“Don’t,” I whisper. “Don’t touch me like you didn’t just shatter everything.”
Silence presses in around us. He looks devastated. But not enough to change his mind.
“I’m leaving,” I say, voice final, carved from the last of my resolve.
I don’t wait for his reaction. If I do, I might break.
In my room, I pace like a caged animal. I can practically feel his presence through the walls. There’s a very real chance he won’t let me walk out of here. And if he doesn’t… what’s mybackup plan? Wrestling his security detail? Running through the snow barefoot? I can’t fight my way back to Kansas City. I’m trapped—geographically, emotionally, and stupidly.
Just after midnight, something crashes downstairs.
My heart stutters.
I hesitate in the hallway, then move silently toward the noise. The house is dim, only the study light glowing through the cracked door. I push it open.
Lorenzo sits at his desk, shoulders slumped and tie hanging loose. He’s cupping one hand in the other, blood dripping onto important-looking papers.
“What happened?” I ask before I can stop myself.
He looks up, and the sight hits me hard. His eyes are glassy, unfocused. Vulnerable.
“Dropped a glass,” he says, but his words slur together.
He’s drunk. Really drunk. I’ve never seen him anything but composed, guarded, infuriatingly in control. Seeing him undone like this doesn’t feel victorious. It feels like watching a skyscraper collapse.
I step closer, breath catching. A shard of glass sticks out of the thick part of his palm. Blood wells around it.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “Lorenzo, why didn’t you?—”
“I’m fine,” he mutters, attempting to pull away. His movements are clumsy.
“You’re not fine.” I reach for his wrist gently. His skin is warm, trembling. When he doesn’t pull away, I take a breath. “We need to get this out.”
“There’s a first aid kit in my bathroom,” he murmurs. “Top drawer.”
My chest tightens. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t. But underneath the anguish and anger and the choices that shattered us, he looks… lost. Broken in a way I’ve never seen him.
Part of me wants to turn around and let him bleed. Let him feel something that hurts as much as I do.
But the other part—the part that remembers every stolen moment and every whispered promise—moves first.
“Come on,” I say, slipping my hand beneath his good arm and helping him to his feet.
He sways, leaning into me just long enough that I feel the weight of him.
He whispers, voice rough, “You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”
“But I am,” I say softly. “Just this once.”
We make our way down the hall, his arm slung around my shoulders. He leans heavily into me, the weight of him more than physical—regret, liquor, and everything we never said pressing against me. His scent of expensive cologne dulled by whiskey wraps around me with every step.
Inside his room, he sits on the edge of the bed, shoulders bowed, eyes unfocused. Vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen. I slip into the bathroom and grab the first aid kit, ignoring the tremor in my hands.
When I return, he watches me through half-lowered lashes, like he’s trying to memorize me.
I kneel between his knees.
The shard comes out with a soft click. Blood beads up again. I clean and disinfect the wound, trying to keep my touch clinical. Detached. Unaffected. But his gaze burns, following every brush of my fingers, every breath I take.
