From Shadow Lover To Her Own

For five years, I was his shadow and his secret lover, all because of a deathbed promise to his older brother-the man I was supposed to marry.

On the day that promise was fulfilled, he told me to plan his engagement party to another woman.

Chapter 1

The fifth year was ending. It was the one-thousand-eight-hundred-and-twenty-fifth day since Cayla Bass had made her promise, and the day she had decided to finally break it.

Cayla Bass stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, her gaze fixed on the sprawling city lights below. They blurred into a meaningless smear of color.

For five years, she had been not only Grafton Mcleod's shadow-his assistant, his problem solver, the woman who absorbed his rage and cleaned up his messes-but also his lover. A secret kept tucked away in the sterile luxury of his penthouse, a role she played out of a misguided sense of duty.

And it was all because of a promise to a dying man. A man she had truly loved.

The memory still had the power to stop her breath. The sterile smell of the hospital, the insistent beeping of a machine, and the hand of Grafton's older brother, Justen, growing cold in hers.

"Five years, Cayla."His voice was a weak rasp, a ghost of the warm baritone she adored. "Just watch over him for five years. He's reckless, all I have. Promise me."

Justen Palmer. The man who was supposed to be her future, her husband. The only real light in her world, extinguished in a wreck of twisted metal and shattered glass just weeks before he could give his younger brother the Palmer name through adoption.

She had agreed. She would have agreed to anything for him. And in her grief, she had transferred that devotion to the one person he left behind. She had mistaken the weight of her promise for love for Grafton.

A door slammed open behind her.

"Cayla."

Grafton's voice was sharp, cutting through the silence. He didn't bother to look at her, his attention locked on the phone pressed to his ear.

"I don't care what it takes,"he snapped into the device. "Get it done."

He ended the call and tossed the phone onto the leather sofa. His eyes, no longer cold and dismissive but filled with a familiar, playful cruelty, finally landed on her.

"Did you get it?"

"The acquisition proposal is on your desk,"she said, her voice flat, devoid of emotion. "I've highlighted the key risk factors."

"I didn't ask for your analysis,"he said, a smirk playing on his lips. He walked over to the bar, pouring himself a drink. He enjoyed these games, enjoyed the power he held over her. He was convinced she was hopelessly in love with him, a loyal puppy who would never leave his side. "I'm talking about the Hughes merger. Cherrelle and I are getting married. It's important for the company, for our families. So, I need you to be on your best behavior for the next few months. No drama, understand? I know how emotional you can get."

Cherrelle Hughes glided into the room, wrapping her arms around Grafton's neck from behind. She pressed a kiss to his cheek, her eyes, gleaming with triumph, meeting Cayla's over his shoulder.

"Don't be so hard on her, Gray,"Cherrelle cooed, her voice dripping with false sweetness. "She tries her best. It's just... well, you can't expect someone from her background to understand the pressures we're under, can you? Some people are born to lead, others to follow."

Grafton's expression softened as he looked at Cherrelle. He turned, pulling her into his arms. "You're too kind to her."

The scene was a familiar one. A play she had watched on repeat for five years. The arrogant heir, his perfect high-society girlfriend, and the useless, lovesick subordinate.

Cherrelle's perfectly manicured hand reached out, not for a glass, but to run a finger provocatively down the front of Grafton's shirt.

"Oh, honey,"she purred, her eyes never leaving Cayla. She deliberately took a step back, jostling a nearby table and knocking over a glass of red wine. It splashed directly onto Grafton's pristine white shirt. "Look what you did!"she gasped, pointing an accusing finger at Cayla. "You were standing so close, you startled me. This is a custom shirt!"

The accusation hung in the air, absurd and blatant. Cayla hadn't moved a muscle.

Grafton's face darkened. He looked from the stain on his shirt to Cayla, his eyes filled with a familiar, chilling anger.

"Are you blind?"he spat. "Get out of my sight."

Cayla's hands, hidden in the pockets of her simple black dress, clenched into fists. Her fingernails dug into her palms. She thought of the one night, a year ago, when he'd been drunk and vulnerable, whispering that she was the only one who understood him, that maybe, just maybe, they could have something real. It was that single promise, that flicker of hope, that had kept her chained here. A promise he had clearly forgotten, or never meant at all. The small, sharp pain was a welcome distraction. It was real.

She turned without a word and walked towards the door.

"And one more thing,"Grafton's voice stopped her.

She paused, her back to them.

"Cherrelle and I are getting engaged,"he announced, his tone laced with a deliberate cruelty. "The party is next month. I expect you to handle the arrangements. After all, you know how good I am at planning for the future. It's a shame Justen never got the chance to do the same for you, isn't it?"

Each word was a hammer blow.

This was it. The final confirmation. But instead of pain, a strange, profound sense of release washed over her. She had thought, foolishly, that she was in love with Grafton. But in this moment, with his final, cruel jab, the fog of grief and obligation finally cleared. She didn't love him. She had never loved him. She had been clinging to a ghost, trying to fulfill a promise to a dead man by sacrificing herself to his brother.

She was free.

"Congratulations,"she said, her voice shockingly calm. The word tasted not like ash, but like the first breath of clean air after years in a dungeon.

Grafton's smirk faltered. He stared at her back, a flicker of confusion and annoyance in his eyes. This wasn't the reaction he wanted. Where were the tears? The pleading? The heartbreak? He hated this unnerving calm. He opened his mouth to say something else, something sharper, but she was already gone, the door closing softly behind her.

He scowled, turning back to Cherrelle. *Fine,* he thought, pulling the heiress closer. *She's probably just hiding it. She'll go home and cry her eyes out. She's too obsessed with me to ever leave.* He made a mental note to send her one of those ridiculously expensive handbags she could never afford. That always seemed to fix things.

She walked out of the penthouse, her steps even and controlled. She did not run. She did not cry.

Down in the sterile quiet of her own small apartment in the same building, she pulled out her laptop. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, her movements precise and automatic.

She wasn't answering emails.

She was registering for the Rourke International Rally. An endurance race. A brutal, dangerous competition on the other side of the world.

She used a name no one had called her in five years. A name that belonged to a different life. The life before the promise.

The confirmation email popped into her inbox. It was irreversible.

She closed the laptop.

The promise was fulfilled. Her sentence was served.

It was time to disappear.