Instinct had.
Caleb leaned back in the chair and scrubbed his hand over his face.
Millie’s instincts could be wrong. That happened. Her theory could simply point to coincidence. After all, trauma could sometimes sharpen perceptions until every shadow looked like a threat.
But the kennel sabotage hadn’t been coincidence.
Neither had the drone.
He stood, Hamilton beside him, and checked the locks one more time. Then he turned off the remaining lights. Upstairs, the house slept uneasily around its secrets.
Tomorrow could bring more problems. If it did, he’d deal with them then. Not now.
Caleb paused at the foot of the stairs and looked up once more, toward the room where Millie slept.
Then he went to his office.
He wasn’t ready to sleep yet.
Right now, he wanted to look at Valentina’s paperwork.
chapter
twenty-four
Millie hadn’t botheredto turn the lights on when she’d slipped into her room. Instead, she’d gone straight to her bed and sat down, needing to sort her thoughts.
The tremor had finally caught up to her.
Caleb had always left her like that—feeling off-balance but in a good way.
He’d been attentive without being suffocating. Protective without making her feel small. He’d treated her like she mattered, treated her like she was a princess, she’d teased him once.
She hadn’t been joking.
Maybe that was why it had hurt so badly when he ended things. There had been no slow fade or major fight. Just a quiet decision she hadn’t been invited into.
Afterward, she’d told herself she’d imagined the depth of their feelings for each other—that she’d built more out of it than Caleb had.
Garrick, on the other hand, had been different from the beginning. Charming in a loud, consuming way. He’d easily given flowers and compliments. He’d made promises that had been spoken too early, too easily.
Millie had mistaken his intensity for devotion.
The first time she tried to leave him, she’d packed a bag while he was at work and driven three hours. He’d called before she reached the state line.
As he’d talked to her, he’d been calm and reasonable. He’d known exactly what to say.
“I’m sorry, Millie. I’m so sorry.” His voice had broken convincingly. “You’re right to leave. I’ve been terrible. But please, just come home so we can talk face-to-face. You deserve that much—to tell me everything I’ve done wrong. I’ll listen. I promise.” A pause. “And we need to figure out the practical stuff, right? The apartment lease, the bank accounts, your car insurance. Let’s do this the right way.”
He’d made it sound so reasonable. So mature. Like they’d have a calm conversation and sort everything out properly.
She’d turned around. When she’d walked through that door, he’d dropped the act immediately.
No conversation. No sorting things out. Just his fist and a clear message: She didn’t get to leave.
It had taken another year—and another hospital visit—before she left him for real.
Millie pressed her fingers to her eyes. Tears burned, stubborn and unwelcome.
