I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling I can't actually see in the darkness. What the hell was I thinking? That I could protect her by hiding the truth? That I knew better than she did what she needed?
The memory of Poppy's face flashes in my mind, those big eyes, that toothless smile when she reaches for me. So innocent. So completely dependent on the adults around her to keep her safe. And here I was, keeping information from the one person who has dedicated her entire life to protecting that little girl.
"You're an idiot, Slade," I mutter into the darkness.
I throw off the covers and sit up, running my hands through my hair. Sleep isn't happening tonight. I grab my phone andhead downstairs, not bothering with lights. The darkness fits my mood.
I sink onto the couch, the leather cold against my bare skin. My phone screen illuminates my face as I pull up Sadie's contact information. My thumb hovers over the call button. It's the middle of the night, she'd never answer. And what would I even say? Sorry doesn't begin to cover it.
The truth hits me with sudden, painful clarity: by hiding that photo from Sadie, I did exactly what Elliot has been doing to her for years. I took away her power to make her own decisions. I decided what information she was entitled to have about her own life, her own child.
No different from Elliot controlling her money, her choices, her freedom.
"Jesus," I whisper, the realization like a physical blow. No wonder she looked at me with such disgust, such fear. In trying to protect her, I became the very thing she was running from.
I think about Poppy again, about the fierce protectiveness I feel toward a child who isn't even mine. That's what confuses me most. I've never felt this way before, this primal need to shield someone so small and vulnerable. It's like some dormant instinct suddenly activated the first time she reached for me with those tiny hands.
And yet, in trying to protect her and Sadie, I fucked up completely.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text from the PI I hired, startling me in the quiet house.
PI: Target located. Will have full financial and legal workup by morning.
I stare at the message and I’m instantly wired, hands itching. My first instinct is to tell him to give me the fucker’s address right now so I can go there to confront him, to make physically clear what will happen if he comes near Sadie or Poppy again.
But that would only make things worse. That would be another example of me taking control, making decisions without Sadie's input.
No. I can't keep doing this. Can't keep treating her like she's incapable of handling her own life, her own problems. She's stronger than I gave her credit for; she's been fighting this battle alone long before I showed up.
I type a response.
Me: Good work. Keep tracking. Don't engage. Full report to me only.
I set the phone down, leaning back into the couch. The right thing to do is clear, even if it's not what I want to do. I need to give all this information to Sadie. Let her decide how to use it. Support whatever choice she makes, even if I disagree.
No more secrets. No more "protecting" her by keeping her in the dark.
I try to fight my way back to sleep for a few more hours, but it's useless. By six a.m., I'm already at the brewery, going through inventory we don't need to check and reorganizing the office filing system nobody uses. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind from spinning out completely.
"Dude, you're here early," my cousin Logan says, strolling in around eight with a coffee in each hand. He offers me one. "Thought you'd still be basking in the afterglow of your fancy Denver weekend."
I take the coffee but don't answer, turning back to the spreadsheets on my desk.
"That good, huh?" He grins, dropping into the chair across from me. "Must have been if you're too exhausted to even brag about it."
"Not now, bro," I mutter, not looking up.
"Come on, you've been dancing around this woman for weeks. The least you can do is tell me if the suite was worth it. Did she like the champagne? The room service? The?—"
"I said not fucking now!" I slam my palm on the desk, coffee sloshing over the rim of my cup.
Logan jerks back, eyes wide. "Whoa. What the hell?"
The door opens and Trent walks in, taking in the scene with one quick glance. "What's going on?"
"Nothing," I snap, grabbing a handful of napkins to mop up the spilled coffee.
"Doesn't look like nothing," Trent says, leaning against the doorframe. "Looks like you're about to take Logan's head off for asking about your weekend."
