Chapter 8
He raised his glass, hope flickering in his eyes as he looked at me. Before I could respond, Fleming reached over and intercepted the drink for me.£
“Ileana doesn’t really like alcohol. I’ll take her share,” Fleming said smoothly.
He lifted the glass and downed it in one go, the motion making the muscles i
his throat shift elegantly.
Grant’s face went even paler at Fleming’s possessive words. Suddenly, a memory flashed in his mind–countless times in the past when 1 had shielded him from drinks at dinners just like this. Regret swept over him, sudden and overwhelming.
His eyes reddened at the comers. With a bitter smile, Grant took two steps back and turned away, disappearing into the crowd.} After the banquet ended, Fleming tilted his head, looking at me with a teasing grin.
“Is my fiancée really not taking me home tonight?”
My cheeks flamed, and I stammered, “What?“}
He stared at me for a long moment, then his voice dipped a little, tinged with disappointment. “You don’t want to take me home, do you? I know I’m just cripple–of course you’d mind…“}
The way he said it was so at odds with everything I’d heard about him, but still, I found myself instinctively trying to comfort him.
That’s not it. I don’t mind at all. I just forgot to sort out your accommodation. You came all the way from the capital; I should have made sure you were settled in.”
Fleming’s assistant rolled his eyes and turned away, clearly unwilling to watch his boss play this game.
Fleming looked at me with those puppy–dog eyes and tugged at my sleeve. “You really don’t mind that I’m–well, that I can’t walk?”
My gaze dropped involuntarily to his legs, and I nodded, but then my eyes started to travel upward, almost against my will.
He’s… really tall…
“What are you staring at?” he asked, an eyebrow quirking.
My face went hot. I quickly looked away. “Nothing. I was just…“)
“Honestly, I don’t care about any of that. If we have to do IVF in the future, that’s fine by me.“}
Fleming squeezed my hand lightly. “But why would we need IVF?”
I faltered, cheeks burning, unable to explain.
He let out a quiet sigh. “Having kids should be something you do yourself, you know.“}
My eyes flew wide. I stared at him in disbelief.”
Wait, does he mean… he can?
Fleming gripped the armrests of his wheelchair and, slowly, began to rise. He stood up fully, towering over me by at least a head and a half–he had to be at least six–foot–three.
He gently pulled me into his arms. “I just hurt my legs in an accident. They’re almost healed by now. I use the wheelchair more out of laziness than necessity. The rest is just rumor.“}
I felt my face flush with embarrassment.
But I understood–claiming to be disabled was a convenient way to make people drop their guard.§
The thought sent a chill down my spine.
If Fleming ever set his sights on the Sinclairs, wouldn’t I be walking straight into the lion’s den?
The suspicion made cold sweat prickle at my neck.
Fleming, oblivious, asked, ‘Are you cold? Let’s head back if you are.“}
I nodded mutely, my thoughts a tangled mess.
A faint, secretive smile played on Fleming’s lips as he slipped a string of crystal beads onto my wrist.
The moment I saw the bracelet, a memory jolted through me. “Wait–were you the one who saved me back then?!”
When I was seventeen, my father’s enemies kidnapped me. There was another boy with me; he kept me safe, hiding me inside an old paint drum.
Later, it was Grant who found me, just by chance. He opened the drum’s lid–my father, the police, and others were all there, but all I saw in that moment was him.
From then on, gratitude slowly blurred into something more like affection.
But thinking back now, it wasn’t Grant who saved me.
He’d only opened the lid; the real savior was the boy who kept me hidden.
Fleming clicked his tongue, not bothering to hide his annoyance. “Yeah. You said you’d never forget me, but a month later your whole family moved away from the city–and you didn’t even leave me your phone number.”
