“They were hidden. They were stuffed behind everything. That’s what drew my attention.”
“Hidden,” he repeats.
Then, evenly, “That man killed my father.”
The floor doesn’t just tilt. It drops.
For a split second, my body forgets how to breathe. Heat rushes to my face, then drains just as fast, leaving a hollow pressure behind my eyes. My fingers curl reflexively, nails biting into my palms like I need the pain to anchor me.
The pieces snap together in an instant. The rooms he never opened, the way his jaw locked whenever family came up, the silence he carried like armor.
His cold armor wasn’t about secrecy or paranoia. It was grief, contained so tightly it looked like control.
I’ve been living inside it without even knowing.
“I didn’t know,” I say immediately. The words tumble out before I can temper them. “I swear to you. I didn’t even know your father was dead until you told me. I wasn’ttrying to betray you.”
His eyes snap to mine, sharp and hot beneath the restraint in his voice. Not wild. Focused. Like he’s holding something back with both hands.
“After everything,” he starts and then pauses, grabbing onto his beard. It’s the only tick I’ve noticed him do. A lump rises in my throat.
“Ridge.”
“You thought sneaking around would end well?”
The implication is painful to hear from him about me. It reframes everything, turning curiosity into intent. It makes me sound calculated instead of lost.
“I wasn’t sneaking,” I say, even though the denial tastes thin. “I just?—”
“You just what?”
He steps closer. Not fast. Not angry. The restraint in it is worse than either.
The edge of the bed presses into my spine, a dull reminder that there’s nowhere to move without making it obvious I’m backing away.
“You hid them,” he says. “You didn’t have a plan. And the second I tell you you’re leaving, you go looking for them. I’m not a fucking idiot, Coco.”
He delivers it calmly, like he’s setting something down piece by piece and waiting for me to see the shape of it. Like he’s gauging how I will respond, watching me walk into his trap.
He tilts his head. “Explain that.”
My eyes drop to the photos in his hand. They look different now. Not keepsakes. Evidence. Proof that I crossed a line I didn’t know was there until I was already standing on the wrong side of it.
“Ridge, I don’t know what else to tell you. I wasn’t looking for anything, they were shoved to the back, so Ithought they might mean something. And you came back here right afer I found them. That’s it.” My voice drops without permission. “Something seemed significant, but I had no idea what or why. That’s the extent of it.”
“I wish I could believe you Coco.”
“I’m sorry.”
The words scrape on the way out. Not because I don’t mean them, but because I know they don’t fix anything. They don’t rewind the moment I realized I wanted to hold on to something that was never mine.
Ridge doesn’t answer right away.
He leans against the doorframe, one hand at his beard, thumb dragging slowly through the stubble as if he’s not aware he’s doing it. The photos hang loose in his other hand, edges bent slightly from where he’s been holding them too long.
His face gives nothing away. The silence stretches, not awkwardly, but uncomfortably. It’s deliberate, like he’s sorting through more than what I did, weighing outcomes I’m not meant to know.
My pulse thuds loudly in my ears. I wait for anger. For a decision I can brace for. Something sharp enough to react to.
