The year I turned twenty-two, Julian called us both into his study. The old man sat in his armchair, teacup in hand, his expression grave. When he looked at me, his eyes held something like guilt.
"Marina," he said slowly, "your grandfather saved my life. I've carried that debt every day since. You've had such a hard road—losing your parents so young, then your grandfather too. I couldn't bear to see you marry into some other family where they might mistreat you."
He paused, glancing at Max beside him. "You two grew up together. You love each other. You're both of age now." He set down his cup. "Why not get married? It would put my mind at ease—and honor your grandfather's memory."
I was overjoyed. I thought this was the culmination of our love story.
I had no idea that from the moment those words left Julian's mouth, everything would change.
Max's warmth vanished overnight. The tenderness, the devotion, the lingering looks—gone, as if they'd never existed.