he can hear the hesitation underneath.
He chuckles, brushing his thumb over my knuckles in a slow, soothing rhythm. “Well, we can’t exactly fit a seventy-five-hundred-square-foot home into that tiny but undeniably charming place of yours,” he teases, his eyes warm and playful, easing some of the tension knotted inside me.
I try to smile, to let his words sink in and calm the nervous flutter in my chest. But it’s not that simple, and we both know it. This isn’t just about walls and windows—it’s about stepping into a whole new life. A life with him, with everything he brings along. Hockey. Fame. The constant spotlight that follows him everywhere, the world that seems to revolve around him.
And then there’s me. Every little piece of baggage I carry—not the boxes in the back seat, but the things I’ve brought with me that no one can see. My past, my scars, my invisible struggles. I try not to let them define me. I’m a survivor, a fighter, even if my battles are hidden from the outside world.
Living with a chronic illness that no one can see—one that drains my strength without warning, that makes me question my own body—is something I carry quietly. It’s a part of me that I’ve learned to live with, even if it never completely fades.
And yet here I am, stepping into Haydn’s world, a world I’m familiar with but never thought I’d see myself in again.
Haydn isn’t just any man. He’s a public figure, someone this city practically worships. People look up to him, celebrate him, even idolize him. He’s larger than life in a way that feels almost surreal, like a character from a story. And somehow, I’ve been drawn into his orbit, pulled into this glamorous world that feels both thrilling and completely foreign.
I glance up at him, at the easy confidence in his smile, the way he holds my hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, as if letting go has never even crossed his mind. And I realize, with a pang of something close to fear, that he belongs here in a way I never could.
But me? I’m just . . . me. A girl with big dreams and quiet struggles, someone who’s used to staying in the background, surviving in small spaces, fighting battles that no one else can see. And now I’m standing on the edge of his life, wondering if there’s a place for me here, if I’ll ever truly belong in a world that feels so much bigger than I am.
It’s a strange feeling, loving someone who shines so brightly, while wondering if my own invisible burdens will hold me back, if there’s room in his life for someone like me—someone who’s spent so long just trying to stay grounded, just trying to make it through each day. But then he looks at me, his hand warm and firm in mine, and I feel a glimmer of hope that perhaps there’s a place for us both.
I try to silence the voice in my head that insists I’m out of my depth. That I’m just a visitor in his world, a girl with small dreams and a messy past, standing on the edge of something too big for me.
“Ophelia,” he says, his voice quiet, as if he knows exactly what I’m feeling. “It’s just you and me, okay? The house, the fame, all of it—it doesn’t matter. None of this means anything if you’re not part of it.”
His words settle into me, soothing the restless uncertainty that’s been clawing at my chest since we arrived. Maybe it’s okay that this feels overwhelming. Maybe that’s the point—that stepping into something new, something this big, with someone who makes your heart race and your fears fade all at once, is supposed to feel like this. Terrifying and thrilling in equal measure.
I take a shaky breath, my fingers tightening around his, letting him ground me. “Okay,” I whisper, the word soft, like I’m testing it out, letting it find its place between us.
He turns to me, his gaze searching, studying my face as if he’s trying to see past the walls I sometimes forget I have. The softness in his eyes makes something ache deep inside me, but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of ache that reminds me I’m alive, that I’m here, that he’s here.
“Okay what, baby?” he asks, his voice low and insistent, laced with that gentle firmness that’s so uniquely him. “I need to know we’re on the same page. This isn’t about comfort or convenience. I didn’t bring you here because it’s easy. I brought you here because I want to build a life with you. A real one.”
His thumb strokes the back of my hand, slow and deliberate, and my breath hitches as he leans in closer. “I’m talking pancakes with the kids on Sunday mornings, flour everywhere because you let them help. I’m talking about late evenings on the deck, watching the stars, maybe sharing a bottle of wine—or two—because we got lost in the conversation. Dancing in the kitchen because a song we love came on. Christmas mornings with stockings and messy wrapping paper everywhere, laughter resonating through the house.” He pauses, his gaze locking on mine, the intensity in his eyes sending a shiver down my spine. “That’s the life I want, Pia. With you. So tell me . . . what do you want?”
I swallow hard, my pulse hammering in my ears, but I don’t look away. His words are still lingering in the space between us, heavy with promise, and I can feel it—this pull, this electric charge that makes the air between us almost hum.
“I want you,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. The words are clear, resolute. “Just you and me. Us. That’s all I need in life with everything messy and a family.”
His expression shifts, something raw and unguarded flashing across his face for a moment before his lips curve into the kind of smile that feels like it’s just for me. The kind of smile that makes me believe every word he just said, every promise he’s ever made.
