I arrived at the Willow Creek station with nothing but a contract and the hope that belonging could be bought with a name. Simon Knightley met me with a command in his eyes, his hand claiming the small of my back the instant the rival challenged what was his on paper.
That touch lingered like a secret we had no right to keep, turning our legal shield into a fire I wanted to step into despite the town's eyes. His silence carried the weight of his own ghosts, and my defiance cracked under the promise of protection I had sworn never to need.
The question hangs between us now: how far will I let his commands pull me before the marriage of convenience exposes the hunger I cannot name?
