Too Late For Your Forgiveness Now

My throat was closing up, anaphylactic shock setting in from the peanuts my half-sister, Kecia, had hidden in the macaron.

But Jonathan didn't call 911.

He rolled his eyes, called me "dramatic," and handed Kecia my late mother's vintage Cartier bracelet-the one heirloom I had left-just to comfort her.

I woke up in the ER alone, only to find my father had sold me off to save his company.

I was forced to marry Gage Sawyer, the "Sleeping Prince," a man rumored to be in a permanent vegetative state.

Jonathan stayed with Kecia, believing her lie that she was his childhood savior.

He didn't know I was the one who saved him years ago. He didn't care that she tried to kill me.

But on my wedding day, as I stood by the altar ready to sign my life away, my comatose groom suddenly squeezed my hand.

Gage Sawyer was wide awake, and he wanted revenge just as much as I did.

When Jonathan finally learned the truth and crashed the wedding begging for forgiveness, I looked him dead in the eye.

"You're trespassing, Mr. Chavez."

"I'm Mrs. Sawyer now."

Chapter 1

Kiana Craig POV:

The scream that tore from my throat was swallowed by the roar of the ocean, but the pain in my chest felt louder than any tide. Jonathan Chavez, the man I loved more than my own life, had just crushed my heart into dust, and then, just to be sure, he handed the pieces to my half-sister.

I had spent my entire life trying to be enough for someone. My mother, before she died, my father, before he remarried, and then Jonathan. Always Jonathan. I thought I had him. I thought his coldness was a challenge, his distance a puzzle to solve with my endless love. I was wrong. So terribly wrong.

Last week, Kecia, my half-sister, brought macarons to Jonathan' s penthouse. They were pistachio, she said. But I saw the subtle flecks of almond, crushed and mixed into the vibrant green. My peanut allergy was severe, life-threatening. Everyone knew. Especially Kecia.

Jonathan, standing beside her, a hand casually resting on her lower back, smiled at me. He said, "Kiana, don' t be dramatic. Kecia made these for us. Are you going to insult her by refusing?"

His words felt like a slap. My throat tightened, not yet from the allergy, but from the humiliation. Kecia' s eyes, wide and innocent, dared me.

I looked at Jonathan, searching for a flicker of concern, a hint of the protective man I imagined him to be. There was nothing. Just that arrogant, dismissive smile. He thought I was being "dramatic." He thought I was "jealous."

The macaron tasted like fear and betrayal. My tongue swelled first, then my esophagus. The world tilted. Panic clawed at my throat, but Jonathan was already on the phone, not to emergency services, but to his assistant, telling him to reschedule a meeting. Kecia was holding his other hand, a picture