tightness around his mouth.

“Painfully, some days.

Slowly, most days.

But yes, I can walk.”

He took one step toward her, then stopped.

“My mother prefers the wheelchair.

It makes the story cleaner.”

Elena stared at him.

“What story?”

“The tragic heir.

The ruined son.

The reason no decent woman would stay unless she was paid.”

His voice cracked slightly on the last word.

Elena felt something cold move through her.

“Did you know about the villa?”

Liam looked at the floor.

“Yes.”

“And you agreed?”

His silence answered before his mouth did.

“I agreed because I wanted to know what kind of woman would take the bargain,” he said.

“And because part of me believed I deserved nothing better.”

Elena’s anger softened into something more painful.

Liam reached for the fastening at his trousers.

“You should know the truth now,” he said.

“Before you pretend bravery too long and regret it.”

Slowly, he lifted the fabric above his knees.

Elena’s breath caught.

His legs were covered in scars.

Not small scars.

Not neat ones.

Deep burn marks twisted over his skin in raised, uneven paths.

Some areas were glossy and pale; others were darkened, tight, and ridged.

The damage was old, but it still looked furious, as if the fire had left its memory burning beneath the surface.

Liam watched her face with brutal focus.

Elena took one step closer.

Then another.

Her eyes filled with tears.

Liam flinched.

“Please don’t cry out of pity.”

But Elena was not crying from pity.

Her gaze had stopped on one mark near his right shin, a crescent-shaped scar beneath a larger patch of burned skin.

She knew that shape.

Her knees almost gave way.

Fifteen years earlier, Elena had been twelve years old, trapped in the upstairs bedroom of an old rental house while smoke crawled under the door.

Her father had already died by then.

Her mother was working a night shift.

Noah was sleeping downstairs with a neighbor.

A space heater had sparked near the curtains.

By the time Elena woke, the hallway was black.

She remembered screaming until her throat hurt.

She remembered the heat on the doorknob.

She remembered thinking she was going to die in that room, alone.

Then the window shattered.

A boy climbed in through smoke and broken glass.

He was older than her, maybe fifteen or sixteen, his face covered with soot.

He wrapped her in a wet blanket and told her not to look down.

When the floor near the door collapsed, he pushed her onto a tree branch outside the window and shielded her with his own body as flames burst behind them.

She remembered falling into the arms of firefighters.

She remembered the boy screaming once.

She remembered seeing his right leg through the torn fabric of his pants, already burned, with a crescent-shaped cut from the broken window glass.

At the hospital, nobody told her his name.

Her mother tried to find him, but the records were sealed, and the family had disappeared from the news within days.

For years, Elena had carried the memory like a secret prayer.

The boy who saved me lived.

The boy who saved me mattered.

Now he was standing in front of her.

“Liam,” she whispered.

His eyes narrowed.

“What?”

“You were there.”