I finally lift my eyes to him, and the devastation in his gaze nearly breaks me.
“You didn’t deserve this, Miles. And Anna doesn’t deserve it either. You’re both going to get dragged into this because you’re associated with me. And this—” My voice cracks. “This is why I always kept my distance. Because this was always my fear.”
A sob bursts from me, raw and painful.
“I don’t know what to do,” I repeat. “I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to keep you safe from the fallout.”
I fold forward, burying my face in my hands as a fresh wave of tears pours down my cheeks, unstoppable and crushing.
Miles moves beside me on the sofa without hesitation. He gathers me against his chest, wrapping his arms around me with a gentleness that both steadies me and shatters me further. His warmth surrounds me, solid and grounding, but some distant part of me knows it’s only temporary shelter. Not even Miles, my perfect, loving, steadfast Miles, can stop what’s already unraveling.
He presses soft kisses into my hair, brushing back the damp, tear-soaked strands of hair stuck to my face.
“Listen to me,” he murmurs, his voice low and steady, threaded with a tenderness that almost undoes me.
He tips my chin just enough for me to hear him clearly.
“None of this is your fault. Not now, and not then.”
My breath trembles.
“You were a child, Miranda,” he continues, his fingers brushing a stray tear as it falls. “You were groomed. Manipulated. Taken advantage of by a predator.”
I close my eyes, a fresh wave of shame threatening, but he holds me tighter, refusing to let me fold into myself.
“Remember who he was,” Miles says, his voice firm but still gentle. “A grown man, twenty years older than you. Someone who was supposed to protect you, coach you, and guide you. He was supposed to be safe.”
His jaw flexes against my temple, anger thrumming beneath the softness. “And instead, he used your innocence, your loneliness, and your insecurities against you. He twisted them to control you. That is not something a child can consent to. That is not something you can blame yourself for.”
His thumb sweeps my cheek, collecting another tear before it can fall.
“He should’ve gone to jail,” Miles says, the edge in his voice unmistakable. “He should’ve been behind bars for a very, verylong time. But the system failed you. It protected him instead of you.”
I choke out a small sound—pain, acceptance, and grief all tangled together.
Miles presses his forehead to mine.
“You were a victim,” he whispers. “An innocent kid who never should’ve had to carry that weight. You do not apologize for what happened to you. You don’t shoulder the blame for the crimes someone else committed.”
He pulls me against his chest again, one hand stroking slow circles on my back.
“And you sure as hell don’t apologize to me,” he adds softly, kissing the top of my head. “Not for this. Not ever.”
“This publicity isn’t going to be good,” I whisper, my voice trembling so hard the words barely hold together.
“I don’t care about the publicity,” Miles says immediately—so quickly and so fiercely that it startles me. His hands frame my face, gentle but certain. “The only thing that matters to me is you.”
I try to look away, to protect him from the mess my past has dragged to our doorstep, but he won’t let me pull back.
“I know the way you grew up taught you that love is conditional. That it can be taken away. That people leave.”
My chest tightens with that painful, familiar ache.
“But real love doesn’t work like that,” he continues, voice low and steady. “Real love is unconditional. No—listen to me,” he urges when I start to shake my head. “The circumstances don’t matter. The noise doesn’t matter. The media, the headlines, the idiots online—they don’t matter.”
His forehead rests against mine, his breath warming my skin.
“It’s the people who matter,” he whispers. “You matter.”
