The shouts go muffled, distant. Flashes still strobe against the tinted windows, but inside the car it's quiet. Just the leather seats and the hum of the engine and my own ragged breathing filling the space between us.
I'm shaking. Can't stop. The questions echo in my skull.Convicted killer. Gold-digger. Got what he deserved—
Nick's hand finds my face, turning me toward him. His palm is warm against my cheek, solid and grounding, and I lean into it without thinking.
"Hey. Baby, look at me."
I meet his eyes. Blue. Fierce. Furious, but not at me. Never at me.
"I'm okay," I manage.
"You're not." His thumb strokes across my cheekbone, gentle despite the tension in his jaw. "And you shouldn't have to be. I’m sorry about all of this."
I nod shakily. My hand rises to cover his, pressing his palm closer against my skin. The texture of his scars beneath my fingers, the steady heat of him, anchors me when everything else feels like it's spinning.
His jaw is tight, the rage barely contained. But when he speaks again, his voice is quiet, gentling. "Fuck the restaurant. I'mtaking you home instead. I'll cook for you, how’s that sound? Just us."
The promise of quiet, of privacy, of sanctuary is exactly what I need now. The tightness in my chest finally loosens its grip. "Okay," I whisper.
He holds my gaze a moment longer, making sure I'm with him. Then he pulls out of the parking space, leaving the photographers scrambling on the sidewalk behind us.
I settle back against the leather seat and watch the city slide past through tinted glass. Nick's hand finds mine on the center console, his fingers threading through mine and holding tight. I focus on that. On him. On the warmth of his grip, the steady pulse I can feel against my palm.
"I've got you," he says. His voice is quieter now, the rage banked to something softer. "Always."
I know he does. Nick has been there for me from the moment we met. My protector. My safe harbor in every storm.
I love this man with all that I am. I want to be his wife more than anything, and nothing can ever change that.
But a handful of weeks from now, hundreds of people will gather to watch me walk down the aisle toward him. Cameras will capture every moment, whether we want them there or not. Reporters will clamor to get their stories.
Was this a glimpse of what we’ll be facing on our wedding day?
I hold on tighter to Nick’s hand and let the question go unanswered.
2
NICK
An hour later, afterbringing Avery home, my fury still smolders. Those fucking vultures and their questions. If my main concern hadn’t been Avery’s safety and getting her the hell away from them, I would have preferred to take my anger out on the leering press.
My lawyer, Andrew Beckham, wouldn’t have liked it. But it sure as fuck would’ve calmed some of the rage hammering within me now.
I inhale a deep breath, recentering my thoughts around my fiancée, who’s nestled against me on the living room sofa. She fits against me like she was designed to be there, her head tucked beneath my chin, her body warm and soft where it presses into mine. My arm tightens around her, and I let myself breathe for what feels like the first time since we stepped onto that sidewalk and the cameras descended.
The penthouse is quiet. The lunch I made for us sits half-finished on plates in the kitchen. Avery barely touched her food, and I couldn't bring myself to push. Outside these windows, Manhattan sprawls indifferent and endless, but in here there'sonly us. Only the steady rhythm of her breathing and the silk of her blouse smooth beneath my palm as I stroke her arm.
I keep seeing it. The way she froze when that first question hit.Convicted killer. Gold-digger.The flash of cameras like weapons, her hand trembling in mine as I hauled her through the gauntlet to the car.
My jaw tightens at the memory.
This is my fault. My world, my notoriety, my goddamn name stamped across everything I touch. Now it's marking her too. Dragging her into a spotlight she never asked for, exposing wounds she's spent years learning to carry quietly.
She stirs against my chest, and I realize my grip has gone rigid. I force myself to ease up, to gentle my hold, even as the anger still simmers beneath my skin.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly.
She tilts her head back to look at me, those green eyes soft with confusion. "For what?"
