Chapter 44: “Cora, I’m Sorry”

Yes. I’m low. Disposable.

Abandoned at birth, rescued by a woman who called me daughter, still bullied by the Devs. I thought loving a man would save me. Reality had other plans.

If not for that night, would any of this be happening?

Out in the hallway, Julian had forced open every restroom door until only one remained shut. He knew she was behind it; he knew the way she cried—silently, until she had nothing left.

He waited. He waited, instead of kicking it down. That was new. That was…dangerous.

“Cora, I—” For once, the man who sliced boardrooms in half with a sentence ran out of words.

Inside, she leaned against the partition and closed her eyes. She didn’t want explanations. Not now. Maybe not ever.

“Cora,” he said at last, rough with effort. “I’m sorry.”

She heard all six words. They fell clean as coins into water.

Sorry? For what—a gift you unwrapped?

Silence again.

His patience snapped. The lock twisted; the door banged open.

Whatever he’d meant to say died. He found her crouched in the corner, shaking, small as an animal—eyes glassed, hope burned out. A tiny field mouse. His tiny field mouse.

“Cora. Come here.”

She blinked at him. Go where? There was nowhere left.

He stepped forward; she flinched. The flinch cut him. God, when had he become someone she had to guard against?

“Cora… no one is going to throw you away again.”

He drew her up before she could fight it and pulled her into him. Her palms fisted in his shirt. He lowered his voice. “If you’re going to cry, do it here. Not alone in a stall.”

She didn’t want to cry in his arms, but where else did she have to put the hurt? Matt? Dina? The parents who lived far away and knew none of this?

The world was big; somehow she had no shoulder in it but this one.

So she let go—quiet and violent at once, grief tearing through the seams she’d stitched tight. Just tonight, she promised herself as his heartbeat steadied under her ear. Borrow the warmth and pay it back tomorrow. Do the job. Be what you were made—a gift. Then finish the contract and walk away.

His hand hovered for three seconds—then landed, tentative, on her hair. He’d never comforted a woman before; it was shockingly easy. He didn’t even mind that she soaked his favorite white shirt.

She cried a long time. He didn’t move.

When her voice finally rasped back, she eased away. “Sorry. I ruined your shirt.”

“It’s fine,” he said, gaze steady. “Wash it.”

She huffed, the ghost of a laugh. “Should I thank you for not making me buy a new one?”

“I’m not sure you can afford it.”

It was the smallest mercy, and somehow it helped.

He took her straight out of HQ. Whatever remained with the Korean delegation would have to wait.

The Watson family kept a compact glass-walled villa in the city. The butler had everything ready by the time they arrived. Julian handed Cora off for a shower and a bed; changed clothes; walked right back out.

By the time she turned, all she caught was his back disappearing through the door. It shouldn’t have stung. It did.

“Master Julian is meeting the chairman,” the butler offered gently, assuming she’d want to know.

“Oh.” She looked down. He doesn’t owe you answers.

“Your room is ready, ma’am. Would you like to rest?”

“Thank you.”

She fell asleep with salt on her lashes.

Sometime later, voices drifted through the door. The butler: “How did it go, sir?”

Julian, bone-tired: “Tell Grandmother they’re furious. This may get messy.”

“If you brought Mrs. Watson to explain—?”

A pause. “She’s in no shape to do that. I’ll find another way.”

The door opened. Cora rolled toward the wall and closed her eyes. Julian stepped in, saw her sleeping, and exhaled as if something unknotted in his chest. He showered, left steam on the mirror, and came back smelling clean and cool.

The mattress dipped.

He wasn’t taking the couch. He was…here.

She went perfectly still. He watched the tense line of her back and almost smiled. Awake, then.

His arm slid around her and, in one smooth pull, folded her into him.

She forgot to pretend.

Heat rolled off him; so did the scent of soap and skin. The breath left her in a tiny sound. His chest was right there—warm, solid, unforgivably male.

“Chairman and his wife aren’t taking our calls,” he said into the hush, voice rough with exhaustion. “Their assistant says they’re disappointed. Grandmother is livid.”

Her muscles loosened despite herself. He kept talking, low and even.

“This deal isn’t just a few hundred million a year. It puts us on solid ground in Seoul. If we pull it off, Watson can stand toe-to-toe with their biggest conglomerates.”

She forgot the act entirely. “And if you fail?”

“Every one of our divisions there takes a hit. Fashion, beauty, tech. Momentum stalls.” Still calm. Still unshaken—at least on the surface.

She melted fully then, fitting to him like something that had been waiting for the shape.

His arm tightened, claiming more of her. “We’ve poured months into this. And because of today, we could lose it. Grandmother even said if I can’t resolve it, my chair isn’t guaranteed.”

She jerked up at that, wide-eyed. The shadowed cut of his jaw was suddenly close, dusted with a day’s worth of stubble. It did nothing to blunt his beauty; it sharpened it.

“How could they—?”

“How could they not?” He smiled faintly. “Do you have any idea what your husband is carrying right now?”

Husband. It landed with a surprising little shock.

“I’m just a contract wife,” she muttered, looking away. “How would I know?”

He hated that phrase for the first time in his life.

If you were only a contract, why did he—

She tried to wriggle free. His arm stayed firm.

“I lent you my chest today,” he said quietly. “Lend me yours. I won’t touch you. I just…don’t feel like being alone.”

He was tired. For once, she felt it—not as ice, but as weight.

“Sleep,” he added, already drifting. “We’ll eat later.”

His breathing evened out. She waited, then let herself rest. The safety of it—the indecent, treacherous safety—took her under.