When I lower my gaze, she isn’t looking at the sky anymore. She’s looking at me.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I answer without looking, already bracing for Ansel’s voice. “Stel.” Breathless. Too quick. “Blythe’s in labor. They’re taking her to Agave Hills General.It’s early—”The world tilts. My grip on Elaine’s hand tightens. “What? She’s not due for weeks.” “I know. Just get here.”
I can’t breathe, can’t think. The words splinter in my chest. Elaine slips the phone from my shaking fingers and ends the call for me. “Let me drive.” Her tone isn’t a question. It’s calm, firm, the anchor I don’t have right now. I just nod and let her steer me toward her car.
The hospital waiting room is too white, too cold. I pace the tile while my sandals slap with each turn, chewing my lip until I taste copper. My head is full of worst-case scenarios, every one louder than the last. “Widow,” Elaine’s voice cuts through. She doesn’t try to stop me, doesn’t tell me it’s fine—just brushes her hand across my shoulder, fingers grazing my skin through the thin strap of my dress. The contact is small, almost nothing. But it keeps me standing. My chest eases just enough to breathe again.
The waiting room clock ticks too loudly, every second stretching longer than the last. Elaine’s hand still rests on my shoulder, steady, keeping me tethered.
When Ansel bursts through the doors with two coffees, her eyeliner smudged like she ran here, she takes one look at me, then at Elaine. Her mouth presses into a line, but she doesn’t say a word. She just hands me a cup and drops into the chair beside me.
A few minutes later, Elaine excuses herself—something about checking in with the nurse’s desk. The moment she’s out of earshot, Ansel leans in, her voice low. “You like her.”
It isn’t a question.
I stare down at the coffee in my hands, the ripples shaking with my grip. My throat tightens, and for a beat, I can’t answer. Finally, I whisper, “Yeah. I do.”
The words feel heavier than I meant them, but true all the way down. Ansel doesn’t push, doesn’t tease. She just nods, eyes softer than usual. “Then be careful, Slay Muffin.”
Hours later, when the doctor finally says Blythe’s stable and the baby’s here, relief floods me so fast my knees nearly give. I sink into the hard plastic chair, exhausted, grateful, and wrung out. I should feel steady again.
But then my phone buzzes.
Donovan:I’ll sign the papers. But don’t think for a second you’re walking away without giving me what I deserve.
The words land like ice water in my veins. My chest locks tight, and I stare at the screen until the letters blur.
Elaine is still beside me, quiet, close. Yet all I can hear is Donovan’s voice in those words—the promise that this isn’t over.
My leg bounces uncontrollably. Elaine notices. Her fingers slip between mine, steady, grounding. “Stella,” she murmurs, searching my face. “What is it?”
I glance down at our hands laced together—warmth, peace—before handing her the phone.
Her eyes flick over the screen. Her jaw tightens. “Fuck him. He’s not getting a goddamn thing from you.”
Tears sting before I can stop them. “Elaine… can you just take me home?”
Elaine doesn’t argue. She just nods once, sharply, and guides me out. Her hand never leaves mine as we walk through the sterile halls, down into the night.
The drive is quiet, but not empty. Her presence fills the silence. I stare out the window, trying to breathe through the pressure in my chest. By the time we pull into my driveway, my hands are trembling.
Inside, I drop onto the couch like my legs might give out. Elaine sets my keys on the counter, shrugs off her jacket, and studies me with that lawyer’s stare that sees too much.
“What the hell is going on between us?” The words rip out before I can stop them. My voice is rough, too loud in the still house. “Because this—” I gesture between us, between our joined shadows on the wall, the way she came straight here, the way she grounds me—“it's not just plotting anymore. It’s not just… revenge.”
Elaine doesn’t flinch. She steps closer, slow and deliberate, until she’s standing over me. “You want me to name it?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Because I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel it.”
Her eyes search mine, patient but burning underneath. “Then stop pretending.”
The words hang there, daring me. My pulse thunders in my throat.
My breath shudders out, and before I can second-guess it, I rise from the couch, closing the space she left wide open. “You make it sound so easy,” I murmur, but my hands are already reaching, catching the edge of her dress, holding her like I might lose my nerve if I let go.
Elaine tilts her head, her mouth so close I feel the warmth of every word. “Itiseasy. You just don’t want it to be.”
Something in me snaps. I kiss her. Hard.
