Hunter's POV
The entire day had been a blur of paperwork—contracts, budget reports, project updates—each one demanding my signature, my scrutiny, my time.
By late afternoon, the dull throb in my temples had sharpened into a full-blown headache. My neck ached, my back protested every movement, and I was just about ready to call it a day when the office door slammed open.
No knock. No warning.
I looked up, my jaw tightening, ready to lash out. But the words died in my throat when I saw Calixto.
He was pale. Visibly shaken. His hands trembled at his sides, and his usual composure had completely crumbled.
"Calixto," I said, my voice low but firm. "What happened?"
"I—I'm sorry, sir. I know I should've knocked, but I didn't want to waste time." His voice cracked. "Your car was hit by a drunk truck driver. The impact was bad."
Everything around me stilled.
I leaned back slowly in my chair, bracing myself. "Who was driving?"
Calixto swallowed hard. "Frank, sir."
His name struck like a fist in my chest.
For a second, I couldn't speak. My heart thudded violently against my ribs. The pain in my head disappeared. My body moved on instinct—I grabbed my coat and followed Calixto out the door. We took one of the reserve cars, but it may as well have been mine. Everything in this company was, after all.
Frank had been our family driver for decades. He wasn't just a staff member. He was part of the foundation I'd grown up with. Familiar. Constant. Reliable.
And Calixto—he's been with me since I took over the company. The closest thing I have to a personal friend, though he'd never dare call himself that. I don't let people close. My father trained that out of me a long time ago. Caring was a weakness. Emotion was a liability. Keep your head down, keep control. That was the Divenson way.
But even I couldn't deny it—these two men had earned my respect. More than that. They mattered to me, whether I admitted it or not.
When we arrived at the hospital, the sterile white halls were thick with tension. Nurses moved briskly. The air was cold. Too quiet.
Frank was already being wheeled toward the operating room when Dr. Silva—an old family friend—approached us.
"He's asking for you, Hunter," the doctor said gravely. "I tried to convince him to rest, but he insisted. He says it's urgent. He'd rather die now than not say what he needs to."
That got my attention.
"I'll give you a few minutes," Dr. Silva continued. "But we need to take him in right after."
I followed the nurse into the prep room, and my stomach twisted when I saw him.
Frank looked… small. Pale. Fragile. The strong man who used to chauffeur me to school, to board meetings, now, he was nearly unrecognizable.
I stepped closer. "Frank, it's me. Hunter. You need to rest. Let the doctors do their job."
He gave me a weak smile, then motioned me closer with one trembling hand.
"I'm not going to make it," he whispered. "Don't lie to yourself, Hunter. I know my body. This… this is the end for me."
"Don't say that."
"I have one last request. One that means everything to me."
I stayed silent, dreading what was coming.
"I have a daughter," he said. "Her name is Madeline Brownwood. We haven't spoken in years… she doesn't even know the man I used to be. But she's my blood. My regret. My responsibility."
He gripped my hand weakly. "Help her. She's alone. Lost. And I know you, Hunter. You don't believe in love or marriage anymore, but… I want you to marry her. Give her the life I never could. Protect her. She needs someone. And whether you believe it or not—you need someone too."
I almost laughed. Not out of amusement, but disbelief. Was he serious?
"You're asking me to marry a complete stranger," I said quietly.
"I'm asking you to keep a promise. Let me die with peace in my heart."
There was a pause. His breathing grew weaker. I could see the pain etched into every line of his face, but it was the desperation in his eyes that shattered me.
This was his final request. His dying wish.
I nodded, forcing a small grin. "Okay. I promise."
Relief washed over his face like sunlight cutting through storm clouds. He smiled—really smiled—and I could see that for him, that promise was everything.
They took him to the operating room minutes later. He never came back out.
Frank died that night.
And I didn't sleep. Couldn't.
His words haunted me, echoing louder with every hour that passed.
How could I marry someone I didn't even know?
I had shut the door on love years ago—after her. The only woman I ever loved. The one who ruined me.
And yet, here I was. Tied to a promise. Bound to a woman I'd never met.
Madeline Brownwood.
What kind of man would I become if I broke a dying man's last wish?
I don't want to be involved with another woman—no matter how often my parents pressure me to find a girlfriend, settle down, and start a family. They don't understand that I'm still mourning. Maybe the world thinks enough time has passed, but for me, it still feels raw. The wound never really healed.
It happened years ago, but the pain hasn't dulled. I was young then—too young and too naive. Just Hunter, not the man I've become. I never imagined that losing her would mean losing more than just the girl I loved. I lost the part of me capable of loving anyone else.
I tried. God knows I tried. I drank, partied, met new women, and even tried to build something real again—but none of it worked. Every relationship was a ghost town haunted by her memory. I could never be the man they wanted. Because the truth is, I left the best parts of myself behind—with her.
""Madeline Brownwood? Who is she, and what exactly do you plan to do with her once you meet her?" Calixto asked for the third time, his brows furrowed in concern.
I leaned back in my chair and exhaled through my nose. "Calixto, I don't want you approaching her—not yet. Just observe her. Discreetly. I need to know who she really is, not the surface-level details, but the truth. Her life. Her habits. Her character."
"But why?" he pressed again, and this time, I snapped.
"Just do as I asked, Cal. No more questions. And don't come back to me with half-baked information. When you have everything—everything—then we'll talk."
He nodded, silently retreating. That was two months ago, not long after Frank's funeral. I didn't have the strength to think about her then. Not about a stranger I was bound to by a promise. Not about the burden Frank had unknowingly placed on my shoulders.
But I knew Calixto had taken the task seriously. There were days he was unreachable, times when his absence was noticeable—and knowing Cal, he wouldn't rest until he had the full story.
One quiet afternoon, Calixto approached my desk with a small smile. "Are you free later today, Mr. Divenson?"
I raised an eyebrow. "Ask yourself that, Cal. You manage my calendar."
He grinned. "Your last appointment today is… a coffee break at your favorite café."
"With whom?"
"With Calixto Morgan, sir."
A short laugh escaped me. "You actually scheduled yourself?"
"Of course. You're impossible to pin down otherwise. And besides, I'm ready to report about Madeline Brownwood."
The smile fell from my lips.
Just like that, the weight of Frank's dying wish came rushing back.
"What time?" I asked, trying not to sound affected.
"Four o'clock. I'll meet you there." He gave a small nod and left my office, while I sat in silence, my thoughts spiraling. Was I truly ready to hear about her? To confront the promise I made?
At the café, Calixto handed me an espresso without saying a word. Then, he slid an envelope across the table. I opened it slowly.
Photographs.
Candid ones.
And in them was a young woman with dark hair and expressive eyes—eyes that seemed to hold the weight of a lifetime. She was stunning, but not in an artificial way. There was no pretense. No arrogance. Just quiet resilience.
Her eyes lingered in my mind even as I put the cup down. I found my fingers brushing over the edges of the photo, tracing the contours of her face without meaning to.
"This is Madeline," Calixto began. "She's nineteen. Lives with her aunt. Frank left them when she was still a child—apparently due to a fight with her mother. She hadn't seen him since."
I glanced at Calixto and was surprised to see his eyes glistening.
"Her mom got sick when Madeline was thirteen. Lung cancer. They had no choice but to ask her aunt for help. She did everything she could—juggled school, begged for jobs, anything to keep her mother alive. But the sickness won. Her mother died, and Maddie stayed with her aunt."
He paused, then continued with a heavier voice.
"Her aunt's house is under foreclosure. Too many debts. Maddie works three part-time jobs just to try and help—grocery, restaurant, and convenience store. She also goes to college. I honestly don't know how she manages. She blames herself for her aunt's hardship. Feels like a burden."
I didn't say anything, but inside, something shifted.
I admired her. Fiercely. For her grit. Her strength. Her loyalty.
"She's never dated," Calixto added. "No time. No interest. No phone. She borrows her aunt's when she needs one. Who doesn't own a phone at nineteen?"
That made me blink. At that age, a teenager with no cell phone was practically unheard of.
"She's selfless and honest—" he hesitated "—she's still untouched. No boyfriend. No intimate history."
I nodded, taking it all in silently. Then I finally spoke. "I want you to reach out to her aunt. Find out the exact amount they owe. Pay it all off—and give her aunt extra. Make sure Maddie gets her own phone. And then…" I hesitated.
"Bring her to the Divenson mansion this Thursday." I blurted out.
Calixto stared at me, stunned. "Why? You know how your family is. They don't exactly welcome strangers unless you're planning to hire her as a maid."
I met his gaze evenly. "She's not going to be our maid."
"Then what?" He asked as he looked at me in the eyes.
"I'm going to make her my wife." I responded, and silence fell between us like a storm.
For the first time since he began working with me, Calixto was speechless. His lips parted slightly, his eyes searching mine for any hint of sarcasm.
But I was dead serious.
And from the stunned look on his face, I could tell he finally understood the weight of the promise I'd made—and how far I was willing to go to keep it.