The year I turned eight, my parents were killed in a car crash, and seventeen-year-old Channing took me in and raised me with everything he had for ten full years. But from the moment I confessed my feelings to him at eighteen, the look in his eyes held nothing but undisguised disgust. To make me give up once and for all, he brought home his socialite bride, Brenda, and handed her my unpublished paintings. Overnight, I became a shameless plagiarist, condemned by the entire internet. When I called him through tears, demanding to know why he had stolen my artwork, his voice was ice-cold. "Brenda needs a weighty centerpiece for her show. She's my wife — you owe her your help." At last I understood completely: to preserve his own name and standing, he was willing to destroy my future. On the morning of his wedding, I left a five-million-dollar check on the table and boarded a flight to London. Channing — from this day on, we owe each other nothing. Chapter 1 Amelia's POV On the morning Channing announced his wedding date to the media, I booked a one-way ticket to London. Ten years of raising me, four years of my desperate confessions — and in the end, what I got was him personally handing my private sketch collection to his fiancée, so she could win the "Artist of the Year" award on the fruits of my labor. Aunt Caroline's voice came through the receiver, clear even across the Atlantic: "The guest room is ready for you, Amelia." "I signed the lease termination for my studio today," I said, looking around my studio at the estate, half of it already in boxes. "The visa came through this morning, too." "Good," Caroline said softly. "It's time you came back to your real family. But before you board, you should set things straight with Channing. He did take good care of you after your parents died." "I know," I said. "I'm leaving him five million dollars. Every cent he's spent on me over the years, I'm paying back in full." Hanging up, I walked over to the mantelpiece. In the corner sat a picture frame, coated with a thin layer of dust. In the photo, a little girl of eight sat on a wooden swing, head tipped back, laughing without a care in the world. Behind her stood an eighteen-year-old boy in a crisp white shirt, steadying the swing ropes, looking down at her with undisguised doting and protectiveness. That summer, my parents were killed instantly in a head-on collision on Interstate 95. My father had been Channing's mentor in business — he had funded his first venture and treated him like a younger brother. The crash left me an orphan. My relatives fought viciously over the enormous life-insurance payout, but not one of them was willing to take in an eight-year-old child suffering severe psychological trauma. Channing appeared at the custody hearing in a black suit and resolutely signed the guardianship papers, taking me back to his estate. For ten years, he gave me everything he had. He never missed a single parent-teacher conference. He learned to braid my hair from online tutorials. Whenever I ran a fever, he would abandon a board meeting halfway through and fly halfway across the country to be at my side. He gave me the largest bedroom on the second floor, filled the walk-in closet with dresses made to my measurements, and even built me a professional art studio overlooking the garden. And I watched him transform, step by step, into the most powerful business magnate in the city. At some point between my sixteenth and eighteenth birthdays, my gratitude curdled into something else — a wild, blazing love that nearly consumed me. On the night of my eighteenth birthday, Channing threw me a grand coming-of-age dinner. He drank too much champagne with his business partners and finally lay down alone on the sofa in his private study. I walked in, knelt beside him, and kissed his lips. The moment he opened his eyes, I met his deep, dark gaze and told him how I felt. His response was swift and merciless. He shoved me away and sprang to his feet, his eyes full of undisguised disgust. "You are my late mentor's daughter," he said, his voice cold enough to freeze the air. "I raised you with my own hands. This isn't love — it's a sick, repulsive misplacement of feeling." "There's no blood between us!" I wept openly in front of him, arguing back through tears. "You're only ten years older than me. Channing, I truly love you." "Don't ever let me hear those words again," he cut me off coldly. "You're just a child. Take one more step over the line and I'll send you to a boarding school on the other side of the country." But I couldn't control my love. On Valentine's Day when I was nineteen, I gave him a portrait I had painted myself as a confession. He tossed it straight into the fireplace and let it burn to ash. At twenty, when I won my first regional art competition and begged him for a chance, he slammed the door and stayed away for three nights straight. Six months ago, he brought Brenda Rodriguez home. Brenda came from an old, distinguished family — a socialite of some renown in the scene, and an up-and-coming painter brimming with artistic ambition. Channing introduced her as his girlfriend, held her hand in front of me, kissed her cheek at the dinner table. "It's about time Amelia saw what a normal adult relationship looks like," Channing said to the housekeeper that night, knowing full well I was standing around the corner. "She needs to wake up from her childish fantasies." That very night, something inside me finally broke. I took out my phone, opened my messaging app, and sent a text to my aunt across the ocean in London: "Aunt Caroline, can I come live with you?" Now, looking down at the dust-covered swing photo in my hands, I felt not the slightest stir of emotion — only a hollow, deathly stillness. I laid the frame face-down on the table, picked up my coat, and walked straight down the grand staircase.

Amelia's POV The old grandfather clock in the entrance hall was just striking midnight when the lock clicked open. Channing walked into the foyer, tugging loose his dark silk tie with one hand. Seeing me sitting alone on the living room sofa in the dim lamplight, he stopped. His brow furrowed slightly with irritation. "Why aren't you asleep?" He glanced at the luxury watch on his wrist. "It's past midnight." "I wanted to wait and see if you needed dinner," I said evenly, my voice flat. "I made beef stew." "Brenda and I ate at the club," he said, hanging his coat on the rack. "I told you weeks ago, Amelia — you don't need to wait up for me. You're twenty-one now, not a child waiting for a parent to come home." He turned toward the stairs, and a moment later the study door clicked shut, the sound echoing through the silent house. Years ago, no matter how late his board meetings ran, he would call home just to make sure I'd eaten. If he was delayed, he would pick up pastries from my favorite bakery downtown and sit at the kitchen island watching me finish them. But all of that had ended the day I turned eighteen and stepped over his moral line. After that night, he withdrew every ounce of tenderness he had ever given me, replacing warmth with cold, rigid formality. I went into the kitchen, sealed the pot of stone-cold stew with foil, and put it in the refrigerator. Standing at the sink, I forced down two mouthfuls of cold rice, swallowed the dryness in my throat, and went upstairs. I knocked on his study door. "Come in." Channing sat behind his mahogany desk, scrolling through financial statements on his laptop. He looked up, guarded, his whole body going taut. "What is it, Amelia? If you're here about feelings again—" "I want to move out of the master guest room," I interrupted calmly. Channing froze, fingers hovering above the keyboard. "What?" "The big guest room at the front is too large for me," I said, looking him straight in the eye. "Brenda comes over often now, and that room gets the best light and has its own private terrace. I'll take the little storage room at the end of the hall." Channing stared at me for several seconds, searching my face for irony or some calculated ploy. My face showed nothing. "If you insist," he said, returning his eyes to the screen. "Brenda did mention the suite gets good light — it would make a fine dressing room when she stays over. Move your things out tomorrow." "All right," I said. I stepped back, closed the door, and walked into the master guest room. Ten years ago, Channing had painted these walls a gentle cream with his own hands, because after the accident, the dim hospital walls gave me nightmares. He had promised me that as long as I lived under this roof, I would always have the room with the best light. Now I was nothing but an unwanted guest who had overstayed her welcome. The next morning, I packed my clothes into two suitcases and dragged them down the long corridor to the little room at the very end. It held only a narrow single bed, a bare wooden table, and a small window facing the back alley. By noon, every trace of my existence had been erased from my old bedroom. I put my passport, my UK student visa approval letter, and the bank transfer receipts into my leather shoulder bag and headed downstairs. Channing was on the living room sofa, leafing through a paper document. I passed by him and nodded, polite and distant. "Good afternoon, Mr. Gray." Channing went rigid. He set down the document and looked up at me. His eyes narrowed, visibly stung by the unbearably formal address. "Where are you going in this cold?" He glanced out the window at the heavy snow falling on the lawn. "The roads are iced over. If you need art supplies, I'll have the driver take you." "Errands downtown," I said, sliding my hands into my coat pockets. "I'll take a cab." "Amelia, stop sulking," he said, rising with a frown. "What is this 'Mr. Gray' supposed to mean?" Before I could answer, the front door swung open. Brenda swept in wearing a white fur coat, stray snowflakes caught in her long black hair. Beaming, she glided right past me, looped her arms around Channing's neck, and kissed his jaw. "Darling, the jeweler called," Brenda said, her voice syrupy and bright. "The diamond necklace from the auction is ready for pickup." Channing's tense frame relaxed slightly, and he slid an arm around her waist. "Then let's go get the necklace," he murmured to her. I stepped aside, pulled open the door, and walked out into the swirling snow without looking back.

Amelia's POV "Amelia, get in the car." Channing's voice came from the driveway behind me. His black SUV crunched to a slow stop beside me on the lightly snow-covered gravel. Brenda rolled down the passenger window, smiling graciously. "It's freezing out there, Amelia," she said. "We're headed downtown anyway — we'll drop you wherever you like." The biting wind cut through my coat. I hesitated a moment, then opened the rear door. "Where are you off to?" Brenda turned to look at me through the gap between the leather seats. "You've hardly been out these past few days." "The government district," I said vaguely. "To file some paperwork." "Oh — something for school?" Brenda asked. "Something like that." Channing kept one hand on the wheel, the other resting idly on the center console. Brenda reached over and laced her fingers through his, chattering about the guest list for their upcoming charity ball. At a red light, Brenda took a tube of designer lip balm from her bag. "Darling, the heater in this car is chapping my lips," she pouted, leaning toward him. Channing took the balm from her hand, twisted off the cap, and with his thumb, gently smoothed it over her lower lip. His movements were meticulous, tender, patient. I turned my head toward the tinted window, watching gray snowflakes land on the glass and melt. Two miles from the government building, Brenda suddenly gasped and grabbed Channing's forearm. "Oh no! Channing — I left my designer handbag at that café near your estate!" Channing frowned slightly and glanced at the dashboard clock. "We have to go back for it," Brenda insisted, tugging his arm. "My passport and credit cards are inside." Channing flicked on the turn signal and pulled over to the icy shoulder. He shifted into park, raised his eyes to the rearview mirror, and met my gaze. "Amelia, get out here and take the bus," he said evenly. "The government district is a mile up this road. Brenda needs to retrieve her bag before the café closes." The shoulder was a mess of filthy slush; not a single bus stop was visible for blocks. "Fine," I said. I pushed open the door and my foot sank into ankle-deep snow. I pulled my coat tighter. Channing didn't even wait for me to reach the sidewalk. He slammed the accelerator; the tires skidded on the ice, spraying cold slush across my trouser legs. The SUV swung around and roared back down the road it had come. I wiped the cold water from my face and walked forward step by step into the blizzard. It took me forty-five minutes to reach the visa office. I handed the officer my neatly organized application form, biometric receipt, and flight reservation. As I walked out of the building clutching my stamped departure slip, an old man in a heavy wool coat called my name. "Amelia? Amelia Justice?" I turned and recognized Professor Harrison, an old colleague of my late father from his university days. "Hello, Professor Harrison." I managed a polite smile. "I haven't seen you since the spring exhibition," the old man said, eyeing the papers in my hands. "What brings you to the immigration office?" "I'm moving to London next month," I told him honestly. "To live with my aunt." Professor Harrison adjusted his glasses, surprised. "Does Channing know about this?" "He knows I'm planning for my future." I lied without so much as a flicker. Professor Harrison sighed and shook his head with an affectionate smile. "That boy truly gave you his whole heart back then, Amelia. I remember when you were ten — you came down with pneumonia just as he was heading into a massive merger negotiation. He walked away from the closing of his first real acquisition to sit at your hospital bedside, holding your hand until your fever broke. You must remember his goodness, and repay him well." "I will," I said quietly, an icy numbness spreading through my chest. "I'll pay him back every last cent." If my guardian considered my love a burden, then the finest repayment was to vanish from his life entirely. Back home, I went straight into the small back bedroom and opened my laptop. I pulled up the ledger of every expense Channing had covered for me over thirteen years: every private-school tuition, every lavish allowance, every medical bill, every trip. The total came to roughly 1.6 million dollars. Factoring in interest and the value of his personal time, I tripled it. Five million dollars. For the past two weeks, I had quietly listed the vacation cabin my father left me in upstate New York for sale. This morning, the buyer paid in full, after estate tax and the mortgage I had to redeem, only 2.6 million of it was actually mine. I gathered the diamond earrings, luxury watches, and designer gifts Channing had given me over the years, boxed them all up, and shipped them off to an online luxury resale dealer, netting another half million. By evening, my bank balance stood at roughly 3.1 million dollars. The rest would have to wait until the first disbursement of my parents' trust was released. My phone chimed on the table. An Instagram notification. Brenda had posted a photo: her hand resting over Channing's, an enormous diamond ring glittering in the restaurant light. The caption read: Forever with my protector. I liked the photo, placed my phone face-down on the table, and sank into a deep, heavy sleep.