(Michael's POV)
Michael Lawrence was not a man who wasted hours. Time was a currency, and he controlled it as ruthlessly as he did markets and men.
But with her, time became strange. Too fast. Too fragile.
Lyn.
He watched her from across the breakfast table, hair mussed from sleep, oversized cardigan sliding off one shoulder as she stirred sugar into her tea like a scientist experimenting with explosives. She hummed off-key, squinting at the steam.
And his entire empire felt both stronger and infinitely more vulnerable.
She looked up suddenly. "Why are you staring?"
Michael blinked once. He wasn't staring. He was—observing. Calculating. Memorizing the exact curl of her hair when the sunlight touched it.
"You've eaten nothing," he said. It was easier than admitting the truth.
Her lips twitched. "That's rich, coming from the guy who nearly declared war on eggs yesterday."
His jaw flexed. "The eggs resisted."
Kai coughed discreetly at the doorway. Daren grinned outright. Lyn laughed so brightly it cut into Michael's ribs and left something warm behind.
He wasn't made for this—this… levity. He was made for sharp edges, for decisions that left people ruined or thriving, never in between. But she pulled laughter from him like it was something simple, something human.
Later, when Ethan briefed him on the Council's movements, Michael's mind wasn't on trade routes or rival acquisitions. It was on the way Lyn had leaned over the balcony last night, hair whipping in the wind, and how close she'd been to falling.
Again.
He didn't believe in curses. He believed in cause, effect, and leverage. But when it came to her, even logic bent. Her misfortunes weren't random—they hunted her. And he would not allow it.
If the world wanted to see her fall, then he would shatter the world.
The tea party still lingered in his mind, sharper than any boardroom memory. The sight of Seraphine's jeweled smile fading when Lyn laughed. The scandalized silence when Rosa's perfect composure cracked under spilled tea.
And Lyn, burying her face in her hands, whispering, "I'm cursed."
He wanted to crush that word into dust. Wanted to erase it from her vocabulary, from her life.
But he only touched the back of her chair, grounding himself in the presence of her warmth, and said, "Lyn doesn't need your approval."
He didn't care if the whole world heard. She was his line in the sand.
Michael had always been decisive, but with her, his impulses wavered between extremes. One moment, he wanted to wrap her in silk and guard her from every shadow. The next, he wanted to let her trip and laugh and live just so he could watch the light in her eyes.
The problem was—she was careless. Not deliberately, never deliberately, but she moved like she didn't believe the ground would hold her.
When she nearly dropped the instant noodles at the convenience store, his hand had hovered, ready. Ready to catch her. Ready to catch anything she touched.
But she steadied herself. She even raised her arms in victory, declaring, "I defied gravity!"
And he—Michael Lawrence, terror of boardrooms and governments—felt proud.
Proud of a clumsy girl holding onto a plastic bag.
What kind of man did that make him?
He watched her again now, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her room, opening the noodle cup like it was a priceless artifact. Steam rose, her face glowing with happiness as she slurped.
He leaned against the doorway, arms folded, saying nothing. Just watching.
Her joy over something so simple gnawed at him. She deserved feasts, the finest wines, the weight of jewels. Instead, she smiled like noodles were a miracle.
He swore then—whatever life had denied her, he would give.
Even if she hated him for it.
But then came the messages.
He had seen her pale face, the tremor in her fingers as she held out the phone. WELCOME BACK. DID YOU ENJOY YOUR SWIM?
Someone had watched. Someone had followed her across worlds.
It ignited something dangerous inside him. Rage colder than ice, sharper than glass.
"Perimeter," he'd ordered Ethan. "Physical and financial."
Because enemies came in many forms. Some bled in alleys. Some signed contracts. He would hunt every last one.
But her eyes haunted him. The way she whispered, "Someone pushed me. Before I woke up here. And now they're here too."
He wanted to tell her the truth. That he would burn cities to the ground before letting that happen again.
Instead, he only said, "Then let me be the one thing that doesn't change."
Michael had never believed in destiny. He believed in deals. But when she looked at him, even destiny felt negotiable.
And yet—he wasn't blind. He saw the way Rosa's eyes lingered, the way Seraphine schemed, the way the Council circled like vultures. He saw the shadow behind her window.
And the locket around her neck.
He remembered the day he'd given it. Years ago. When they were still children, and her laugh had been his favorite sound in a house too heavy with silence.
For the day you forget, I'll remind you.
She had forgotten.
And he—he remembered too much.
The Council meeting tomorrow would be war dressed as civility. They would question her, test her, try to unravel her confidence.
He had already prepared. Their stocks were under review. Their allies bribed or bought. Their heirs whispered about in tabloids.
If they touched her with words, he would destroy them with silence.
But he couldn't shield her from everything. She had to learn to stand.
The thought unsettled him. Because every time she stood, she swayed.
And he—he wasn't sure he could watch her fall again.
At midnight, Michael walked the gardens, Kai and Ethan following at a respectful distance. Daren trailed behind, eating a stolen tart.
The wind chimes rang faintly, off-key.
Michael stopped. His gaze narrowed on the far hedges. Shadows shifted.
He said nothing. Not yet.
But his mind sharpened into knives.
If someone thought they could taunt her from the dark, they hadn't yet met what darkness looked like when it fought back.
Later, when he returned to his study, he found himself reaching for a folder hidden in his desk. A thin file, worn from being opened too often.
Inside were photographs. Lyn in her first world—student, barista, lonely smile in the glow of cheap neon. He'd had them collected quietly, years of searching finally converging into proof.
Proof she had been alive somewhere else, living a life of misery, while he had built empires in this world.
He had failed her once.
He would not fail her again.
Michael closed the folder, locked it away, and leaned back in his chair.
"Tomorrow," he murmured to the empty room, "they'll see she's not alone."
The basil plant on his desk (Ethan's doing) sat silently, fragrant in the lamplight. For some absurd reason, Lyn had laughed about it earlier, insisting it was part of the household now.
He stared at it for a moment, then looked away, lips twitching in a ghost of something almost like amusement.
Her presence infected everything. Even his study. Even him.
And he didn't mind.