Alive.
Safe.
"I've known the Harpers for thirty years," Richard says suddenly, breaking the silence. "We've spent holidays together since the kids were in diapers. Ethan and Charlie practically grew up together."
I tense slightly at Ethan's name.
"I never understood what Charlie saw in him romantically," he continues, his tone casual but his words deliberate. "He was always... selfish. Even as a child. The kind who'd break his toys rather than share them."
My jaw tightens as I think about Ethan's smug face, the proprietary way he'd looked at Charlie at dinner, even with Olivia next to him.
"That lasagna was strange," Richard adds, almost as an afterthought. "Patricia usually makes it with the same recipe every year. Never had shellfish in it before."
The implication hangs in the air between us. I glance at Margaret, who's been quietly looking out the passenger window. She turns slightly, meeting my eyes with a hard look that tells me she's thinking the same thing.
"You don't think..." I begin, then stop myself. It sounds insane when I try to say it aloud.
"I don't know what to think," Richard says evenly. "But I know my daughter has carried an EpiPen since she was fourteen, and in all these years, she's never once had a reaction this severe."
Charlie stirs against me, mumbling something incoherent before settling again. I press my lips to the top of her head, breathing in her strawberry scent.
"We're almost home," Margaret says, reaching back to pat Charlie's knee. "She'll feel better after she gets some real rest."
The SUV turns onto the private road leading up to the Whitaker property. Fresh snow has fallen overnight, covering our tracks from yesterday. Everything looks new, pristine. I wish I could feel the same way—cleansed andrenewed—but anger simmers under my skin, growing hotter with each passing minute.
If Ethan had anything to do with Charlie's reaction...
"We're here," Richard announces, pulling up to the house. "Sebastian, can you help Charlie inside while I grab her things?"
"Of course."
I kiss the top of her head and place my hand on hers.
"Hey Shortcake."
Her eyes flutter open, hazel irises finding mine, momentarily confused before recognition sets in.
"We're home," I tell her softly.
She yawns, stretching slightly. "Did I sleep the whole way?"
"You needed it." I brush a strand of auburn hair from her face, allowing my fingers to linger against her skin. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," she says, attempting a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Still tired though."
"Let's get you inside."
I help her from the car, keeping a supportive arm around her waist as we navigate the freshly shoveled path to the front door. She leans heavily against me, and I adjust my stride to match her slower pace.
"Thank you," she murmurs. "For everything."
I stop us at the bottom of the porch steps, turning to face her fully. Her eyes are glassy with medication and fatigue, but they hold mine steadily.
"Charlie, I..." The words catch in my throat. There's so much I want to say—about how terrified I was, about how I never want to let her out of my sight again, about how what started as a pretend relationship has become the most real thing in my life.
Instead, I simply pull her into my arms, holding her against my chest, my face buried in her hair. She melts into the embrace, her arms circling my waist.
"I know," she whispers against my sweater. "Me too."
