Chapter 2: The Outsider’s Truth

His breath was warm against my cheek. The space between us shrank, thick with everything we never said. My heart hammered in my chest, but I stayed still, waiting for what would happen next.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, voice soft, always so careful with his words.

Not that he waited for my answer.

His lips found mine before I could even nod, gentle at first, then more insistent. His hands cradled my face, tracing my jaw. For a moment, it was just this—his touch, his breath, the way his body pressed into mine. I let my eyes fall closed and got lost in it, just for a second.

As we kissed, I could feel the sweat slowly gathering on his neck beneath my hand. Graham propped himself up, stretching his long arm to open the bedside table drawer. Then he frowned—

His fingers fumbled for a second, searching. The drawer thudded open, and I saw his brows knit together. It was such a small, everyday thing, but it made the distance between us feel even bigger, somehow.

"How come there’s none left?"

He sounded genuinely confused, like he’d just found out we were out of milk. I almost laughed, but the tension in the room kept me quiet.

"Sorry... I just forgot," I said, my voice slow and apologetic.

The words felt clumsy, but they were true. I’d skipped that aisle on purpose, hoping maybe it would buy me some space. Seeing his confusion now, I felt a little guilty.

He looked down at me for a moment, then lay down beside me, sounding almost considerate: "It’s fine. I’ll pick up a box after work tomorrow."

He made it sound like he was offering to grab bread or milk—not something that marked the limits of our intimacy. I stared up at the ceiling, feeling the silence stretch between us. Was that all it was?

A box...

If I’d known, I wouldn’t have hidden them.

Bracing myself, I said, "Then I’ll trouble you."

I tried to sound casual, but there was a sharp edge to my voice. Part of me wanted to laugh at how absurd it all was. Part of me wanted to cry. I rolled away, pulling the covers up tight.

"You’re welcome."

He tossed it out there, easy as anything, like we were just neighbors doing each other favors. The words floated between us, unresolved, as we both retreated into our own thoughts.

When I got up the next morning, the other side of the bed was empty. I lay there, scrolling through my phone, and before I knew it, it was noon.

The sunlight spilled across the sheets, warm and indifferent. I kept scrolling, letting the hours slip by. The house felt emptier than usual, all the echoes of last night fading with every minute.

The man I’d shared a bed with last night was in the news again. Graham Whitaker, CEO of Whitaker Holdings, had been spotted at Savannah Lin’s first performance since coming back to the US.

His name was everywhere—business blogs, entertainment shows, even the local news. I watched a clip of him in the front row, stone-faced, while Savannah danced across the stage. The camera lingered on him, everyone desperate to read meaning into every flicker of his expression.

This time, the internet sleuths didn’t just figure out Graham owned the car from last night—they zoomed in and pointed out that the two must have spent the night together. Even though Graham wore a high-collared black shirt, it couldn’t hide the hickey on his neck. And Savannah’s lips were a little bruised, too.

Speculation exploded. People analyzed every photo, every detail. The high collar, the smudged lipstick, the way they looked at each other—it was all fuel for the fire. The comments section was a war zone, strangers arguing over who loved whom, who belonged with whom. Did anyone actually know?

You could practically feel the heat between them.

Even I couldn’t help but imagine it—urgency, passion, a connection that never really went away. The idea of them together felt both inevitable and crushing. I scrolled past the photos quickly, my chest tight.

The rumor mill went into overdrive. Anonymous sources, old classmates, family friends—everyone had an opinion. The story of Graham giving up his inheritance for Savannah was everywhere, spun as some epic romantic gesture.