My mother nodded vigorously. "Exactly. A man like Adrian—with your health condition—where will you find another? You *need* him."
So.
He had gotten to them first.
To the world, Adrian Farley was a saint. A martyr who married a sick woman. I was the lucky one.
I was the *burden*.
My parents didn't give me a choice. They packed me and my luggage into their car and drove straight back to the villa.
Adrian opened the door wearing an apron, looking for all the world like the perfect domestic husband. He took the suitcase from my hand as if nothing had happened.
"Mom, Dad, please. Come in. Sit."
My mother nudged me forward. "Adrian, you're not at work?"
The house was spotless. The aroma of slow-cooked soup drifted from the kitchen.
"I knew you might come by, Mom, so I took the day off." Adrian's smile was gentle, his eyes warm. "Fiona, get slippers for your parents."
The switch was seamless.
Terrifying.
"Mm," I mumbled.
At the dinner table, my parents sang his praises.
"Fiona has a bad temper." My father accepted a bowl of soup from Adrian. "Bear with her, son."