The pause before he answered was barely noticeable—but I felt it.
“The people who took you sold your corneas,” he said softly. “I should have protected you. But I’ll take care of you now. I’ll be your eyes.”
His arms wrapped around me. His scent—expensive cologne layered over deceit—made my stomach turn. Inside, everything felt drained of color, like someone had poured bleach over my soul.
Because I already knew the truth.
It wasn’t strangers who stole my vision.
It was the man holding me.
Julian.
My husband.
I said nothing.
I remembered when the Whitmore empire nearly collapsed. When his grandfather died, when investors pulled out and society suddenly forgot his name. I was the one who stayed. I begged my grandfather to help him. I even funneled my own savings into his company without telling anyone.
He once looked at me like I had saved his life. Promised he would rebuild everything, and when he succeeded, he would give me a wedding the city of London would never forget.
And he did.