Sara's back stiffened.
She recovered in seconds.
Turning to face a pair of cynical, teasing eyes, her expression remained calm. "You're bored, Simon."
Simon Simmons curled his lip. "Is it not the truth?"
She ignored the jab. "The weather is beautiful today. After we eat, come downstairs for a walk with me."
"Not going." He dropped onto the sofa, rejecting her instantly.
Several bags of trash were piled by the door. She didn't need to ask to know he hadn't left in days.
"If you stay cooped up like this, you're going to get sick."
"Then let me die. Better to rot here than go out and have people stare at me like I'm a monster."
His self-loathing sparked a flare of anger in her chest.
But then her gaze landed on the hideous burn scars creeping up his neck and arms.
The anger dissolved into heartache.
The scars weren't just on his skin. They had ravaged his soul.
Ever since his discharge from the hospital, he was a different person. Volatile temper. Complete withdrawal from the world. If this continued, Sara feared his mind would break entirely.
She sat beside him, her voice softening. "If you die, wouldn't my sacrifice be for nothing?"
Simon glanced at her and scoffed. "Who asked you to save me?"
"Right, I was meddling." Her tone dripped with reverse psychology. "I shouldn't have made a deal with the devil to pay your medical bills. I should have just bought a bottle of cheap poison—economical and practical—and set us both free."
She nudged him. "If you don't want to see me, just say the word. I'll leave right now."
His face remained cold, but he fell silent.
Sara was his most important person—and he was hers. They had grown up together in the orphanage, two pieces of driftwood clinging to each other in a stormy sea. No relatives, only each other.
Just like the curtains in this room—no one but Sara was allowed to open them.
"I knew you were bluffing. You can't bear to see me go." A triumphant smile crossed her face as she pulled him toward the dining table. "Now, eat."
Simon used to be a chatterbox. Now he finished the entire meal without uttering a single word.
Sara's heart ached.
Starting at sixteen, he'd worked part-time jobs while studying. No childhood. No fun. He sacrificed his youth, even giving up a chance at graduate school, just so Sara could live like a normal girl. He refused to let her feel inferior to her classmates because of money.
The year of the accident, he had finally caught a break. A good job. On the verge of becoming a regular employee.
Then came the explosion at the restaurant where he moonlighted.
He didn't make it out in time.
Massive burns. ICU. Life hanging by a thread.
It was to scrape together the astronomical medical fees that Sara had entered into this absurd marriage contract with Adrian.
After Simon was discharged, she rented this place and hid him here. The Harding family's drivers and nannies were all Adrian's spies, so she couldn't visit often. She'd hired a caretaker, but this morning, the woman's resignation text arrived.
"Everything was fine—why did you fire her?" The thought of him alone was unbearable.
Simon knew why she'd come. "I have hands and feet. I don't need a babysitter."
"The caretaker's wages come from money I borrowed from a friend. Don't feel burdened. If the Hardings didn't forbid their women from working, I would have gotten a job long ago. Just six more months—once the divorce is final, we won't have to hide anymore."
He listened in silence.
Then he spoke. "I had a dream last night."
He rarely shared anything personal these days. Sara leaned in, feigning bright interest. "Tell me about it."
Half-serious, half-joking, he said, "I dreamed you were getting married, and I went to crash the wedding to steal the bride."
A melodramatic soap opera plot. Sara smiled gently. "Did you succeed?"
"No." His answer was crisp, his expression solemn—as if recounting a memory rather than a fantasy. "You rejected me because I was penniless. You even had security beat me up."
Sara nodded gravely. "That is a tragedy." Then she shifted tone. "Dreams are fake, Simon."
He stared at her fair, flawless face. "Why not say the opposite?"
"Because I never even had a wedding." She laughed, though it didn't reach her eyes. "How could you crash a wedding that never happened?"
She and Adrian had only signed the papers. Even the rings were an afterthought. Back then, the Harding family hadn't accepted her.
When Elijah found out, he'd slapped Adrian in public, accusing him of treating marriage like a game just to spite Eva. But Adrian hadn't listened. When the family objected, he took Sara and moved out.
Whether Eva had tried to win him back then, Sara didn't know, but Adrian's relationship with his family had frozen over.
For six months, they barely spoke. Sara had shamelessly, tirelessly mediated, smoothing things over until she finally earned her place at the table.
Only then did Adrian stop treating her like a pretty vase.
Simon didn't laugh.
His eyes fixed on the faint reddish mark on Sara's neck—he'd noticed it the moment she walked in.
"Looks like he likes you a lot."
"A man brings a wife home—how many are just for display?" Sara lowered her gaze, her thick lashes concealing the emotion in her eyes. "With me, he wants my body, not my heart."
"And you?" Simon asked quietly.
"Did you give him yours?"
