I married a billionaire to save my father's life, but on our wedding night my husband didn't kiss me or even climb into bed. Instead, he dragged a chair into the corner, stared at me in silence, and said, "Go to sleep. I'll watch." I thought I'd married a cold, controlling stranger... until one terrified housekeeper whispered what she'd found me doing at three o'clock in the morning—and told me what had happened to his first wife.

The final night of our arrangement came three weeks later.

My father had been discharged from the hospital, his recovery nothing short of a miracle. The experimental treatments had worked, his heart beating with a strength we hadn't seen in years. He was safe, living in a quiet cottage in Maine that Edmund had purchased for him, surrounded by gardens and the clean, fresh air of the north.

I had kept my side of the bargain. I had stayed in the mansion. I had let Edmund watch me every night.

But I hadn't sleepwalked since the night of the storm. Or, at least, I hadn't reached the balcony. Edmund had moved his chair directly in front of the doors, his body a physical barrier between me and the cold stone of the edge.

But as I watched him sit in his corner on that final night, I could see that the vigil was killing him.

His face was hollow, deep purple bruises lining the skin beneath his eyes. His hands were thin, his fingers trembling slightly as he rested them in his lap. He had lost weight, his clothes hanging loosely on his broad frame. He looked like a man who had been hollowed out from the inside, his soul consumed by the constant, agonizing effort to stay awake.

"Edmund," I said, my voice quiet as I sat on the edge of the bed.

He didn't look at me. His eyes were fixed on the locked French doors behind his chair. "Go to sleep, Evelyn."

"No," I said, standing up.

I walked across the room, my bare feet silent against the dark wood, and stopped just inches from his chair. For the first time since our wedding night, I didn't feel afraid of him. I felt a deep, aching sorrow for the man who had traded his peace for my father's life.

I reached out, my fingers gently touching his shoulder.

He flinched, his eyes snapping to mine with a sudden, defensive panic. "Evelyn, don't. You shouldn't be near me. I'm... I'm not safe."

"You are the safest thing in this house, Edmund," I said, my voice dropping to a whisper as I knelt on the floor beside his chair, my hands covering his trembling knuckles. "I know about Madeline. I know what happened."

Edmund’s chest heaved, a sharp, choked gasp escaping his throat as his eyes widened. "Who told you?"

"It doesn't matter," I said, my thumb stroking the rough skin of his hand. "What matters is that you have to stop. You can't keep doing this, Edmund. You're going to kill yourself to save a woman who is already alive."

"I fell asleep," he whispered, the tears finally breaking past his thick lashes, rolling down his scarred cheeks. "I fell asleep for five minutes, Evelyn. That was all it took. I heard her scream, and by the time I reached the edge... there was nothing but the water. I can't let it happen again. I can't let the sea take you, too."

"The sea isn't taking me, Edmund," I said, standing up and pulling him by the hands, forcing him to stand with me. "Look at me. I'm not Madeline. I am Evelyn. And I am here because I chose to be."

I led him toward the massive canopy bed. He didn't resist. He walked beside me like a child, his strength entirely gone, his body shaking with the release of three years of unspoken grief.

I pulled the heavy duvet back, guiding him to lie down on the cool, white sheets. He sank into the mattress, his head dropping onto the pillow as if he had been carrying a mountain on his shoulders and had finally been allowed to set it down.

"Evelyn," he murmured, his eyes fluttering as the darkness of sleep began to claim him. "I have to watch..."

"I'll watch tonight, Edmund," I whispered, climbing into the bed beside him and pulling the covers over both of our shoulders. I slid my arm under his neck, pulling his head onto my chest, my fingers gently stroking his dark hair as he let out a long, shuddering sigh. "Sleep. I'll stay here."

For the first time since our wedding night, the master suite was silent—not with the heavy, terrifying silence of secrets, but with the quiet, peaceful rest of a sanctuary.

As I looked down at the man sleeping against my chest, his face finally relaxing into the soft, handsome lines of the boy he had been before the tragedy, I knew our marriage had not been a mistake.