Chapter 1

Five years.

For five years, every accidental brush of my skin against Jackson's meant hours on my knees.

Scrubbing the imported Italian marble with industrial-strength disinfectant.

Reciting his "Family Code of Conduct," a document thicker than a phone book.

He'd watch, his face a mask of disgust.

"You understand, Emily? Cleanliness is paramount."

I understood. I was the contamination.

My hands were raw, the skin cracked and bleeding from the chemicals.

My knees permanently calloused.

He insisted on separate beds, pushed to opposite ends of the master suite.

"Your... aura, Emily. It's overwhelming."

He had severe mysophobia, he'd explained calmly after I'd wept, asking why he flinched from my touch. He'd even produced a doctor's note, crisp and official.

"I have a serious condition. You must not touch me. Not even a hair."

So I learned to navigate our mansion like a ghost, careful not to cast a shadow too near him.

Last night, something shifted.

He came home late, the scent of an unfamiliar, expensive perfume clinging to his bespoke suit.

A faint, almost invisible smudge of crimson stained his collar, near his clavicle.

My hand moved before my brain caught up. A light, questioning touch.

His body went rigid.

His eyes, usually cold and distant, flashed with something I couldn't name.

He stormed out, slamming the front door hard enough to rattle the crystal chandelier in the foyer.

But he didn't make me kneel. He didn't mention the disinfectant.

A fragile seedling of hope took root in the barren soil of my heart.

Maybe, just maybe, he was starting to see me.

To accept me.