“Holy shit,” Nate breathes, jogging down the steps. His green eyes are blown wide with shock.
“Gracie?”
He says her name with a familiar, worried softness.
Dominic doesn’t say a word.
He stays on the threshold, arms crossed over his chest, face as unreadable as carved stone. But his gaze is locked on Cohen. A quick, clinical assessment. Calculating damage.
Then, with one smooth movement, he steps aside and holds the door open.
We spill into the warm house.
“Couch,” Dominic orders, his low voice finally slicing through the spell.
Cohen lays her down carefully on the dark leather cushions.
Grace whimpers, a thin, confused sound, and fists her hands in Cohen’s T-shirt like it’s the only solid thing left in a spinning world.
“No… no, Dad, please…” she mumbles, eyes still shut, sweat beading on her forehead.
Cohen drops to his knees beside her, cradling her face in his hands. “Shhh, Gracie. Dad’s not here. It’s just me. You’re safe.”
She forces her eyes open the slightest bit. They’re glassy, unfocused, pupils disturbingly huge.
And then she breaks.
This time it’s not the quiet crying from the club. This is messy, full-body sobbing—ragged, hysterical, every breath hitching through her chest.
“I’m sorry, Co… I’m so sorry,” she chokes out, clutching his shirt. “I didn’t want to… he said I had to come, that there’d be important people there… I didn’t want to drink, but they gave me that glass and…”
“It doesn’t matter,” Cohen cuts in, his voice cracking. “It doesn’t matter, it’s over.”
“No, it’s not over!” she screams, thrashing weakly. “You keep doing it! You keep taking the blame! I saw the papers, Co… they talk so much shit, they say you’re some manwhore… but… I don’t want you to keep carrying everything just to protect me.”
I freeze.
I’m standing near the cold, empty fireplace, Porsche keys biting into my palm, and the whole room tilts on its axis.
I glance at Nate. He’s gone white, rubbing both hands over his face like he’s trying to scrub this whole night away.
“Stop making everyone hate you to protect me…” Grace keeps repeating, her voice shredding into something raw and unbearable.
“I don’t give a damn, Gracie,” Cohen growls, and there’s so much ferocity in it that my skin prickles. He grips her hands and presses them to his mouth. “As long as I’m breathing, that’s how it’s gonna be. I take the shit. All of it. I don’t care what they write, I don’t care about anything if you’re safe. Got it? Look at me. You don’t get dragged into this. I already told you.”
Click.
In my head, the pieces of the puzzle start to move.
They slide into place with a deafening snap.
Every tabloid photo.
Women stumbling out of clubs with him at three a.m.
Sources whispering about wild parties and bad behavior.
They weren’t conquests.
