Nobody thanked the wife who cooked Thanksgiving until her husband saw what the oven had done to her arms

Within twenty-four hours, the internet exploded.

The headline on Chicago Confidential screamed across thousands of screens: TYCOON’S SECRET BRIDE: BURNED ARMS, BOUGHT DEBTS, AND THE TRUTH BEHIND GRANT HOLLOWAY’S MARRIAGE.

By Friday morning, paparazzi were camped outside Holloway Tower in downtown Chicago and lining the private gates of the Lake Forest estate. Every detail of Lydia’s past—her father’s bankruptcy, her shifts at the twenty-four-hour diner, the exact sum of the debts Grant had acquired, and the dramatic confrontation in the boardroom—was splashed across social media feeds and morning talk shows.

Celeste Holloway immediately issued a public statement through her publicist distancing herself from the marriage, claiming her son had been “manipulated by a calculated opportunist.”

Lydia sat at the kitchen island in the Lake Forest estate, scrolling through her phone as thousands of anonymous strangers debated her worth, her character, and her body.

“Golddigger.”

“She married him for the money.”

“Look at her, she doesn't belong in Lake Forest.”

“Grant can do twenty times better.”

Her thumb hovered over the screen, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on her chest. She had survived poverty. She had survived her father’s death. She had survived the physical agony of boiling oil burning her flesh. But this—the public dissection of her dignity—felt like death by a thousand paper cuts.

Footsteps echoed softly on the marble floor.

Grant walked into the kitchen. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms, and his tie was loosened. He held two mugs of black coffee, placing one gently in front of Lydia before pulling out the stool beside her.

“Put the phone down,” he said quietly.

“They’re saying everything, Grant,” she whispered, her eyes glued to the screen. “They’re saying you were trapped, that I set you up, that I’m nothing more than a parasite living off your empire.”

Grant reached out and gently took the phone from her hand, placing it face down on the marble counter.

“Let them talk,” he said.

“It affects your company! Sterling is using this exact media storm to call an emergency vote of no confidence for Monday morning. They’re going to try to oust you as CEO, Grant. Because of me.”

Grant didn't blink. He reached across the counter and took her bandaged hand in his, his grip warm, firm, and absolute.

“Let them try,” he repeated the words he had spoken in the boardroom, but this time, there was a fierce, protective tenderness in his voice. “Do you know why I bought your father’s debts, Lydia?”

She looked up, her brown eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Because you felt sorry for me?”

“Because the first time I saw you at that diner, working yourself to the bone while everyone else took advantage of your kindness, I realized something profound,” Grant said, his gaze locking onto hers with terrifying intensity. “I realized that for my entire life, I had been surrounded by people who loved me for what I owned, what I controlled, and what I could give them. You were the first person in my entire adult life who didn't give a damn about my money.”

Lydia’s breath caught. “Grant...”

“I didn't buy your debts to trap you,” he continued, his voice dropping into a low, hypnotic register. “I bought them because I wanted to give you a safe harbor. And somewhere along the way, without me even realizing it, you became the only real thing in my life.”

He stood up from his stool, walked around the counter, and dropped to one knee beside her chair.

Lydia’s heart stopped.

“Grant, what are you doing?”

“The contract was a mistake,” he said clearly, taking both of her hands in his, carefully avoiding her bandages. “It gave us an expiration date. It gave us an excuse to pretend this wasn't real. But I don’t want a year, Lydia. And I certainly don’t want an end.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black velvet box, opening it to reveal a magnificent, vintage diamond-and-sapphire ring that looked nothing like the cold, transactional bands they had exchanged at City Hall six months ago.

“Marry me,” he whispered, his eyes searching her face with raw, unguarded vulnerability. “Not because of a contract. Not because of your father’s debts. Marry me because you love me as much as I love you.”

For a long moment, the entire world outside the kitchen—the paparazzi, the tabloids, Thomas Sterling, Celeste’s fury—vanished entirely. There was only the quiet hum of the kitchen, the warmth of his hands, and the unmistakable truth beating in her own chest.