Trust.
She doesn’t say the word, but something fragile moves between us anyway—woven into the softer edge of her voice, the way her shoulders unclench, the almost-imperceptible lean in my direction.
“So, you saved me as a favor,” she says, her mouth curling in a wry little smile. She tries to make it a joke, but her eyes betray her—tiny fracture lines of disappointment she’s too proud to show fully.
I shake my head. “You didn’t look like someone waiting to be saved. You looked like someone who learned to survive alone.” I nod at the dog. “But when Maisie needed help, you didn’t think twice. That’s who you are. Someone who steps toward pain, even when it isn’t yours.”
She doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. She just… lets it land. Her fingers twitch at her sides as if they want to reach out but don’t know how yet.
“I don’t know what you’re running from,” I murmur. “And I won’t ask. Not until you want to tell me.”
A flicker of emotion crosses her face. Relief. Fear. Maybe both.
“But I’ll tell you this,” I go on. “Whatever it is, it’s not stronger than you. And it sure as hell won’t reach you while you’re under my roof.”
Her gaze drops to the floor, then lifts slowly. Her blue eyes are soft and wide, shining not with tears, but something more dangerous.
Hope.
Sadie looks like someone preparing to re-open a wound as she moves past me to sit on the couch. She sits on the edge, hands laced together, like she’s bracing for impact.
She takes a breath that stutters on the way out. “I want to tell you what happened.”
Chapter 8
Wyatt
I refill our mugs and hand one to her before settling at the other end of the couch. Sadie shifts, moving closer to me as Maisie curls up on her other side. My hands itch to reach for her, wrap my arms around her, but I push the instinct down. She needs to come to me on her own terms.
I sit. Not too close. Close enough. If she hands me her story, I’ll guard it with the same fierceness I’ll guard her life.
Sadie looks into the fire, her gaze distant. When she finally speaks, her voice is steady.
“My mother died when I was eight,” she says softly. “She had a rare, aggressive form of lupus. Even with specialists and constant care, it moved faster than anyone expected. I think she knew she was leaving me with a man who didn’t know how to grieve.”
She exhales a humorless huff. “And she was right. My father remarried less than a year later. Joanne.” Her mouth twists. “Lovely woman. Wrong man. They lasted a year. Then came Nancy. Three years. I liked her. She tried.”
Another small breath, this one sharper. “After that was Marcie. Six months. They didn’t even bother unpacking the wedding china.”
She pauses to sip her tea. “By then, I’d figured it out. He wasn’t replacing a wife. He was replacing the part of himself he refused to deal with.”
“And then came Clarissa.” The way she says it changes the temperature of the room. She places her mug on the side table and tucks her hands under the blanket like she’s afraid they’ll shake.
“Take your time,” I murmur.
“I’d already finished my undergrad and had just started my third year of vet school. Exhausted, busy, but happy, I guess. As close as I’ve ever been. Animals were the one place I felt… normal.”
Her gaze drifts to Maisie, who noses her thigh softly. “My father remarried Clarissa while I was at school. We’d met a handful of times. Enough to know she was polished, observant, and very good at making everything feel like a performance you didn’t know you were auditioning for.”
Sadie’s throat works around a swallow. “I didn’t trust her,” she admits. “Not because she was unkind. Not exactly. But every time I visited home, more staff had been replaced. She’d inserted herself into more of my father’s business decisions. And she watched me. Not out of affection. More like I was a loose thread she intended to pull.”
My spine stiffens.
“One day,” Sadie continues, “I was at a café near campus when Harry showed up. I’d seen him around the estate before. He washired after Clarissa married my father. Security, supposedly. But he reported to her, not him.”
A shadow crosses her features, the kind born from hindsight. “That should have been my first warning. He told me that my father was sick. Very sick. And that I needed to come home immediately.”
She draws a shaky breath. “When I got there, the whole house felt wrong. New faces. Staff who wouldn’t meet my eyes. Clarissa waiting on the stairs like she was about to receive an award. When I asked to see my father, she hesitated. Clarissa never hesitates.”
