I should rein this in. That thought floated through my mind, half-heartedly. This wasn’t real. We got married for insurance. And yet, nothing about this felt staged. Nothing about the way he looked at me or touched me or built me a set of shelves in his library felt transactional.
I was already falling for him. The realization landed quietly but firmly. I should have been careful. Instead, I pressed closer.
He shifted slightly, fingers moving into my hair. He slid a few strands between them, thoughtful, almost absentminded.
Then he cleared his throat. It’s subtle. But I felt the shift.
“How long had you been living in your van?” he asked barely above a whisper.
There it was. The one piece we’d skirted around. The one truth I’d kept folded tight and tucked away. Even from my team. Even from Eleanor.
I froze for a second.
His hand stilled slightly in my hair. “You do not have to answer.”
I could’ve taken the out, made a joke, and deflected. But I was tired of deflecting.
And if I was going to fall for him, I couldn’t keep this part locked away.
“Almost four months,” I said softly.
His body tightened beneath me.
“I had to sell the house. When I put dad in Long Creek, I didn’t have enough for the deposit, so I had to sign over his estate, which was really just our little two-bedroom home,” I continued, staring at the curve of his collarbone. “There wasn’t another option.”
I swallowed.
“I looked for apartments. Studios. One bedrooms. Even the ones that weren’t great were more than I could manage. Rent is ridiculous right now. And I was already working two jobs.”
I let out a breath that trembles more than I expect.
“Minimum wage doesn’t stretch very far when you’re also paying for memory care. Because what they don’t tell you is that room and board may have been covered when I signed over the house, but then there’s incidentals, nurses, and other things insurance won’t cover.”
The words sounded small out loud. But beneath them was the truth I’ve never said fully.
“I thought it would be temporary,” I whispered. “Just until I got ahead again. But every time I got close, something happened. A late fee. A car repair. A medical bill.”
His arm tightened around me. I didn’t look at his face. I didn’t think I could.
“I kept thinking if I just worked harder . . . ” My voice cracked slightly. “If I just didn’t need anything for myself . . . ”
Something inside me splintered. And before I could stop it, a tear slid down my cheek. I blinked. Another follows. I was crying. I could not remember the last time I cried in front of someone. This was not me. I didn’t do this, but I couldn’t seem to stop myself.
“I didn’t tell anyone,” I admitted, voice shaking now. “Not the girls. Not El. I didn’t want them to look at me differently.”
His hand moved from my hair to my back, pressing me closer against him.
“You’re not different. You are still the kind, strong woman you are,” he says quietly.
That did it. The tears came harder. Months of exhaustion and fear and pride and pretending poured out of me in quiet, shaking sobs against his chest.
I tried to apologize.
He didn’t let me. He just held me. Like I was allowed to fall apart here. His hand moved slowly along my back in long, grounding strokes. His other arm anchors me in place, like I’m not going anywhere.
“You will never live like that again,” he said softly.
He sounded so solemn and certain. I wanted to believe him. God, I wanted to. But hope was dangerous.
