“And why’s that?” I teased.
He chuckled, that low, warm sound that always settled me. “Because she’s stubborn, dramatic, and likes attention. She reminds me of someone.”
“Liam—”
“Elbows sharp, dreams even sharper,” he said, voice dipping soft. “That one’s all you, Stephy.”
My throat had gone tight, too tight. We both felt the words we weren’t saying.
And we let the silence hold them.
I'd cried after we hung up. Quiet tears in a luxury hotel suite, missing a home I'd never really had, missing a boy who'd become a man without me there to see it.
He'd made me laugh that night, even through the exhaustion. He always made me laugh. Even from eight hundred miles away, Liam Walker could make me feel like myself again.
I hit call before I could lose my nerve.
It rang once. Twice. Three times. Then?—
"Walker."
His voice, professional and distant. He was at something, probably another Blackwood gathering. I could hear music, laughter, the sounds of a real family having a real celebration.
I tried to speak, but nothing came out except a broken sound.
"Lee..." My voice shattered on his name.
"Stephy?" Instant change. Concern flooding through. "What's wrong? Talk to me, sweetheart."
The endearment broke me. He only called me sweetheart when he was worried, when he forgot to maintain the careful distance we'd built since that night in Austin five years ago. That night when we'd pretended for eight perfect hours that our lives could fit together.
"He... Lee, he was in my house. He was—" I couldn't say it. Couldn't put words to what had almost happened.
"Are you safe right now? Are you hurt?"
"I don't... I can't..." I was hyperventilating, my chest too tight, the room spinning.
"Where are you?"
"Home. LA. My house. The police were here, but they're gone, and my security is useless and my team just wants to control the story and I'm so scared, Lee. I'm so fucking scared."
"Lock yourself in a room. Stay on the phone with me."
"I can't... my phone's about to die. I dropped it when he... when he grabbed me and the screen is cracked and?—"
"Stephy, listen to me. Lock the bedroom door. Push something heavy in front of it. Stay in that room until I get there. Six hours. Can you give me six hours?"
"You promised," I whispered, hating how small I sounded, hating that I was twenty-eight years old and still needed him to save me. "You promised if I needed you?—"
"I'm coming. I swear to God, Stephy, I'm coming. Just hold on."
"Please hurry." My voice broke completely. "Please, Lee. I need you."
The line went dead, my phone finally giving up, the cracked screen going black.
I stared at it for a long moment, then did what he said. Locked the door. Pushed my dresser in front of it—the heavy antique one that had cost thirty thousand dollars and now served as a barricade against my own security team's failure. Then I curled up in the corner between my bed and the wall, wrapped in a blanket that smelled like the lavender detergent my housekeeper used, and waited.
Six hours. I could survive six hours.
