My eyes lift until they land on Amelia.
She’s standing at the bottom of the staircase, wearing one of my old jerseys that hangs loosely on her frame. Her hair is messy; her eyes are wide and unsure.
God, her eyes look just as wrecked as mine.
For a second, everything in me breaks open again.
My chest lurches, hope and pain colliding, and I rasp out the words from my throat. “What are you doing here?”
She swallows, her voice small and fragile. “I came back to talk, I?—”
“No.” My voice cuts sharply through the air, harsher than I intended, but I can’t stop. The anger has been boiling over for too long. “You don’t get to start with that.”
Her lips press together, trembling.
I step forward, the floor creaking under my boots. “You disappeared, Amelia. Four fucking days. No goodbye. No explanation. Nothing. Just silence.” My voice cracks, my throat burning, but I don’t hold it back. “Do you have any idea what that did to me? Sitting here wondering what the fuck I did wrong? Wondering if I imagined everything?”
She flinches, tears filling her eyes, but it only sharpens the pain in me.
“I didn’t give you the quarterback,” I grind out, slamming my palm against the counter. “I didn’t give you the show, the media smile, the perfect image. I gave you me.Just me.Raw. Messy. Honest. And you still ran.”
Her eyes shine, glassy, her chest heaving. “Maverick?—”
I shake my head, pacing, my hands tearing through my hair. My lungs feel like they’re collapsing. “You look at me like you’re waiting for me to turn into him. Like I’m some fucking time bomb just waiting to hurt you. But I’m not Jax. I will never be Jax.”
The words rip straight out of me, raw and broken. “I would set myself on fire before I ever laid a hand on you or made you feel small. Don’t you get it?!”
Her hand lifts to her mouth, shoulders shaking as tears spill over.
My chest caves in, and the confession slips out before I can stop it. “I love you.” My voice cracks and splinters. “God, I fucking love you, Amelia. And it’s not because of some contract. It’s you. It’s always been you. And I’m so fucking tired of you pretending you don’t feel it too.”
She staggers back a step.
The rage and desperation tear through me.
I push away from the counter and storm over to the drawer by the fridge. My hand grabs the thin stack of papers I swore I’d never look at again, the contract. The fucking lie. The proof of the deal that started all of this.
I slam it down on the counter, the sharp crack reverberating through the kitchen. My chest heaves as I open it, reading the words that now feel like poison. My pulse pounds, fury rising in my veins, and then I start ripping. Pages tear in my fists, split down the middle, scattering across the countertop like broken promises.
Her eyes widen as she sucks in a breath.
“No more contracts,” I rasp, my chest heaving. “No more fake marriage. You either want me, or you don’t. But I’m done pretending this is anything less than real.”
The torn shreds slide across the floor, curling and folding on the hardwood like everything we’ve been hiding behind is finally dead.
I stand there, fists clenched, heart pounding so loudly I can feel it in my teeth. Tears blur my vision; I don’t bother to hide them.
And all I can do is watch her—my wife, my soul, my everything—and wait to see if she’ll finally stop running.
The papers tear in my hands, jagged edges fluttering to the floor like ash. My chest heaves, throat raw, but I can’t stop—I won’t.
“This isn’t fake!” I snarl as I rip through the page, jagged edges fluttering to the floor. “Do you hear me, Amelia? This was never fucking fake.”
Her lips part as she presses her hand to her chest like she’s holding herself together.
I slam my palm flat against the shredded pile, leaning over it, eyes burning into hers. “I want to provide for you. I want to love you. Protect you. Be your fucking husband. Not for a deal. Not for the cameras. For me. For us.”
She takes a shaky step back, tears welling, but I push forward, words pouring out, raw and gutted.
