The Stranger I Married-Chapter 45: Summoned

Ella stood in the middle of the living room, pacing unsure whether to sit, sleep , or disappear altogether.

The house was quiet. Nicholas hadn’t come back from work yet, and for that, she was both grateful and anxious. She didn’t know how to face him after the way she’d pulled away that morning.

He hadn’t said anything—hadn’t chased her, hadn’t pressed. But that almost made it worse.

Because the truth was... she’d wanted to stay.

Her retreat had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the panic gnawing at her ribs. Because it felt too good. Too safe. Too much like something she might want. And she wasn’t sure she was allowed to want anything anymore.

Ella let out a shaky breath and finally moved, toeing off her shoes and slipping into her room to change into soft joggers and a hoodie that swallowed her up. Then she curled on the edge of the couch, knees tucked under her, pretending to watch some show on TV while her thoughts spun like laundry in a machine that never stopped.

He had been warm. Gentle. Patient, even when she’d trembled in his arms like a cornered animal. And yet, she’d still fled. She hated herself for that.

But Nicholas wasn’t someone you could be reckless with. He was chaos and calm in one man, and he was beginning to mean too much.

The sound of the door opening snapped her back to the present.

She straightened quickly, smoothing her hoodie down like it could hide the storm under her skin. Her heart thumped hard when the door opened and Nicholas walked in.

His tie was loosened, his suit jacket slung casually over his shoulder, and his eyes lit up when they found her. Like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just run away from him that morning like a coward.

"Ah," he said dramatically, "there she is—my runaway bride."

Ella blinked. "What?"

He dropped his briefcase with flair, kicked off his shoes with a flourish, and strode toward her like a man on a mission.

"You don’t remember? We cuddled all night. You slept in my arms. Pretty sure that’s a binding contract in at least four countries."

He plopped onto the couch beside her, draping an arm across the back of it, close enough to feel, but not close enough to pressure.

"You’re legally my wife now, Ella. I checked. It’s in the constitution."

"You’re ridiculous," she muttered, a soft laugh escaping despite herself.

"Hot and ridiculous," he corrected. "It’s an elite category."

She shook her head, cheeks heating. He was doing it again—disarming her, making her forget the thousand reasons she should stay guarded.

He didn’t mention the morning. Not a single word.

Just gave her space, like he always did. Like he knew she’d come to him when she was ready. fɾeewebnoveℓ.co๓

"Anyway," he said, reaching into his inner jacket pocket. "You and I, dear spouse, have been summoned."

He brandished a thick ivory envelope like it was some royal decree.

Ella gave him a wary glance. "What’s that?"

"The Marquiis family gala," he said, his tone dripping with fake aristocracy. "Where wine flows like water and betrayal is served as an appetizer."

She stiffened slightly. "Why would we go to that?"

He looked at her like it was obvious. "Because it’s time."

"Nicholas..."

"Nope," he said, cutting her off with a shake of his head. "Before you start telling me you’re not ready, let me remind you that I saw you cry in that ridiculous blouse with the coffee stains. And I know exactly who made that happen."

Her eyes widened slightly. He never brought up that day. The day he’d come home early to find her curled on his couch, shoulders shaking, blouse stained, mascara smudged.

That day, she’d begged him not to ask. Not to pry. Not to get involved.

He hadn’t said a word about it again and she was grateful.

Now he looked her dead in the eyes. "Your stepsister wants a war. Let’s give her one. In a gold dress."

Ella swallowed hard.

"You don’t have to say anything," he added softly. "You just have to stand beside me. Let them choke on your smile."

She looked down at her hands. "What if I can’t pull it off?"

Nicholas tilted her chin up gently. "Ella, they’re the ones who should be afraid. You survived them. Now it’s your turn to walk into that room like a queen returning to her throne."

She hesitated. Every instinct told her to stay small, stay quiet, stay safe.

But Nicholas... Nicholas made her want to be bold.

"And besides," he added, flashing her a wicked grin, "do you really want to miss the look on your stepsister’s face when you show up on my arm?A fine and looking man like me?"

Her heart stuttered. She hated how well he knew her. Hated how easily he peeled away her fear and replaced it with something far more dangerous—hope.

"You’re impossible."

"Impossibly charming," he corrected.

She sighed, long and theatrical. "Fine. I’ll go. But if I die of anxiety, I’m haunting you."

He threw his arms up in victory. "Deal. But if I die from how good you’re going to look in a gown, I expect a closed casket. I have a reputation."

Ella laughed despite herself, and just like that, the tension eased. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe she was walking into a lion’s den.

"Now," Nicholas said, standing and holding out a hand dramatically, "let us go shopping for your royal armor tomorrow. I assume that means glitter and heels."

"I hate glitter."

"Tough. You’re going to sparkle like vengeance incarnate."

And for once, she let herself want it.

Ella bit her lip. "It’s been a long time. I don’t think I even remember how to dance at these stupid parties."

Nicholas gave her a slow, teasing grin. "Well, lucky for you, I’m an excellent teacher. One spin in my arms and you’ll remember everything—except your name, probably."

She groaned. "You’re not helping."

"I am! Just... with flair."