I’ve been up since the fucking crack of dawn. Couldn’t sleep. Didn’t even try. Not after hearing those words slip out of Melanie’s mouth. Three simple words that detonated in my chest like a landmine I didn’t see coming.
Was she dreaming? Maybe. God, I hope so.
No. Fuck. I hope not.
I’m twisted up inside, stuck somewhere between praying she didn’t mean it and desperately wanting to believe she did. Because some pathetic, selfish part of me wants those words to be mine. Mine and no one else’s. Wants to believe I’m the one who cut through the rusted barbed wire around her black, fucked-up heart and breathed life into whatever fragile thing was buried beneath. That I’m the guy who showed her what it means to be touched by a man, really touched, not just used or claimed or ruined, but devoured and worshipped and seen. That I’m the one who made her fall apart with my mouth, who made her feel something so deep it stole the air from her lungs.
But then—fuck. There’s the other part of me. The one who knows I’m just as wrecked as she is. Maybe worse. That we’re twodisasters playing pretend, and this-this thing between us—isn’t love. It’s survival. It’s a distraction. It’s transactional.
We made a deal. Business only. When it’s over, she gets to walk back into her curated life, and I disappear back into the shadows of mine. We weren’t meant to last. We can’t.
I tossed her some cash this morning and told her to go shopping—something thoughtless, easy. Cold. I needed space, and I wanted her to think I was just being an asshole. Especially after last night. Especially after that. Because what the hell was I thinking—cuddling her? Holding her like that? Letting her rest her head on my chest while I memorized the rhythm of her breathing? That wasn’t sex. That was… intimacy. That was dangerous. I can’t even remember the last time I held a woman after. I used to run from it like my life depended on it. Most of the guys in my unit? They’d cling to the first girl they fucked after a deployment, desperate to feel something soft again. Me? I ran. Fast and far. I watched them fall in love and fall apart and get crushed under the weight of marriages that couldn’t survive the silence of separation. And I swore I’d never be one of them. Because even if my body’s home now, my mind isn’t. Not really. Half of me still wakes up in a war zone. The other half’s just pretending not to. But with Melanie… it’s different. She feels different. Real. Sharp. Invigorating.
No. No. Fuck that. She’s a liability. She’s too young, too impulsive, too tangled in her own trauma. She’s not mine. I have no right to feel anything for her.
But still… Colt made it work. His girl’s ten years younger too, and somehow, it works. Abigail has this strength in her—it makes her feel older than she is. Maybe Melanie’s the same. Maybe age doesn’t mean shit when two broken people find something worth clinging to in each other. But what if we’ve blurred the lines so badly we can’t even see where we end and the lie begins?
What if this—us—isn’t pretend anymore?
The sharp chime of the doorbell cuts through my spiral like a gunshot. I freeze.
What the fuck?
No one comes here unannounced. I glance out the window and see a sleek Porsche in the driveway. A woman stands just outside the door, staring up at the house like she’s not sure whether to run or knock again.I place the tomatoes down on the counter, my fingers still stained red from slicing them, and wipe my hands on the towel. I don’t know why I feel tense, but I do. Like my body knows something before my mind can catch up. I open the door and find myself staring down into a pair of striking blue eyes.
“Hi, can I help you?” I ask, my voice low, cautious. She’s standing at the bottom of the steps—elegant, composed, but her energy is off. She’s not short, but not as tall as Melanie either. Blonde hair, neatly styled but dulled with age and maintenance fatigue. Her lipstick’s too red. Her nails are too perfect. She screams privileged chaos.
“Yes, I’m looking for 1535 Red Bridge Road? My GPS took me here but this doesn’t seem right.”
“This is the house,” I say flatly.
“If this is the right house, then where is Melanie?”
That makes me pause. My spine goes stiff. “Do you know Melanie?”
“Of course, I know Melanie. She’s my daughter. Who the hell are you?”
The words crash into me like a brick wall. Mother?
I square my shoulders. “I’m her husband.”
She laughs—loud and sharp. Not a warm kind of laugh. No, it’s the kind meant to make people feel small. But my expression doesn’t change. I just stare at her. Wait. She realizes I’m not joking. The humor dies in her throat. Her smile fades like it never existed. Her eyes narrow.
“Her husband?” she repeats, her voice curling with suspicion as she rakes her eyes over me like I’m some filthy stain on her designer world.
And that’s when it hits me.
Melanie never told her mother she got married.
33
MELANIE
Inever realized how therapeutic shopping could actually be—until now. Back in L.A., I did it constantly, numbing myself with designer bags and overpriced heels. It was all noise—empty, hollow noise that never lasted more than a few hours. But today? Today it felt like a goddamn high. The kind that made me forget how tangled my life had become. Two months without the rush, without the freedom to just spend and not think—and now, I felt alive. Like I’d slipped into a version of myself I thought I’d buried. I couldn’t remember much about last night—just the warm weight of Nick’s arms around me, and the cold emptiness of the couch when I woke up. He was gone. Again. Hiding behind that silent distance he’s mastered. Maybe it’s for the best. We were getting reckless, losing the thread of what this is supposed to be.
A fake marriage. That’s all this is. Was.
We both knew the rules. And maybe I should be thanking him for disappearing this morning instead of playing husband—no kisses on the forehead, no lingering touches or soft morning light moments. Because if he had stayed, if we had laid tangled in bed all morning after I poured my soul into his chest last night, I wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore. It would’ve felt too real. Too raw. Too intimate.
