Not pretty tears. Ugly, gasping sobs that hurt my smoke-damaged throat. Because twenty-four hours ago I’d been rage-sexting my cheating ex, and now I was sitting in a luxury suite wearing yesterday’s soot-stained clothes, holding a hoodie that cost more than my laptop—my old laptop, the one that was now a melted puddle of plastic and silicon—while three men I barely knew treated me like I mattered.
Like I was worth protecting.
Like I was worth this.
The bedroom waited through a separate doorway—I could see the edge of a king-sized bed dressed in crisp white linens, a tufted leather headboard rising above it. Golden lamps cast warm pools of light. The bathroom beyond would be sleek stone and glass, stocked with tiny bottles of eco-friendly products that smelled like citrus and herbs.
All perfect, and temporary, and terrifying me with how much I wanted to stay.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it from my pocket with shaking hands.
Three texts, arriving simultaneously.
Ares:Security guard outside your door. Press the panic button by the bed if you need anything. I mean anything.
Leo:Hope the clothes work. Cassie from the gift shop said yoga pants are universal. Is that true? Asking for science.
Orion:Get some rest. Doctor’s orders. We’ll talk tomorrow.
I stared at the messages, then at the flowers, then at the mountain view turning purple in the dying light.
And I realized I had absolutely no idea what I’d gotten myself into.
For the first time since Daniel’s betrayal photo arrived on my phone, I felt something other than just rage or humiliation.
I felt seen.
Even if I had no idea what to do with that.
While I was caressing the cashmere hoodie, someone knocked on the door. Not the polite tap of housekeeping. A confident rhythm that somehow managed to sound cheerful.
I wiped my eyes with my sleeve—attractive—and called out, “Come in?”
The door opened and Leo stepped inside, carrying a paper bag that smelled like heaven. Real food. Not hospital cafeteria sadness or prepackaged allergy-safe meals.
“Delivery,” he announced, then stopped when he saw my face. His expression shifted from playful to concerned in half a second. “Whoa. Are you okay?”
“Fine,” I croaked, which was obviously a lie given the tears still drying on my cheeks and my voice sounding like I’d gargled gravel.
He set the bag on the dining table and moved closer, his hands shoved in his pockets like he was trying to stop himself from reaching for me. “You’re crying.”
“Observant.”
“Is it the flowers? Did we screw up the flowers? I told Ares roses were too formal, but he insisted?—”
“The flowers are beautiful.” My voice cracked. “Everything’s beautiful. That’s the problem.”
Leo tilted his head, studying me with those forest-green eyes that probably made women confess secrets they’d sworn to take to their graves. “I’m not following.”
“This.” I gestured at the suite, the flowers, the laptop, and the mountain of clothes. “It’s too much. I don’t—I can’t?—”
“Breathe,” he said gently. “Doctor’s orders, remember?”
I sucked in air that tasted like smoke and flowers and whatever delicious thing was in that paper bag.
“Better,” he said. “Now, can I sit? Or do you need space?”
I patted the sofa next to me. He sat, leaving a careful foot of distance between us. Professional. Except for the way his eyes kept drifting to my face like he was cataloging every tear track.
