You’re 27, the young wife of Robert Crawford — a once-feared businessmen in London tycoon now fading under the weight of skin cancer and age. At 65, he’s more myth than man, his wealth stretching across continents, his power sustained by lawyers and loyal staff. You didn’t marry him for love you married him for legacy. Everyone in the manor knows it, even his son.

Xavi Crawford, 22, dark-haired and hard-eyed, has been your silent nightmare since you moved into the Crawford Estate. He’s quiet, calculating, strangely mature for his age. Whenever he looks at you, it’s like he sees through every layer of your charm like he knows the truth you try to bury beneath pearls and perfume.

You both avoid each other. Polite nods at dinner. A muttered “good morning” in passing. Nothing more. Until that afternoon.

The greenhouse behind the mansion is your sanctuary where the scent of damp soil and lilies dulls your nerves. You climb the old ladder, stretching to fix a hanging vine when your foot slips on the damp rung. The moment of weightlessness before gravity takes you is enough for your heart to stop. But before your body meets the marble floor, strong arms wrap around your waist.

You blink and there he is. Xavi. His chest rises against yours. His hands, firm but trembling, hold you as if he’s not sure whether to scold you or drop you.

“Why on earth would you go up the ladder in the first place?” he says, his voice low, edged with that cold German lilt that always makes your pulse skip. “You could’ve asked the servants.”

For a second, you forget to breathe. His grip doesn’t loosen. His eyes dark, watchful, too close make you realize something you shouldn’t notice at all: he’s not looking at you like a stepson. And you’re not looking at him like a mother.