The Raise of James Morrison.

Chapter 7

James stood motionless, staring at Emily, whose eyes glistened with unshed tears. A thin line of blood traced down his left cheek where her ring had caught his skin.

"Did you do this on purpose?!" Emily's voice cracked, trembling with fury and humiliation. She glared at him, her mascara beginning to smudge at the corners of her eyes. "Why did I ever believe you could just keep your mouth shut for one night?!"

Emily Anderson was known for her composure. Even when life knocked her down, she kept her chin up, her spine straight, her face a perfect mask of confidence. She'd survived business setbacks, professional rivalries, and three years of whispered gossip about her embarrassing marriage all without shedding a single tear in public.

But tonight, standing in front of her entire family, her friends, her colleagues, and Marcus Wellington the man everyone said she should have married her dignity had been ground into the marble floor beneath her designer heels.

James let out a long, weary breath. "I'm sorry, Emily."

He couldn't blame her. Not really. She'd endured just as much as he had over these three years, maybe more. The mockery aimed at him was direct, brutal, easy to see. But the knives thrown at Emily were hidden, coated in false sympathy and poisoned with pity. Every charity lunch where her friends asked how she was "holding up." Every family dinner where relatives reminded her she "could do so much better." Every business meeting where potential partners wondered aloud why such an accomplished woman was shackled to a nobody.

All because her grandfather had forced her to marry him.

"Don't apologize to me," Emily hissed, wiping furiously at her eyes. "Apologize to David. Apologize to Grandma. Apologize to everyone you just embarrassed!"

She couldn't even look at him. Her face was flushed scarlet, her hands shaking. This was supposed to be a simple evening smile, make small talk, let Grandma cut her cake, go home. Instead, James had turned it into a circus, and she was the ringmaster's humiliated assistant.

James nodded slowly and turned toward David, who stood with his arms crossed, smirking like a cat that had caught a very stupid mouse, even though he knew and was sure the gift was Poisonous, but he didn't care at this moment.

"I'm sorry," James said quietly.

"Oh, now you're sorry?" David leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for James's ears. "Here's some free advice, buddy. Before you try to play hero again, check your bank account. Check your family name. Check your place in this world. Because even if you were RIGHT—and you're not nobody here gives a damn. My grandma would protect me even if I gifted her a box of dog shit wrapped in gold foil. You understand? That's the difference between you and me. I MATTER. You DON'T."

The words hit like body blows, but James's face remained neutral. He'd learned long ago that showing pain only made them hit harder.

David straightened up, his grin widening. "Now get back in your corner and try not to ruin anything else tonight, okay? There's a good boy."

The party gradually resumed its rhythm. Conversations restarted in clusters of two and three. Champagne glasses refilled. The string quartet picked up a new piece. Within minutes, it was as if James Carter didn't exist at all.

Invisible. Irrelevant. Beneath notice.

Even Emily had turned away, rejoining her circle of friends who immediately swarmed her with false comfort and real curiosity. Marcus stayed close to her shoulder, his hand hovering near her back in a gesture that was simultaneously protective and possessive.

James retreated to the far corner of the room, his wine-stained shirt cold against his chest, and tried to become part of the wallpaper.

But Emily's mind was churning.

Now that the initial shock and fury had faded, a seed of doubt had planted itself in her thoughts. She knew James had lived with him for three years, watched him cook breakfast, fold laundry, keep his head down and his mouth shut. He was timid, yes. Frustratingly passive, absolutely. But he wasn't a liar.

In three years, he'd never once tried to cause trouble on purpose. He absorbed insults like a sponge, apologized for things that weren't his fault, and disappeared into the background whenever possible.

So why would he suddenly, deliberately, publicly accuse David of fraud unless he genuinely believed it?

And that expression on David's face afterward that brief flash of panic before he'd covered it with outrage—Emily knew that look. She'd seen it before. David was a smooth talker and a shameless opportunist, always cutting corners, always looking for the easy score.

Could James have been telling the truth? Emily bit her lip, her stomach twisting with guilt. She glanced back toward the corner where James stood alone, his face carefully blank, his shoulders slightly hunched as if trying to make himself smaller.

She'd hit him. In front of everyone. And he'd just... taken it.

"I shouldn't have slapped you," Emily said quietly, appearing suddenly at James's side.

He looked at her, surprised. "It's fine."

"It's not fine. I was upset, and I lashed out." She crossed her arms, her voice tight with something that might have been regret. "If there's anything I can do to make it up to you, tell me. I don't want to owe you anything."