Tenth Time Left at Altar

I couldn't stop the tears that spilled down my cheeks as Fletcher's words washed over me. His eyes—those deep blue eyes that had been closed for so long—never left mine as he spoke of years of silent admiration.

"I've loved you since that day in the university library," he continued, his voice growing stronger with each word. "You were reading Keats, and you didn't even notice me watching you."

I clutched the sketchbook to my chest, feeling the weight of his confession. Page after page of my face, my hands, moments I didn't even remember living.

"Why didn't you ever say anything?" I whispered, my voice breaking.

Fletcher's hand tightened around mine. "You were always with him. And then after each wedding attempt..." He paused, his jaw tightening. "I wanted to protect you from the beginning."

Something inside me shattered—the last wall I'd built around my heart. Years of disappointment, of being second choice, of watching Denver run to Samara's side while I stood alone—it all came pouring out in wracking sobs that bent me double.

"I've got you," Fletcher murmured, somehow managing to sit up fully despite the IV lines still attached to his arm. He pulled me gently against his chest, his hand stroking my hair with a tenderness I'd forgotten could exist. "I've got you, Alexandra."

I felt his lips press against my temple, so gentle it was almost reverent.

"Let me take care of you," he whispered. "Let me protect you. Let me love you the way you deserve."

I pulled back slightly, searching his face. "Fletcher..."

"Marry me," he said simply. "Not tomorrow, not next week. But when you're ready. When you've healed. I'll wait as long as it takes."

I stared at him, this man who had dreamed of me while unconscious, who had sketched me from memory, who offered protection instead of promises.

"Yes," I whispered, the word slipping out before I could think better of it. "Yes."

His smile was like sunrise breaking through storm clouds.

---

"The Griffin family holdings in Switzerland are secure," my mother said, sliding the documents across the mahogany desk in our family lawyer's office. "And the properties in France have been transferred to the new accounts."

I nodded, signing where indicated. The pen felt heavy in my hand—each signature a step away from my old life, from the woman who had stood at the altar ten times only to be abandoned.

"And the art collection?" I asked, thinking of the paintings that had been in our family for generations.

"Already catalogued and insured," my mother replied. "They'll be shipped to the Peterson estate next week."

I didn't miss the slight emphasis on "Peterson." Mother had taken to Fletcher immediately, as though she'd been waiting for someone like him to appear in my life all along.

"Alexandra," she said gently, "are you certain about this?"

I met her gaze steadily. "More certain than I've been about anything in years."

Across town, in the sleek offices of Peterson Industries, Gavin Peterson adjusted his platinum cufflinks as he reviewed the files spread before him.

"These Carter family finances don't add up," he said to his assistant, tapping a manicured finger against a column of figures. "There's money moving through shell companies in the Cayman Islands."

"Should we alert the authorities?" the assistant asked.

Gavin's smile was cold. "Not yet. First, we need to understand exactly what we're dealing with." He paused, thinking of his brother's bandaged hand clutching Alexandra's in the hospital garden earlier that day. "And who we're protecting."

---

"Alexandra!" Denver's voice echoed through the hospital corridor, startling nurses and patients alike. "Where is she?"

I froze in the doorway of Fletcher's room, my heart hammering against my ribs. Denver stood twenty feet away, his face flushed with anger or panic—I couldn't tell which.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, instinctively stepping back.

"Samara needs blood," he said, advancing toward me. "Type O negative. Yours."

I shook my head. "No. Find someone else."

"There's no time!" He grabbed my wrist, fingers digging into my skin with bruising force. "She could die!"

"Let go of me," I hissed, trying to pull away.

"You owe her this," Denver insisted, his grip tightening. "After everything she's been through—"

"Owe her?" I laughed bitterly. "What about what I've been through?"

Something flashed in his eyes—desperation, perhaps, or the first glimmer of doubt. But it wasn't enough to make him release me.

"Denver, you're hurting me," I gasped as pain shot through my hand—my right hand, the one I used for painting.

"Come on," he insisted, yanking me toward the elevator.

I heard the sickening crunch before I felt it—bones shifting, tendons stretching beyond their limits. Pain exploded through my dominant hand as Denver's grip twisted it at an unnatural angle.

"Let go!" I screamed, tears springing to my eyes.

But it was too late. Something had broken inside me—something that might never heal.