On the sofa opposite mine, Hallie Mae was curled into the corner like a cat, one hand resting protectively on her small, rounded belly. Soft blonde hair, wide blue eyes, warmth that rolled off her in gentle waves. She wore an oversized sweatshirt with a faded church youth group logo, and every time she shifted, the light caught the pale gold ring on her finger. Noah’s wife. Preacher’s daughter. Her father had been killed—I remembered that in a vague, fuzzy way from something someone had said in the kitchen.
Vivienne sprawled beside her, red curls piled on top of her head like a crown, legs stretched out, feet pointed in a way that made me think of ballet barres and bloodied toes. She looked like she should be holding a martini on a French Quarter balcony, not a mug of tea in a private fortress in the middle of the night. Elias’s wife. Her green eyes were bright, sharp, but softened every time they landed on me.
Sloane sat on the rug near the windows, back against the sofa, phone turned face-down beside her like a reformed addict. She had that effortless beauty that screamed influencer—perfectly arched brows, glossy hair more blonde than brunette, sweatpants that somehow still managed to look designer. Charlie’s wife. She’d told me earlier, in a quick aside, that she used to think “security detail” meant “guys who help you past paparazzi,” and now she knew better.
Portia had claimed the arm of a sofa like it was a throne, long legs crossed, dark skin luminous even in the low light. She was distractingly gorgeous—high cheekbones, expressive eyes, hair in sleek waves that brushed her shoulders. Silas’s wife. The famous wedding planner. Even now, barefoot and in a simple black slip dress, she radiated control. If anyone could plan a war and make it look pretty, it was her.
Meghan was the one hovering near the sideboard, hands restless. She’d already brought out tea, then coffee, then a plate of something she called “emergency brownies” that tasted like chocolate and salt and therapy. Dark hair scraped back into a low knot, face devoid of makeup, she still looked like she should be on the cover of a food magazine. Caleb’s fiancée. Chef. The name on my shirt belonged to her restaurant.
Camille sat near the windows, gaze flicking almost unconsciously toward the water every few minutes, like shecould see through the glass to whatever currents were flowing beneath. Dark hair braided over one shoulder, accent that curled around her words like a ribbon when she spoke. Jacob’s fiancé, marine biologist, originally from France. She’d told me, almost apologetically, that she spent more time with dolphins than people and found both equally confusing.
Natalie occupied one of the armchairs like it was a council seat. Tall, blonde, features strong and clean, she looked every inch the newly elected mayor someone had told me she was. Ethan’s fiancée. She had the kind of presence that made you want to stand up straighter and also confess your zoning violations.
And Lexi—Lexi was unmistakable even if you’d never seen a movie in your life. She had that thing, that almost unfair combination of symmetry and charisma that made the air shift when she entered a room. Blonde hair hanging loose, sweats and an old T-shirt that said CREW, bare face that somehow still looked camera-ready. Lucas’s fiancée, from Los Angeles, famous actress who’d once cried on screen so convincingly I’d believed my own heart had broken with hers.
Twelve women, counting me.
Twelve women tied to men whose lives had collided with one another and with mine in ways I still couldn’t fully grasp.
“Okay,” Claire said finally, breaking the silence. “This feels like a hostage situation, and I host those for a living on my podcast, so I’m calling it. Someone has to say something out loud before we all go quietly insane.”
Vivienne snorted softly. “Subtle, babe.”
“I’m just saying.” Claire looked at me, not unkindly. “We’ve all been where you are in some flavor or another. Maybe not … exactly this.” Her mouth tightened for a second. “But close enough. So, you can either sit there trying to pretend you’reokay, or you can tell us where your head is and we can walk you through the parts we wish someone had warned us about.”
The bluntness should have stung. It didn’t. Maybe because it cut through the fog in my brain more effectively than whispers and pity ever could.
“I don’t know where my head is,” I heard myself say. My voice came out thin but steady enough. “That’s kind of the problem.”
Isabel shifted closer, bumping my knee with her own. “Then start with where your body is,” she said gently. “Sometimes that’s easier.”
I swallowed. “My body’s … here.” I looked around the room, at the windows and the sofas and the massive fireplace that currently held nothing but cold ash. “In your ridiculous billionaire safe house.”
Lexi snorted. “Technically, it’s their ridiculous billionaire safe house. We’re just squatting.”
“Speak for yourself,” Sloane said lightly. “I brook no squat. I have throw blankets in three different textures. This is an occupation.”
A few weak laughs rippled around the room. The sound felt strange in my ears, but not bad.
“And your head?” Anna asked quietly. Her voice was low, accented, like a cello under the rest of the instruments.
I stared down at my hands. The tremors had mostly faded, but a fine shake still threaded through my fingers when I flexed them. “My head is on the porch,” I said slowly. “At the inn. Watching my father die. Or on the road. Or in the gravel. Or wherever his … body is now.” The word felt foreign. Heavy. “And also … it keeps trying to jump backward. To other people’s faces. Other nights. The last time I saw him in a courtroom. The first time I knew what he was capable of.”
Hallie Mae’s hand curled protectively over her belly. Her eyes shone. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.
“I keep thinking I should feel one specific thing,” I went on, because if I stopped talking, I was afraid I’d start screaming. “Like there’s a correct emotion for watching your father get his head blown off. But it’s all jumbled. Like … relief and horror and guilt and anger and sadness just … circling. Waiting their turn.”
“That’s normal,” Meghan said quietly, finally leaving the sideboard to claim a spot on the arm of the sofa near my feet. “There is no correct emotion for something like that. There’s just … your nervous system doing the best it can with a situation evolution didn’t account for.”
“Trust the chef,” Vivienne added, tipping her chin toward Meghan. “She’s fed a lot of people through some sort of trauma response. She knows things.”
Meghan’s mouth curved. “Food, I can control. Feelings, not so much. But I’ve learned a few things by proximity.”
“Like what?” I asked.
“Like the first thing Danes do when something goes wrong is … gather,” she said simply. “Around whoever’s shattered. They don’t always do it gracefully, but they do it. You saw some of that tonight.”
I thought of Gideon’s hand on my back on the porch. Ethan’s voice booming commands. Lucas’s eyes tracking every movement. Maude’s fingers on my arm.
