His shoulders eased, just slightly. “Thank you.”
It was simple. Earnest. And it told me something I didn’t expect.
He cared what people thought now. Not for reputation. For consequence.
“Don’t make me regret saying this,” I said, stiff again.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “I won’t.”
As I headed for the door, I glanced back once more.
He was already back beside Lily, helping her measure the ingredients.
And I thought of Claire, of the girl she’d been before the town got hold of her story, who survived the wreckage quietly, rebuilding herself piece by piece.
I was still guarded. I always would be.
But for the first time in years, my certainty shifted. I believed Claire might actually be safe around him.
Maybe, even better off.
Chapter 50
Claire
I wore my red dress. Not because I expected anything big, just because it was the one night that week Brandon was supposed to be home before midnight. I smoothed the fabric over my hips and checked my reflection one last time, tugging slightly at the hem until it sat where I wanted it.
The apartment was clean. I’d wiped down the counters, lit the small candle I only used when I expected company, and set the dish on the table so the smell of garlic and tomato sauce filled the room. The kind of evening I’d been missing without fully admitting it.
I checked the time again. He was late, but not unusually so.
When the knock finally came, it was softer than expected, followed by a clumsy shuffle. I opened the door and barely had time to register what was happening before Brandon stumbled forward, catching himself awkwardly against the frame. I gasped and grabbed his arm without thinking.
“Hey, are you okay?”
He laughed, low and loose, the sound already answering my question. Up close, the smell of alcohol was unmistakable.
I steadied him and guided him inside, my hand firm on his elbow. He leaned heavier on me, and my shoulders tightened as I helped him toward the couch.
“You’re drunk,” I said, trying not to sound accusing.
“Mm,” he hummed, carefree.
I felt the irritation rise immediately, but I pushed it down. Tonight was supposed to be ours. The only night this week. I didn’t want to start a fight.
He looked up at me then, eyes unfocused but sincere. “You look beautiful.”
The words were a little slurred. I didn’t smile, but I didn’t pull away either.
“Sit,” I grunted, guiding him onto the couch. He collapsed into the cushions with a contented sigh, shoes still on, tie crooked.
“I made dinner,” I added, mostly to fill the silence.
“That’s… great,” he said, already drifting.
I went into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, trying to steady myself. I told myself it wasn’t intentional. That work dinners blurred into drinks, that he probably hadn’t planned to come home like this. I focused on practical things: filling the glass, pushing my hair back, breathing.
When I came back, he was already eating.
