Bound by the Past, Locked by the Heart novel Chapter 245

Randal grew visibly busier. He spent less and less time at the estate, sometimes vanishing for two or three days at a stretch.

But unlike before, Willa received a relentless stream of text messages from him every single day. They weren't exactly romantic declarations; they were persistent, detail-oriented check-ins.

*Have Mrs. Gable buy whatever you're craving.*

*It's getting cold. Wear an extra coat if you go out.*

*Get to bed early. Take care of yourself.*

...

At first, she ignored them entirely, or at best, shot back a dismissive "Okay."

But as the days blurred together, she realized she was falling into a dangerous habit.

Every morning when she woke up, her first instinct was to check her phone. A tiny, unacknowledged spark of anticipation had taken root in her chest.

This subtle shift terrified her. The more attentive and devoted he became, the more she panicked.

She was terrified of getting used to his affection. She was terrified of relying on him. Most of all, she was terrified that when the day finally came for her to leave, she wouldn't have the strength to walk away.

The calendar pages flipped relentlessly. It was less than two weeks until Randal and Scarlett's wedding.

Media coverage of the Yates-Sterling alliance skyrocketed. Financial columns analyzed how the marriage would restructure Norvale's corporate empire, while the entertainment pages obsessed over the extravagant wedding preparations.

Not long after, the crosshairs of public opinion quietly locked onto the relatively unknown Willa Vance.

Willa found the thread at four in the morning.

She had slept too much during the day and had been woken up by the urge to use the restroom. Unable to fall back asleep, she poured herself a glass of water and leaned against the headboard, scrolling through her phone.

The thread was posted on a popular local forum, and the title pulled no punches.

*Yates-Sterling Wedding Imminent: Pregnant Mistress Attempts a Coup.*

She clicked on it. The first picture was a candid shot of her, taken God-knew-when.

She was walking into a cafe with her head down, the curve of her baby bump clearly visible.

She read through them one by one, her fingers trembling against the screen.

As if sensing her distress, the baby began to kick wildly inside her.

She quickly locked her phone, tossed it onto the nightstand, and pressed her hands to her stomach, whispering soft reassurances into the dark.

Willa sat there in a daze until seven in the morning, eventually passing out from sheer mental exhaustion.

When she finally woke up, it was almost noon.

Her first instinct was to grab her phone and check the thread.

The post was still up, but the comment section had been gutted. As she scrolled, she realized all the vicious attacks had been scrubbed clean, leaving only a few harmless remarks.

She refreshed the page, and the entire thread vanished. *Error 404.*

Willa had a pretty good idea of who had pulled the strings.

But as if bound by a silent pact, neither of them brought it up.