Chapter 1:
(Sophie’s POV)
I was eleven when Lewis found me, though sometimes it feels like I’ve known him all my life. The night he appeared, the world had already given up on me. The streets were wet with rain, my clothes clinging to my skin, and hunger gnawed so deeply that I thought I might simply disappear if I closed my eyes. I remember the way the lamplight flickered against the broken pavement, the way the air carried the scent of smoke and iron. I remember curling into myself, too tired to cry, too cold to care if I ever woke again.
And then I heard his footsteps.
Slow at first, measured, almost hesitant, but strong. Not the quick, dismissive pace of strangers who wanted nothing to do with a girl like me. These steps stopped directly in front of where I sat. I didn’t lift my head at once. I’d already learned that people who stopped only did so to scold me, to tell me to move, to remind me I was nothing but trouble cluttering their path.
But his voice… it was different.
“You shouldn’t be here.”
Steady. Deep for his age, even then. I lifted my head, expecting cruelty, but instead I met eyes that didn’t look at me like I was dirt. Dark eyes, filled with something sharp, determined, and far too old for a boy of fifteen.
He didn’t ask who I was. He didn’t ask what I was doing there. He didn’t even ask if I wanted help. He simply extended his hand, palm open, waiting for me to take it.
And I did.
That was the night Lewis Milford pulled me out of the shadows. I didn’t know it then, but it was the beginning of everything.
Now, eleven years later, I sit wrapped in velvet cushions inside his estate, watching the fire dance across polished wood floors. The room is warm, golden with wealth and comfort, but I can still feel the ghost of that night in my bones. The girl who had nothing still lingers inside me, whispering that all of this—the chandelier above, the marble columns, the shelves lined with books older than I am—doesn’t belong to me. That I don’t belong here.
But Lewis insisted. He always did.
The world doesn’t see the boy who found me. They see General Milford. They see the man who rose to the highest rank a soldier can hold, the man who commands entire battalions with nothing more than his voice. They see medals shining on his chest, his name etched into history, his fortune vast enough to swallow small kingdoms whole. Men stand straighter in his presence. Women whisper about him in corners, their eyes filled with longing.
But to me… he is still Lewis.
The boy who carried me when my legs could no longer walk. The boy who spent long nights working until his hands blistered so that I could eat. The boy who once told me, in a voice softer than the night sky, that stars were nothing more than paper wishes pinned to heaven.
And maybe that’s why it hurts.
Because the boy is gone now, and in his place stands a man. A man with broad shoulders and veined arms that flex when he pulls off his gloves after a long day. A man whose presence fills a room before he even speaks. A man who shouldn’t make my heart trip the way it does, shouldn’t make my pulse race when his gaze lingers on me a second too long.
I shouldn’t feel this way.
I know that better than anyone. He raised me, protected me, gave me a life when I had none. He was my savior, my anchor. My everything. And still, when I lie awake at night, it isn’t gratitude that burns inside me. It’s something darker, deeper—something I can’t name without feeling shame coil tight in my chest.
I don’t want to want him. I don’t want my skin to heat when I hear his footsteps echo through the hallways, or my breath to catch when his voice rumbles low and steady, commanding yet gentle when it’s directed at me. I don’t want to imagine what it might feel like if, just once, his hand lingered against my cheek instead of resting briefly on my shoulder.
But wanting is a treacherous thing. And my heart has never listened to reason.
The grandfather clock in the corner chimes softly, pulling me back to the present. Lewis isn’t home yet. He’s been gone for days, summoned to some distant base I’m never allowed to ask about. When he leaves, the estate feels too large, too empty, like a hollow chest echoing with his absence. I tell myself it’s worry that makes me restless, but deep down I know it’s more.
I miss him.
Not just his presence. Him.
The way he moves with unshakable discipline, every step purposeful, precise. The way his uniform clings to him, crisp and perfect, yet somehow unable to hide the raw strength beneath. The way his eyes soften for me, and only me, even when the rest of the world sees only iron and steel.
I press my palms against my knees, trying to steady myself. It’s foolish to think this way. Dangerous, even. If he knew—if he ever suspected the things I think about when he isn’t here—I don’t know what would happen.
And yet, the thought of him knowing sends a shiver down my spine.
The fire crackled softly, and I let my eyes linger on it, watching sparks leap and vanish into the air. Nights like this always made me restless. When Lewis was away, the silence pressed down too heavily, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for him to return.
He never said much about where he went. Military briefings, private meetings, inspections—it could be anything. All I knew was that whenever he left, the house lost its rhythm. The staff still moved through the halls, meals were still served on time, the grounds remained perfectly kept, but none of it mattered. Without him, everything was muted, colorless.
I rose from the sofa, smoothing the fabric of my skirt, and crossed to the tall windows that overlooked the gardens. Beyond the glass stretched acres of land, the moonlight draping itself across trimmed hedges and marble fountains. Beautiful, yes, but still not enough to quiet the ache in my chest.
How strange it was, to miss someone so fiercely when they were never really yours to begin with.
A faint sound stirred in the distance—hooves against gravel, the clatter of wheels. My heart leapt before I could stop it. I pressed my hand to the glass, leaning forward as lights approached the gates. The carriage rolled through, flanked by mounted guards, the insignia on their uniforms glinting faintly. My pulse quickened, a mix of relief and anticipation knotting in my stomach.
He was home.
I stepped back quickly, trying to compose myself. My palms were damp, my throat dry, as though I’d been caught in some forbidden act. By the time the front doors opened and boots echoed in the entryway, I had forced my breathing to steady, but my heart refused to obey.
And then he walked in.
Lewis filled the space effortlessly, as if the house itself bent to acknowledge his return. His uniform was immaculate despite the journey, his dark hair slightly mussed from the night air, his expression calm but edged with exhaustion. His eyes swept the room, and when they landed on me, something in his face softened—just barely, but enough for me to see it. Enough to make my knees weaken.
“You’re still awake,” he said, his voice low, steady, carrying that quiet authority that made men snap to attention. But when it was directed at me, it felt different. Warmer.
I swallowed, forcing a smile. “I couldn’t sleep.”
He nodded, setting aside his gloves with precise movements. The veins in his forearms shifted as he unbuttoned his jacket, and I had to turn away quickly, afraid that my gaze would linger too long.
“Long day?” I asked, my voice softer than I intended.
“Long enough.” He exhaled, the sound heavy, weary. Yet when he looked at me again, his eyes were steady, unwavering. “But it’s better now.”
The words burned in my chest. He probably meant nothing by them—a simple kindness, a reassurance. But my heart seized on them, twisted them into something dangerous, something I shouldn’t want.
I busied myself by pouring him a glass of water, anything to keep my hands from trembling. When I turned back, he was watching me. Not with the sharpness he showed others, not with the cold authority of a general. His gaze was gentler, deeper, as if he were searching for something in me I didn’t know how to give.
I set the glass down in front of him, careful not to let my fingers brush his. Even that small contact would undo me.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and his voice dropped lower, rougher, as though exhaustion had stripped away the layers of formality.
My chest tightened. I wanted to say so much—to tell him I worried every time he left, that the silence of this house without him was unbearable, that I hated myself for needing him in ways I shouldn’t. But the words lodged in my throat, trapped by fear and shame.
Instead, I smiled again, small and fragile. “You should rest.”
He studied me for a moment longer, and then, with the faintest curve of his mouth, he nodded.
“Goodnight, Sophie.”
The way he said my name—low, deliberate—wrapped around me like a secret. I clung to it even after he disappeared down the hall, his footsteps fading into silence.
When I was certain he was gone, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. My hands trembled as I pressed them against my chest, as though to quiet the wild beating of my heart.
Goodnight, Sophie.
Simple words. Ordinary. Yet they echoed inside me, louder than the tick of the clock, louder than the whisper of the fire.
I knew I wouldn’t sleep tonight. Not with his voice lingering in my ears, not with the memory of his eyes softening when they found mine.
Not with this forbidden wish swelling in my chest—that one day, the man who saved me might also love me.
