"I need you to know that. Whatever happens in LA, however long it takes, I need you to know that you saved me in every way that matters. Not just from Marcus. From a life that was killing me slowly, one appearance at a time, one fake smile at a time."
He kissed me then, deep and desperate, and we made love again, slower this time, trying to make the night last forever, trying to stop the world from turning toward dawn.
But dawn came anyway, as it always does, cruel and beautiful and inevitable.
I dressed quietly in the clothes I'd arrived in months ago—jeans that felt foreign now, a simple shirt that belonged to the other life. Each piece felt like armor I was putting on for battle. The designer boots that had seemed so important once now felt like costume pieces, props for a role I had to play one last time.
"You don't have to leave this early," Liam said from the bed, watching me pack the small duffel bag. He looked wrecked already, shadows under his eyes, sheet pooled at his waist. Even then, he was beautiful.
"If I don't go now, I won't go at all."
He nodded with understanding. Got up, pulled on jeans and a shirt, walked me to my rental car that Clay had picked up from town. The morning was cool, dew on everything, the ranch just waking up. Somewhere a rooster crowed—Caesar, probably—announcing the day with his usual arrogance.
We stood beside the car, foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air, existing in the same space for these last moments.
"Thank you," I whispered, my hands on his face, memorizing the feel of stubble against my palms. "For giving me back to myself. For loving me enough to let me go do this."
"Thank you for coming back. For choosing this. Choosing us."
"Always," I promised, sealing it with a kiss that tasted like coffee and tears and home. "It was always going to be you."
I got in the car before I could change my mind, before the magnetic pull of him could override my resolve. The engine started, too loud in the morning quiet.
As I drove away, I looked in the rearview mirror once. He stood on the porch, hands in his pockets, watching me go. Not waving, not moving, just standing guard like he'd stand there until I came back. The rising sun backlit him, turned him into something mythical—my cowboy, my ranger, my salvation, my home.
The road stretched ahead toward LA, toward lawyers and contracts and the dismantling of a life I no longer wanted. But I wasn't running away anymore. I was running toward something. Toward the life waiting for me when I returned.
The last thing I saw before the ranch disappeared behind the hills was Poet, standing at the fence line, ears pricked forward like she was already waiting for me to come back.
"Soon, pretty girl," I promised the wind. "Soon."
Miles passed. The landscape changed from rural to suburban to urban. But I carried the ranch with me—Liam's kiss still warm on my lips, his scent still on my skin, his love wrapped around me like armor.
I was going to war for our future.
And I was going to win.
Chapter 22
Stephanie
Los Angeles hit me like a slap.
The smog, the traffic, the endless concrete—it all felt like stepping onto an alien planet after months at the ranch. My rental car crawled through gridlock on the 405 while drivers honked and gestured and acted like getting somewhere thirty seconds faster would change their lives.
I'd been gone less than three months, but I was a different person now. The woman who'd lived here, who'd thought this was normal, who'd believed success meant a house in the Hills and invitations to the right parties—she was a stranger to me now.
My first stop wasn't my house but a small office building in Santa Monica, away from the entertainment district's glass towers and aggressive ambition. Ivy's friend had recommended someone—"He's not flashy, but he's brilliant and actually cares about artists as people, not products."
David Kim's office was nothing like the entertainment lawyers I'd known. No awards on the walls, no photos with celebrities, no assistant who looked like a model. Just law books,a few thriving plants, and a photo of him with what looked like his daughter at her college graduation, both of them beaming with genuine joy.
"Ms. Wilson," he said, standing to shake my hand. His handshake was firm but not crushing, no power play in it.
"Please, call me Stephanie."
He smiled—genuine, not calculating. "Stephanie. Ivy told me a bit about your situation, but I'd like to hear it from you. Tell me what you need."
For two hours, I laid it all out. The contracts that bound me like silk ropes—beautiful but still restraints. The control they had over everything, from my music to my social media presence. The way I'd been managed into a corner so gradually, I hadn't seen the walls going up until they were too high to climb.
