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“Elijah,” he says, voice gravelly but commanding as ever. “It’s about time you got here.”

I cross over to him, taking his bony hand in mine. “Of course. How are you feeling today?”

He gives a feeble shrug. “As well as can be expected. But you haven’t introduced me to your lovely guest.” His gaze shifts to Gemma lingering by the door.

I beckon her over. “This is Gemma. She’s...” I falter, not quite sure how to define her role in my life.

“Is this the one you told me about, Elijah? Your fiancé?”

I open my mouth to correct him. “Well, actually, she’s—”

“Yes, that’s me.” She interlopes her hand with mine.

Why does that feel so good? Not only hearing her say it but also holding her hand.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Mr. Milton,” she says.

“Please, call me Charles.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. Then he tilts his head to me. “But I thought you said her name is Julia?”

That canny old—Fuck. I shoot Gemma a warning look, but she doesn’t see me, diving headfirst into the lie.

“Julia is my middle name.” She shifts. “Gemma… Julia Barron. But everyone calls me Gemma.”

Christ, she’s a terrible liar. I pinch the bridge of my nose, grimacing. Dad’s not an idiot. Doesn't she wonder why he said Julia instead of Esther? He set up the trap, and she walked right into it.

He lets out a hearty laugh that dissolves into a ragged coughing fit.

When had I last heard him laugh like that?

I grab the cup of water from his bedside table, holding it to his cracked lips as he drinks.

Too long ago.

My father winks at Gemma. “You’re a sly one, aren’t you? I can see why my son’s so smitten.”

A flush creeps up her cheeks as her eyes dart towards me, questioning.

“Dad...” I glance over at the heart monitor beeping beside my father’s bed, avoiding her stare. “Why are you still awake? You need your rest.”

He waves his frail hand. “Hush now, son. I want to get to know this lovely young woman.”

I huff out a breath but don’t argue. The old man’s as stubborn as a bull.

He turns to Gemma and beckons her closer with his knobby-knuckled hand. “Though I must admit, I had my doubts you existed.”

I roll my eyes, scoffing. “Don’t act so shocked, old man. I’m not completely hopeless.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” Even bedridden, the bastard’s quick wit hasn’t dulled.

Gemma steps forward, hands clasped in front of her like a schoolgirl called to the principal’s office. She’s got no reason to be nervous. The old man’s already head over heels with her. I can tell by the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he talks with her.

“So Gemma, what is it you do?” Dad asks.

She relaxes a bit at the innocuous question. “I, um, I’m designing fashion. I’ve been working on my own line.”

“A creative talent! We could use more of that around here,” Dad says. “We must get you connected with our textiles division. I’m sure they’d be thrilled to work with someone as lovely as yourself.”

Gemma flushes at the compliment and my heart swells. Having her here, chatting with my father, it feels... right somehow. Like she belongs here with us. With me.

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