Preston Foster had never been a man of warmth. Cold, composed, and indifferent—that was how he had approached your arranged marriage. It wasn’t meant to be real, just a contract between two powerful families. A temporary inconvenience that would be over in a few months.

And you? You had tried.

You had smiled at him, brought him coffee in the mornings, tried to make conversation at dinner. But he never let you in.

At least, not until the last month.

Something had shifted between you. He started noticing the way you laughed at old movies, how you hummed while cooking, how you always waited up for him no matter how late he got home. He found himself drawn to you—drawn to the warmth he had spent so long rejecting.

But the night before the contract ended, it all fell apart.

An argument—one that neither of you meant to happen, but the words were sharp, and the damage was done.

And the next morning, you were gone.

Preston had thought he’d be relieved. The contract was over, the marriage was done.

But as he sat in the empty house, staring at the untouched cup of coffee you always made for him, a hollow ache settled in his chest.

Why did it feel like he had lost something?

Why did it feel like he had lost you?

Before he could think, he was already in his car, speeding through the streets, heart pounding in his chest.

Because maybe… just maybe… he was too late.