Marrying The Wounded King: My Ex's Regret

The hallway narrowed around me, feeling less like a corridor and more like a tunnel closing in.

I walked out of the office, the ink on the contract barely dry. I had just signed my life away to a stranger in Seattle, yet for the first time in years, the air tasted clean.

Antone was right on my heels. He snatched my wrist.

"Let go," I warned. My voice was low, vibrating with danger.

"You can't go to him," Antone whispered urgently, panic lacing his tone. "Simmons is a machine. He doesn't feel anything. Stay here. Be my... be my assistant. We can figure this out."

I yanked my arm back, breaking his hold.

We spilled into the main foyer now. Chelsea was descending the stairs, looking immaculate in baby blue. Desmond stood framed in the doorway of the study.

"Assistant?" I laughed, and the sound tore from my throat, sharp and jagged. "Is that what you call a shield now? Someone to hide behind while you stare at her?"

I pointed an accusing finger at Chelsea.

Chelsea paused on the stairs, hand hovering over the railing. "Excuse me?"

"Tell them, Antone," I challenged him. "Tell your brother why you really want me to stay."

Antone's face drained of color.

"She's hysterical," he said quickly, pivoting to Desmond. "She's just upset about the marriage."

"I'm not upset," I said, addressing the entire room. My voice echoed off the cold marble floors. "I am relieved."

I swept my gaze to Desmond, then to his parents, who had just emerged from the office.

"My only sin," I said, tears finally stinging my eyes, "was loving any of you."

I looked at Desmond. "I loved you, and you treated me like a whore."

I shifted my gaze to Antone. "I trusted you, and you treated me like a tool."

Finally, I turned to the Don. "I respected you, and you sold me like cattle."

"That is enough!" The Don roared. "You will sign the NDA and you will leave."

"I already signed it," I shot back. "I signed it as Dallas Cole. Not a Morgan. I want nothing from you. No trust fund. No clothes. And certainly no name."

I turned to the door.

"Dallas," Desmond called out. There was a crack in his voice. A fissure in the stone.

I didn't turn back.

I reached the heavy front door and shoved it open. The sunlight hit me like a physical blow, blinding and harsh.

My knees buckled.

The adrenaline that had held me upright, that had acted as my spine, vanished. The betrayal, the fear, the absolute exhaustion crashed into me all at once.

I collapsed on the threshold.

The last thing I heard was Chelsea asking, "Is she dead?"

And then, Desmond screaming my name.