For now.
But I’m not done fighting for her. Not with fists. Not with threats but with patience. With distance. With becoming someone she can choose without fear.
TWENTY-FIVE
DALLEN
Four months later, Ireland
The first thingI notice when the car turns through the gates is how wrong Stephen was.
Cottage.
Stephen Moretti’s “cottage” rises out of the Irish countryside like something carved from legend—gray stone walls, tall, mullioned windows catching the pale afternoon light, ivy climbing confidently toward the roofline as if it has every intention of claiming the place. Beyond it, the Atlantic stretches vast and merciless, waves crashing against rock in a rhythm that feels both violent and cleansing.
It’s beautiful.
It’s imposing.
It’s precisely the kind of place a man like Stephen would live.
But cottage? No, it most certainly isn’t that.
My pulse hums as the driver brings the car to a stop. I sit there for longer than necessary, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. I have replayed this arrival in my head ahundred times over the past months—what I would say, how I would stand, whether I would break the moment I saw him.
I am not the same woman who left New York. Not the woman who lay on the carpet of her office, believing she was about to die. But I’m not totally broken either. I’ve worked hard to repair what I could from that night, and seeing Stephen is my final step to that healing.
I quickly swipe my card and pay the fare, opening the door before I can change my mind.
The cold air hits me—stealing my breath for a moment. I can taste the salt on my lips. It fills my lungs, a sensation that feels almost healing. For so long, everything has smelled like antiseptic, city trash, and fear lodged somewhere deep in my memory. This smells like freedom, security, and possibility.
A new start.
The front door opens before I reach it. Stephen steps out and pauses on the threshold. His gaze devours me. Perhaps a good sign that he hasn’t moved on. That I may still ignite something in his heart and mind. But he also looks…different.
Not softer. He will never be soft. But less coiled. His shoulders aren’t braced for impact, his jaw isn’t set quite so tight. The wildness in him hasn’t disappeared—it stirs there beneath the surface—but it’s quieter here, like the land itself is absorbing some of it.
We stand there for a moment, looking at each other.
It’s been months. Thirteen weeks to be exact, but who’s counting?
You were counting, Dallen.
So many weeks of therapy. Weeks of slow, careful conversations with a woman who tells me that trauma does not make me weak. That I shouldn’t carry shame as it isn’t mine to bear. That no matter what I did, Elio Romero would have attempted what he did to me that night, that it was his choiceand his choice alone. That no one blames me, isn’t judging me, no matter how much I think they are.
But these past three weeks have been the hardest. Returning to the office three days a week and forcing myself to walk the corridor where it happened. Working at my desk and remembering how everything unfolded.
I survived, and most of that survival lies at this beautiful man’s feet. How I missed him, so much so that some nights I physically hurt.
“You came,” he says finally. His voice is steady, but there is something beneath it. Something fragile that I’ve never heard before.
“I did.”
He takes a step toward me and then stops. Is he unsure of himself, or of me? I can’t help but think it’s the latter.
“Can I hug you?” he asks.
The question alone nearly undoes me. Once upon a time, he would have taken me into his arms, claimed the space, claimed me. The man standing before me now waits for permission.
