“Can I come in?” The question is careful, like he’s afraid of the answer.
I should say no and protect us both from what this conversation will be. I step back anyway, opening the door wider.
“Of course.”
He follows me inside, and I’m hyperaware of everything that filters through his eyes. The house that isn’t mine. The ring on my finger that catches in the morning light. The smell of coffee. He sets the box on the dining table, needing to create distance.
“You look tired,” he says carefully.
“I didn’t sleep well.” At least I’m telling the truth. I move to the kitchen and start pulling out flour, sugar, and baking powder. “Can I get you some coffee? I was just about to make biscuits.”
“Biscuits.” His eyes shine a little brighter then. “Like always.”
“Old habit.” I retrieve supplies because it lets me keep my back to him. That way, I do not have to see the grief etched into his features any longer than necessary. I measure ingredients with shaking hands, grateful for the familiar routine. Something I can do without thinking. “You know me. Can’t start the day without baking something.”
“Do I?” The question lands heavy. “Know you?”
I keep my eyes on the dough that’s started to come together in the bowl. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the Saintlyn I know, who I raised, wouldn’t be here.” His voice is quiet. Controlled. “She wouldn’t have married a Bishop.”
I pause with my hands still in the flour. “People and things change. That’s life.”
“Sure, but not this much or this fast.” Stepping closer now, I can feel him trying to catch my eye. “Saintlyn, would you please look at me?”
I do, and immediately wish I hadn’t, because the pain I see in his eyes crumbles the last bit of my resolve. I can play my part, keep the lie going, but only if I’m not looking him right in the eyes.
“You don’t have to lie. I can get you away,” he says, words tumbling out urgent and desperate. “I’ve been making calls and talking to people. We can leave together. Tonight, if you want. I have money saved, enough to get us far away from here. Colorado, maybe. Or Oregon. Somewhere the Bishops can’t touch us.”
The offer lands like a grenade. For a moment, one beautiful, terrible moment, I let myself imagine it. Running away with my father. Starting over somewhere new. Being just Saint James again, not Saint Bishop. Not a wife. Not a captive. The fantasy crumbles as fast as it forms. There is no way out, not when I know Roman would find us. He’d track us down like a bloodhound and then kill me, or worse, kill my father and make me watch.
“I know it’s hard for you to accept, but I have no reason to leave.” I force the words out of my mouth, then turn my attention back to the dough.
“What?” His voice cracks.
“I love him, Dad.” The words feel like glass in my throat, cutting on the way out. “I know you don’t understand. I know it seemed...forced.But it wasn’t. Not really.”
“Saintlyn—”
“No!” I yell. “You need to stop. Stop trying to get me to leave. Stop asking questions and giving solutions to a problem that doesn’t exist. I want to be here. I love Calder.”
“Love? This isn’t love, sweetheart. Love is what your mother and I had. That’s love. This is… something else entirely.”
I’m barely keeping myself together, barely holding back the tears. I’d always hoped to have a love story as timeless as my parents. I guess my luck ran out.
“You don’t have to agree or like it, but it’s my choice.”
“No.” He shakes his head violently. “I saw your face when he put that gun to my chest. Saw how terrified you were. That wasn’t a choice, Saintlyn. None of this has been a choice.”
“I was scared,” I admit carefully. “Scared of how you’d react. Scared you’d try to stop me. But not scared of Calder.” The lie sits heavy on my tongue. “Never of him.”
Then I realize with a jolt that it’s not a lie. I’m not afraid of him anymore.
“If he doesn’t hurt you. If you aren’t scared of him.” He stops, eyes dropping to my wrists. To the bruises visible beneath the flannel’s rolled cuffs, then back up to my cheek. “Then why are you covered in marks?”
Heat floods my face. “That’s private.”
“Private.” His voice goes flat. “Did he hurt you?”
