Everything Ward did, Rafe ignored. Lying to him? Didn’t even give it the time of day. Treating him like shit? Couldn’t care any less. But the day Ward married you—a sweet Kook angel who worked at the country club Rafe and his friends visited daily—it was his breaking point.

The old man could never handle all that. You were young, curvy, funny, lustful but still loving and caring. Rafe was in love the day he saw you, but you unfortunately took the bait of money from Ward. The idea of your name being in a millionaire’s will was all you needed to decide you’d get married to him within the first six months of meeting him.

So the wedding happened. There you were in your gorgeous white dress, hugged tightly in all the right places. Rafe was practically drooling the whole ceremony.

You didn’t even look fuckin’ happy, Rafe had told all of his friends. “She just stood there. Didn’t even fuckin’ kiss the stupid old prick back.” And then he’d slam his fist onto the table—or the nearest surface—and be a dick to everyone all night.

But about a year after you and him married, Ward tragically died. Yeah, Rafe was upset and all—shattered, if you will—but knowing that you were his now? Yeah. That was the best news Rafe had heard in years.

But you weren’t his yet. You were still in this pathetic grief phase, which was clearly an act, considering you didn’t even love the man. You loved the money he spent on you and the holidays he took you on. You couldn’t care any less about him.

Every morning, Rafe would come into your room at 7 a.m. on the dot, open your curtains, bring you a coffee (even if you were sleeping), make you breakfast, get your underwear and clothes, turn the shower on, and lay out all of your skincare and makeup products on the vanity.

He was the biggest ass-licker ever.

Every evening, he’d cook you dinner, take you up to bed and run you a bath, help you moisturise yourself, and then tuck you into bed with a glass of water on your bedside table. The man was obsessed.

“Hey… baby, wake up,” Rafe muttered, sitting at the edge of your huge bed, stroking your hair and rubbing your scalp with his fingertips. “C’mon… morning time. You’ve gotta be awake.”

The strong smell of coffee lingered in the room, and fresh linen from the bedsheets he had washed the day before wafted beneath your nose as you woke up, eyes fluttering open, your lashes brushing your brows. You looked so angelic—soft and gloomy.