Part 1The Pretender Loved Me More

The moment my eyesight returned, the first person I rushed to find was my husband, Preston Maxwell. I needed to share the earth-shattering news.

But before I could even open the door to the private lounge, I stopped. I could hear Preston’s voice, loose and self-satisfied, mingling with the easy laughter of his friends.

“Preston, the wife has been blind for two years. You had your boy, Grant Miller, pretend to be you so you could be with your ‘soulmate.’ Aren’t you worried one day Miller’s going to stop pretending and make the lie real?”

“Worried?” Preston took a slow sip of something expensive, his laugh echoing—a sound so casual it was like a punch to the gut. “Miller’s control is legendary. I’ve seen women practically naked in front of him and he didn't even blink. He's not going to touch June.”

“Besides, my wife is basically frigid. As long as Grant doesn't actively pursue her, she’d never even consider anything like that.”

A chorus of chuckles and jeers followed. “I don’t know who I feel sorrier for—the wife or Miller. Two gorgeous people sleeping in the same bed and just… talking. What a waste of a perfect setup, ha!”

Their callous laughter rippled through the door.

I glanced toward the center of the room, though I didn’t need to see to know he was there—Grant Miller, nursing a drink, aloof and distant, the very definition of cool, restrained class.

A man that desirable, and I hadn't once considered him. What a shame.

* * *

In hindsight, the clues had been everywhere.

For the two years I was blind, “Preston” had been noticeably colder, less talkative, and carried an undeniable distance. My own insecurities, coupled with the darkness, had made me self-conscious and afraid to complain.

A soft click of the lock snapped my attention back to the present.

“June? I’m home.”

The voice behind me was Grant Miller’s, deliberately pitched low, mimicking my husband’s tone. Their voices were naturally similar, and with the added effort, it was no wonder I hadn't been able to tell the difference for two years.

I looked up, letting my newly clear eyes linger on the handsome, angular face of the man before me. Grant, the legendary, untouchable "Ice Man" of the City’s elite, who had always seemed above the mess of the Maxwells’ world.

Why had he agreed to this two-year farce?

The motive didn't matter anymore. If they wanted to play a game, I would play it to the end.

I dropped my gaze, pretending I was still in the dark. I moved forward, a hesitant, sightless figure, and wrapped my arms tightly around his waist.

“Honey, you’re finally home.”

I pressed myself against him, my hands instinctively running over the hard, carved lines of his abdomen. Two years of restraint had defined our relationship. Even when we shared a bed, he maintained a rigid distance. Now, I was crushing that boundary.

My unexpected closeness startled him. His body stiffened beneath my touch, his voice catching slightly. “June… what is it? Is something wrong?”

I squeezed out a few manufactured tears and tried to sound hurt. “Preston, since the accident, you haven't touched me. Have you… have you stopped finding me desirable?”

Grant paused, then lowered his voice, the comfort sounding forced. “No, don’t think that. You were injured in the crash, not just your eyes, but your body. I didn’t want to put any strain on you.”

“My body is fine now. I can handle it.”

I fumbled—or pretended to—with the buttons of his tailored dress shirt, my fingers brushing the solid expanse of his chest.

“It’s been two years, darling. You must be suffering, too.”

Grant’s throat worked, his voice a raw whisper. “…I’m fine.”

I leaned in, blowing a gentle, warm breath on his exposed collarbone. “Maybe we should…”

The sentence died as his phone rang.

“I need to take this.” Grant seemed grateful for the interruption, pulling away to take the call on the balcony.

I crept to the window and heard Preston’s lazy voice through the speaker. “Miller, I’m swapping days with you. My grandfather’s birthday is tomorrow.”

Grant hesitated. “Fine.”

“It’s been months since we switched places. Catch me up—what’s happened with June? Don't want any slip-ups when I get back.”

Then came the mocking voice of one of Preston’s friends again.

“Preston, chasing your soulmate and keeping the wife happy—who’s more important to you?”

Preston scoffed, his tone dripping with contempt. “June? She’s nothing compared to Geneva. June has been chasing me for years, a clingy shadow I could never shake. I had to fight to win Geneva over. If it weren't for the Old Man, I would have never married June in the first place.”

I stood frozen, the blood draining from my face. The self-mockery was a bitter taste in my mouth.

He was right. I had been chasing him for so long. Ten years. From sixteen to twenty-six.

And after finally getting what I thought I wanted—marriage—the man I was sharing my bed with was his best friend.

For two years, my life had been a massive, pathetic lie.