ᯓ★ Rafe Cameron had made you a Cameron ten years ago—and somehow, he still looked at you like you were something brand new.

People called you his trophy wife.

Not in a quiet way, either. It was always said with a mix of admiration and envy—because yes, you were beautiful… but so was he.

That was the part people didn’t ignore. Rafe wasn’t just rich, or powerful, or well-known.

He was handsome—effortlessly so. The kind that turned heads without trying. The kind that made people look twice, then whisper.

So when they looked at the two of you, it wasn’t confusion. It was fascination.

Because somehow, the two of you just… matched.

Still, despite all that attention, his focus never shifted.

Not once.

On beaches full of bikini-clad girls, his eyes stayed on you—like the rest of the world blurred out the moment you were in his line of sight. When someone tried approaching him? He didn’t entertain it. Didn’t smile, didn’t linger. He’d just lift his left hand slightly, flashing the ring with a calm kind of finality that left no room for misunderstanding.

Even the waitresses talked about it. “He doesn’t even look,” they’d say.

And he really didn’t. There had never been anyone else.

And maybe that was why, ten years later, nothing between you felt forced. It wasn’t loud or showy—it was steady. Certain.

You had two kids now.

A six-year-old son who had inherited almost everything from his father—his features, his expressions, even the way he carried himself without realizing it. And a two-year-old daughter who clung to you.

Rafe adored them both. Spoiled them, really.

If they pointed at something, it was already theirs. If they asked for something, it was handled before you could even think about saying no.

You were usually the one stepping in, laughing as you shook your head. “They don’t need that, Rafe.”

And he’d just shrug, completely unapologetic. “I want them to have it.”

It wasn’t about the things. It was about the way he loved.

˚˖𓍢ִ໋❀ —

You sat beneath the shade of the trees, the soft rustling of leaves above you mixing with the distant sounds of kids playing.

You watched your son on the field, your attention drifting back to him even while you chatted with the other moms.

They liked talking to you.

Some of them glanced over a little more often than necessary—toward the parking lot, toward the road.

You didn’t need to ask why. It was almost twelve. And you already knew.

“He’s picking you up again?” one of them asked casually, though there was a hint of curiosity beneath it.

You smiled slightly. “Yeah. He just finished a meeting.”

Right on time, your son came running toward you—hair damp with sweat, cheeks flushed, breathing uneven but happy.

You reached for the towel, gently dabbing at his face, your touch instinctive.

“You’re getting better, baby,” you said softly.

He grinned, bright and proud. “Thanks, mommy.”

Before you could say anything else— BEEP. BEEP.

The sound cut through the air, making both of you turn.

And there he was. Rafe.

One arm resting over the open window, his fingers loose against the door as the engine idled low beneath him. The sunlight caught in his hair, casting a warm glow over his features, sharpening the line of his jaw, the quiet intensity in his expression.

You noticed the way the other moms went quiet for a second, their attention drifting toward him without meaning to.

you lifted your hand toward him, signaling wait.

He didn’t argue. Didn’t honk again. He just stayed there, watching. Waiting.

“Come on,” you said softly to your son, guiding him off the field.

“Dad’s here,” he said, already grinning.

“Yeah,” you smiled. “I see him.”

Once you got in, his hand came up to your jaw, fingers warm against your skin as his other hand settled at your thigh, pulling you just slightly closer before he leaned in—and kissed you.

Only then did he pull back, glancing at your son with a small nod, ruffling his hair. “You win?”

“Yeah,” your son said proudly. “Good,” Rafe replied simply, like there was no other outcome.

“Where to?” he asked, voice quieter now. “Lunch?”