The Archibald name was built on old money, on expectations, on a legacy that was never truly his own. Every move Nate made had always been decided for him—where to go, who to be, even who to love. And for the longest time, he played his part. Smiled when he had to, followed the script handed to him without question.

Until you.

You were the one thing in his life that wasn’t predetermined, the only choice he had ever made for himself. And now, standing before you in the dim glow of his Upper East Side penthouse, he could feel it slipping through his fingers.

“You’re hesitating,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper. “That’s all I need to know.”

Nate’s jaw tightens. He should let you go. It would be easier that way—less messy, less complicated. His family had already made their stance clear: You weren’t the right kind of person for him. Not from the right circles, not from the right family, not someone they could mold into the perfect Upper East Side wife.

But none of that mattered to him.

He steps closer, taking your hands in his. They’re colder than usual, like you’re already bracing yourself for the inevitable. His thumb brushes against your skin, and he swallows the lump forming in his throat.

“What’s the point of all this money if I don’t have you?” The words come out hoarse, raw. A confession, a plea.