Yet even as fury clawed at my chest, something weaker—lonelier—rose beneath it. The echo of the love I thought we shared.
Without thinking, I reached up and touched his cheek. His breath caught.
Then I leaned forward, my lips brushing his, and murmured through tears,
“Tell me the truth… are you really Harold?”
Before he—before Nathaniel pretending to be Harold—could give me an answer, a furious shout tore through the room.
“Harold, what do you think you’re doing?!”
I stiffened. Delilah was standing at the doorway, her face pale, her chest rising and falling as if she had run all the way upstairs. Her eyes flicked from his face to mine, then locked on our barely separated lips.
Her expression twisted.
“You disgusting little snake!” she shrieked, rushing forward and shoving me with both hands. I stumbled backward, my spine slamming against the bedframe. “Did you just make a move on my husband?”
My throat closed. I couldn’t even form a sound.
Her finger stabbed toward my face. “So this is your plan? Your husband is dead, your son is gone, and now you’re trying to steal what belongs to me?”