7
1564 Words
I pulled the hood of my black coat up higher as the cab dropped me at the gates of the Hudson estate. The same wrought-iron entrance that had once felt like a promise now looked like a cage. I slipped on my oversized sunglasses even though the sky was overcast, gray and heavy with the threat of rain. No one would recognize me right away—not the girl who’d fled seven years ago in tears. I hoped.
The driveway was lined with black cars, mourners in dark suits and dresses moving like shadows toward the private chapel on the grounds. I kept my head down, blending into the crowd. Every step brought memories crashing back. Markus’s warm hand on my shoulder during that first family dinner. The way he’d hung my painting in his study and told me, “This is what home looks like, kiddo.” His quiet pride when I showed him my first real design sketch. He’d been the only adult who ever made me feel wanted.
And then the gala. The microphone. Samantha’s voice slicing through the room. The slap from Lucy. Chase’s cold eyes as he told me to go home. I swallowed hard, forcing the lump in my throat down. I wasn’t here for them. I was here for Markus. One last goodbye.
The chapel was packed. Rows of polished pews, flowers everywhere—white lilies and roses, the scent thick and cloying. I slid into the back row, farthest from the aisle. Up front, the casket sat closed, draped in a dark cloth. A large framed photo of Markus rested on an easel beside it—younger, smiling, the way he looked when he first welcomed me into his home.
My eyes scanned the front. There she was—Lucy, in a sleek black dress, veil pinned perfectly, dabbing at dry eyes for the cameras that weren’t even there. Next to her, Samantha, blonde hair swept into an elegant updo, red lipstick sharp against her pale skin. She looked satisfied, like a cat that had caught its mouse years ago and was still licking its paws.
And then Chase.
He stood near the front, shoulders broader than I remembered, the hockey-built frame filled out with more muscle and time. Scars marked his knuckles, faint lines on his jaw—marks from the ice, from fights, from years of being the alpha everyone expected him to be. His dark hair was shorter now, neatly styled, but those gray eyes… they were colder, harder. Like the boy who’d once looked at me with hunger had been replaced by a man who no longer let anything show.
I felt it before I saw him look my way. The mate bond flared—sharp, sudden, painful—like a wire pulled taut inside my chest. My breath caught. He turned slowly, scanning the room, and his gaze landed on me. Locked. Even with the hood and sunglasses, he knew. Of course he did. The bond didn’t care about disguises.
His expression didn’t change much—jaw tight, mouth a flat line—but something cracked behind his eyes. Regret? Guilt? I couldn’t tell. He held my stare for a long beat, then looked away, fists clenching at his sides.
The service began. A minister spoke of Markus’s legacy—his business empire, his quiet generosity, his love for family. I listened, tears slipping silently under my sunglasses. When they played a slideshow of photos, one appeared: Markus with me at eighteen, his arm around my shoulders, both of us smiling at some family barbecue. The room murmured. Lucy stiffened. Samantha’s smirk faltered for half a second.
Then it was over. People rose, filing out toward the graveside. I stayed seated until most had left, then slipped out a side door, circling around to avoid the crowd. But Chase was faster. He caught up to me near the rose garden, steps deliberate.
“Amelia.”
His voice was deeper now, rougher. I stopped but didn’t turn.
“Don’t,” I said quietly. “Not here.”
He stepped closer. I could smell him—clean soap, leather, that same wild undertone that used to make my knees weak. The bond tugged harder, heat blooming low in my belly despite everything. I hated it. Hated him for still having that power.
“You came,” he said. Not a question.
“For Markus.” I finally faced him. Up close, the years showed. Fine lines at the corners of his eyes. A new scar cutting through his left eyebrow. He looked… tired. Like the weight of being the perfect heir had carved pieces out of him.
His gaze dropped to my coat, then back to my face. “You look different.”
“So do you.”
Silence stretched. The wind rustled the roses. Somewhere distant, people murmured condolences.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. The words sounded rusty, like he hadn’t said them in years. “For that night. For the gala. For… everything.”
I laughed once, bitter. “You’re sorry now?”
“I was wrong.” His voice cracked just a little. “I believed what I wanted to believe. It was easier.”
“Easier than protecting your mate?” The word slipped out before I could stop it. His eyes darkened.
Before he could answer, a voice called from the path. “Chase? They’re starting the will reading.”
Samantha. She stood at the edge of the garden, arms crossed, watching us like a hawk.
He glanced at her, then back at me. “We’re not done.”
“There’s nothing left to say.”
But he didn’t move. Just stared at me like he was memorizing every line of my face.
I walked away first, hood still up, heart hammering. The will reading was in the main house library—same room where Markus used to sit and read me business articles like bedtime stories. I slipped in last, taking a seat in the back corner.
The lawyer, a thin man in a gray suit, cleared his throat. Lucy sat ramrod straight in the front row, Samantha beside Chase. A few business associates filled the other chairs.
“Mr. Hudson’s will is straightforward in most respects,” the lawyer began. “The bulk of the business empire passes to Chase, as expected. Properties, investments, liquid assets—all allocated accordingly.”
Lucy leaned forward slightly, expectant.
“But there is a specific bequest.” He adjusted his glasses. “To Amelia Clark.”
The room went still. Lucy’s head snapped toward me. Samantha’s lips thinned.
The lawyer continued. “Mr. Hudson has left Ms. Clark a significant portion of shares in the Hudson family properties portfolio—valued currently at approximately twenty-eight million dollars.”
Gasps. Lucy’s face went white.
“However,” the lawyer said, “this inheritance is conditional. Ms. Clark must collaborate with Chase Hudson on a legacy project: the complete revamping and redesign of the Hudson family estate. The goal, as stated in Mr. Hudson’s own words, is to transform it into a home that honors the memory of his late daughter—one filled with warmth, beauty, and family. The project must be completed within two years, with both parties actively involved. Upon successful completion, the shares transfer fully to Ms. Clark. If the condition is not met, the shares revert to the Hudson business trust.”
My ears rang. Twenty-eight million. A future for the triplets—schools, security, everything I’d scraped for. But tied to Chase. To this place. To him.
Lucy stood abruptly. “This is absurd. She’s not even—”
“Sit down, Lucy,” Chase said quietly. His voice carried. She sat.
The lawyer looked at me. “Ms. Clark? Do you accept the terms?”
Every eye turned to me. I felt Chase’s stare like a brand.
I thought of the triplets waiting in the car with Mrs. Juliet’s trusted sitter—my safety net, the one person I’d told the whole truth to. They were hidden behind tinted windows, snacks and tablets keeping them occupied. If anyone saw them…
Panic clawed at my throat. Exposure. Questions. Chase finding out. Taking them. Or worse—rejecting them like he’d rejected me.
But Markus had given me this. A chance. A way to honor him.
I lifted my chin. “I accept.”
Murmurs rippled. Lucy’s glare could have burned holes. Samantha looked like she’d swallowed glass.
The lawyer nodded. “Very well. We’ll schedule the first meeting soon.”
People began to disperse. I slipped out quickly, heading toward the driveway where the car waited. But Chase was faster again. He caught my arm just as I reached the gravel path, pulling me behind a tall hedge.
“Let go,” I hissed.
He didn’t. His grip was firm but not bruising. Up close, the bond roared—heat, need, anger, grief—all tangled together.
“We need to talk about that night,” he said, voice low and rough. “About everything.”
I met his eyes. The cold alpha mask had cracked wide open. Regret stared back at me, raw and real.
But all I could think about were three little faces waiting in the car.
And the secret I couldn’t let him near. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
- Writer
