"That's not fair—"
"It's true." My weight shifts. "And I'm done pretending it wasn't. You were controlling. Manipulative. You made me feel like I was nothing without you, like every choice I made was wrong unless you approved it first."
"Scout, you're being—"
"I'm being honest. For the first time in years, I'm being honest."
Every word lands and I feel it—the power in saying this out loud, in standing here and not backing down. "So leave. Now."
His face twists. The mask just—falls. What's underneath is ugly. Eyes hard, jaw locked, mouth pulled tight. He steps forward. Into my space. The way he used to when he wanted me to fold.
But I don't back up.
My feet stay planted. My hands aren't shaking. Every instinct is screaming to apologize, smooth this over, make it stop—but I swallow it down and hold my ground.
"You don't get to talk to me like that."
"Yes, I do." My chin's up. Shoulders back. "This is my life. My choice. And I'm choosing to stay here."
"You think you can just run away and play mechanic in this shithole town?" Louder now. Sweat beading at his temples, collar wilted, face going blotchy. The desert's burning away whatever looked impressive about him. "You think anyone here actually cares about you? They don't know you—"
"More than you ever did."
He flinches.
Actually flinches.
And I see it happen—him realizing I'm not the woman who ran days before the wedding. That woman would've apologized by now. Would've made herself smaller, agreed to talk just to stop the tension.
But I'm not her.
"You're being ridiculous." Red-faced now. Angry. "You're coming home. Now."
He grabs my wrist.
Fingers dig in—tight, controlling, that grip that used to make me freeze because fighting back made it worse.
"Let go of me."
"Not until you listen—"
"She said let go."
Holt's voice cuts through. Low and deadly.
Evan fingers tighten and my wrist throbs—sharp, immediate. "Who the hell are you?"
Holt steps forward. Doesn't shove me aside, just moves so Evan has to look at him. And the difference is stark. Holt's bigger. Broader. Ink spiraling up his arms, sweat-soaked shirt,presence that doesn't need to prove anything. Dangerous in a way Evan will never be.
"Someone who knows what 'no' means." Calm. Terrifying. "Let her go."
Evan's sizing him up. Trying to find an angle. His grip digs harder and pain shoots up my arm.
"This is between me and my fiancée—"
I yank free. "I'm not your fiancée. I never was."
"You think you're protecting her?" Evan's talking to Holt now. Dismissing me like I'm not even here. "She's unstable. She needs help—"
