The Stranger I Married-Chapter 44: The invite

The steady rhythm of tapping keyboards and muffled voices barely registered as Nicholas Carter sat in his corner office, high above the city skyline. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the distant horizon, but his attention wasn’t on the view or the reports stacked neatly on his desk. He stared at his monitor, a blank document open, the cursor blinking impatiently—mocking him.

He hadn’t typed a single word.

His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around the sleek armrests of his chair. His mind kept circling back to her. Ella.

This morning, her scent had lingered on his shirt—faintly floral with a touch of vanilla. He’d held her all night, thinking for a fleeting moment that the wall between them had cracked, even if just slightly. That maybe, just maybe, she was starting to let him in.

But then morning came—and everything shattered.

The way she pulled away from him like his touch burned. The way her eyes went guarded again, her voice cold and distant. It was like waking up with a stranger in his arms. One moment he was her anchor; the next, he was the storm she was running from.

He exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.

Idiot.

He should’ve known better than to hope. Ella wasn’t like other women—she wasn’t someone who gave her trust freely, and certainly not someone who felt safe when things got intimate. If anything, she seemed to retreat the moment things became too real. Too honest. frёewebηovel.cѳm

Still, he couldn’t pretend it didn’t cut him.

He wasn’t used to that feeling—the sting of rejection. Nicholas didn’t get pushed away. He was the one who made people bend, who decided when to close the door. But with her, none of that seemed to matter.

He just wanted to protect her. To be someone she could rely on. And yet... maybe that was the problem.

Maybe she doesn’t believe someone like that even exists.

The knock at his door startled him out of his spiral.

"Come in," he called, his voice lower than usual, strained.

His assistant, a composed woman in her mid-thirties, stepped in with a tablet in hand and a sharp outfit that matched her efficiency. "Mr. Carter, a reminder—you’ve been invited to the Marquis family’s charity gala this Saturday. Personal invite from Mr. Marquis himself."

Nicholas’s first instinct was to wave it off. These galas were always the same—pompous, predictable, crawling with high society parasites who measured power by the weight of their last name. The idea of standing in a ballroom with a hundred fake smiles made his skin itch.

"I’ll pass," he said, already turning back to his screen.

But then—something clicked.

Marquez

His eyes lifted slowly.

Ella’s father.

He leaned back in his chair, his mind already racing.

He remembered that day with painful clarity—the day that changed something inside him.

He had just stepped into the apartment after a long, back-to-back day of meetings when he found her curled up on the couch in the dimly lit living room. She hadn’t even noticed him at first.

Her blouse was stained, a large blotch of coffee soaking through the fabric like an accusation. Her makeup was smudged, not out of vanity but because she’d been crying—really crying. The kind of crying that made your chest heave and your shoulders shake until you had nothing left. Her eyes were red and swollen, her lips trembling.

She looked... small.

Broken.

Defeated.

Nicholas had frozen on the spot, a visceral rage rising in his chest. He wasn’t used to that kind of anger—the kind that made your hands itch to break something, to destroy whatever caused the pain. Seeing her like that, so vulnerable, gutted him in a way nothing else had in years.

"Ella," he’d said carefully, stepping closer. "What happened?"

She flinched when she noticed him, as if she hadn’t expected anyone to see her like that. Her arms wrapped tightly around herself, as though she could physically hold in the pain. And then the excuses came, quiet and rushed. Just a bad day. Just an accident. Nothing to worry about.

She didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t need his help. Wanted to fight her own battles

But he hadn’t bought a word of it. Not when her voice cracked halfway through her sentence. Not when she refused to meet his gaze.

He hadn’t said anything at the time, but he’d ordered his team to quietly investigate. Not to pry—just to protect. Just to understand what he was dealing with.

The report had come back in less than twenty-four hours.

Her stepsister. A spoiled, vindictive little princess who got high on watching Ella suffer. She had spilled the coffee, made the scene, and then walked away like she’d done the world a favor.

Nicholas hadn’t acted then—he wasn’t sure if Ella wanted that kind of help. But now...

Now, he had a reason. A door. A chance.

The gala.

A public event where reputations were everything. Where appearances ruled. If he walked in with Ella on his arm, looking every inch the woman her family tried to erase, it wouldn’t just be a statement—it would be war.

A slow, knowing smile curved his lips. One with teeth.

His secretary cleared her throat, still holding the tablet. "Shall I confirm your decline, sir?"

He turned his chair toward the window, fingers tapping idly against his jaw. "No. RSVP yes."

She blinked. "Understood."

As she turned to leave, he added, "And have someone pull the guest list. I want a full breakdown—who’s attending, who’s sponsoring, and any media affiliations covering the event."

She nodded and left silently.

Nicholas sat alone in the quiet once again, but the mood had shifted.

He wasn’t just brooding anymore.

He had a purpose.

Still, his thoughts drifted back to her. To the way she looked up at him last night, tears shining in her eyes, like she wanted to believe he wouldn’t hurt her but didn’t know how to trust it. The way she held onto his shirt in her sleep like she was afraid he’d vanish.

And then... this morning.

The silence.

The distance.

He exhaled slowly, pressing a thumb and forefinger to his eyes.

He didn’t want to push her. He never wanted her to feel cornered. But if he gave her space, she retreated. If he got too close, she flinched. She was caught in a loop she couldn’t break—and maybe she didn’t even realize he was trying to pull her out of it.

Would she go with him?

The question twisted in his gut.

If he asked, would she say yes? Would she see it as a trap? A spectacle? Or would she realize this was more than a night in a dress—it was a chance to reclaim something they stole from her?

He didn’t know.

But he was going to ask anyway.

And if she said no?

He’d find another way.

Because Nicholas didn’t walk away from the things—or the people—that mattered to him.

Not anymore.