Chapter 1
Declan Hawthorne—heir to the Hawthorne empire–had been paralyzed for three years. When he finally recovered, his closest friends threw him a celebration at their private club.
Marissa Wynn stood just outside the door, a carefully wrapped gift in her hands. She was about to step inside when she heard voices drifting through the door.
“Declan, seriously, you owe Marissa everything. If it weren’t for her, you’d never have made it this
far.”
“Yeah, man. She stuck with you every day–giving you massages, helping with your rehab. She barely slept, afraid you’d have another breakdown in the middle of the night. That kind of loyalty?
You don’t forget that.”
“She’s… a good person,” Declan replied, his voice low and warm.
Marissa’s fingertips trembled. A soft glow of hope began to rise in her chest.
And then-
“So when are you marrying her?”
The room fell eerily silent.
Marissa froze, hand still hovering in the air. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She held her
breath like she was waiting for a verdict.
After a long pause, Declan’s voice returned–calm, cool, distant.
“I’ve always seen her as a sister.”
A beat.
“A sister?!” one of the guys exclaimed. “She’s been by your side for three freaking years and you see her as a sister? Declan, are you still hung up on Celeste? She ditched you the second things went south. Now she shows up just because you’re back on your feet? Come on, man. You can’t be
serious.”
Declan said nothing.
Outside the door, it felt like someone had driven a fist straight through Marissa’s chest.
Silence had always been the clearest answer.
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She’d thought–naively–that three years of devotion, three years of late nights, setbacks, and pain, might be enough to reach his heart. But he’d been holding onto someone else all along.
Three years ago, Declan had been the golden boy. Top of his class at Westbridge University, heir to a multi–billion–dollar empire, a man of grace, talent, and polish. He could ski, ride, fence–he was
the type of man people called “once in a generation.”
And Marissa? She was nothing more than a scholarship student the Hawthornes had sponsored out of charity.
The first time she saw him was at an awards ceremony.
He stood tall on stage, cold–eyed and poised, like some untouchable marble statue. She had sat all
the way in the back, clutching her scholarship envelope, too timid to even clap properly.
Back then, Celeste Whitmore stood beside him–stunning, poised, from a family that matched his in wealth and influence. Everyone said they looked like a storybook couple.
Then came the accident.
Declan’s spine was damaged. The doctors said he might never walk again.
Celeste didn’t even visit. She sent a breakup text and vanished.
Overnight, the once–idolized golden boy fell from grace.
He spiraled rage, depression, even suicidal thoughts. His parents were helpless, devastated.
And that was when Marissa stepped in.
She knelt in front of his wheelchair and whispered, “Declan… things will get better. I’ll stay with
you.”
For the next three years, she kept her word.
She studied physical therapy techniques, slept only two hours a night, afraid he’d harm himself in the dark. When he smashed a chair over his own legs in a breakdown, she threw herself in front of him, taking the blow herself.
Every step of the way, she was there. Quiet. Steady. Unmoving.
She became the only person who could calm him. The only one he could fall asleep around.
Everyone thought that once he recovered, he would marry her.
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Marissa thought so too.
But not anymore.
Now he was healthy. Celeste was back. And the “sister” who had stood by him through it all… it was time for her to leave the stage.
Marissa took a breath and pushed open the door.
The laughter and chatter inside died instantly. All eyes turned toward her–some guilty, some
uncomfortable.
“Marissa? When did you get here?” one of them asked, trying to sound casual.
“Just now.” She smiled, as if she hadn’t heard a thing. Walking forward, she handed the gift to Declan. “Congratulations on your recovery.”
Declan reached out to take it–but before he could, the door opened again.
Celeste stood at the threshold, eyes red–rimmed. “Declan… I heard you were doing better… Just wanted to say congrats.”
The room stiffened.
“You’ve got some nerve showing up,” one of Declan’s friends muttered. “Back then, you
disappeared the moment things got hard. And now you’re back like nothing happened?”
Celeste flushed, embarrassed. She shoved the gift into Declan’s hands and turned to leave.
But Declan caught her wrist.
“Since you’re coming. Just stay.”
The room fell into stunned silence.
Everyone looked at Marissa.
She stood still, her smile unchanged–but her nails had already dug deep into her palm.
Three years. Three years of loyalty, pain, and quiet sacrifice–and all of it was still no match for one
tear from Celeste.
The rest of the night was suffocating.
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Declan’s friends, clearly upset, went out of their way to ignore Celeste and joke about Marissa and
Declan instead.
“Marissa, didn’t you give Declan massages every day during rehab?”
“Oh yeah. She’s basically a pro now. Declan wouldn’t even let anyone else touch him!”
Marissa lowered her gaze, pretending not to notice Celeste glaring daggers at her across the room.
Declan said nothing, but it was obvious–his attention never strayed from Celeste.
Later, someone suggested a game. Celeste lost first. Her punishment? Ask a guy for his number.
She glanced instinctively at Declan, eyes pleading.
But Declan just stared at his phone like he didn’t hear her.
Biting her lip, Celeste stood. “Fine. I’ll do it.”
Marissa watched her walk toward a nearby booth–and saw her quickly surrounded by several
drunken men.
One of them grabbed her wrist. “Hey, gorgeous. I’ll give you my number–if you let me cop a feel.”
“Let go of me!” Celeste screamed.
Declan looked up–and launched himself across the room.
He slammed his fist into the guy’s face. “Touch her again—and see what happens.”
Chaos erupted.
“Declan, stop! That’s enough!” his friends tried to pull him off.
Worried about his still–fragile health, Marissa rushed forward. “Declan, don’t-”
He shoved her aside.
“Get out of my way.”
She stumbled.
Then slipped.
Then fell.
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She tumbled down the stairs, her head slamming against the ground with a sickening crack. Everything went dark. Warm blood trickled down her forehead, painting her vision red.
She tried to sit up, pain blinding–but all she saw was Declan carrying Celeste out of the room.
He didn’t even look back.
It felt like something inside her chest tore open, raw and bleeding.
And she remembered-
Back then, when he’d tried to destroy his legs in a fit of despair, she’d tried to stop him–and ended up with three fractured ribs.
“What the hell’s wrong with you? My legs are already useless!” he’d shouted through tears. “Why do you even care?!”
She had collapsed from the pain, cold sweat soaking her shirt, but still she clung to him.
“Because your legs matter,” she whispered. “Because one day, you will walk again.”
That day, for the first time, Declan Hawthorne–prideful, broken Declan–had pulled her into his
arms and begged, “Don’t leave me, Marissa.”
Everyone called it a miracle when he finally stood again.
But they didn’t know.
There was no miracle. Only her. Fighting tooth and nail to drag him out of the dark.
And now…
He was free. And he didn’t need her anymore.
Her phone rang, sharp and cruel.
The screen read: “Mrs. Hawthorne.”
She knew exactly what this call was.
Sure enough, the voice on the other end was polished, distant.
“Marissa, dear, n
