Not until there was nothing left to take.
If I lost Mia, I’d lose everything. Loving her wasn’t optional—she was a child, my beloved sister. I had to keep her out of his hands. Had to.
The phone stayed dark in my palm, the screen gone black. All I’d heard was drunk rambling. Empty threats.
That's all it was.
That's all it could be.
I'd promised Mia I would protect her. Promised myself I would never let Todd touch her again.
But sitting in the dark, his threats still ringing in my ears, the promise and the fear pulled at me in opposite directions. One voice demands I stand firm. The other whispering all the ways I could fail. I wondered if I’d sworn to something I couldn’t actually hold together.
I wondered if everything I touched really did turn to ash.
CHAPTER 8
Liam
The caseworker showedup two days after the hearing, just like the judge ordered.
Sandra Reeves pulled into the driveway at 9 AM. sharp, clipboard in hand, eyes already scanning the property before she'd even stepped out of her car. I watched from the porch with a mug of coffee, aiming for a competent husband and hoping it didn’t read as a man who’d been scrubbing baseboards since four in the morning.
I squared my shoulders anyway. This wasn’t just about passing an inspection anymore. Somewhere along the line, the lines had shifted. Mia wasn’t just part of a case file—I cared about her, about the way she hovered before committing to trust. And Riley’s pain wasn’t abstract or procedural; I’d seen it up close, felt the weight of it in the silences she carried.
It wasn’t just business. It hadn’t been for a while.
So I stayed where I was, steady, present. If this was what being a husband looked like—showing up, holding the line, taking the hit where you could—then I was all in.
Riley had handled most of the preparation. She'd cleaned the kitchen until it gleamed, stocked the fridge with enoughgroceries to feed an army, made sure Mia's room looked lived-in but tidy. I'd focused on the outside: the barn, the fences, making sure nothing looked like it might collapse on a child.
The inspection stretched on far longer than the clock would later admit. Forty-five minutes that felt like hours.
Sandra moved slowly, deliberately, as if she were measuring more than square footage. Every room took its turn. Smoke detectors tested, then tested again. Cabinets opened, closed, reopened. She lingered at the refrigerator—shelves, expiration dates—the pause long enough for the low hum to feel intrusive. Questions about emergency plans looped back on themselves, asked again in slightly different shapes.
Mia’s room took the longest.
Window latches checked twice. The bed frame pressed, shifted. Fingers traced the edge of the dresser, the corners of the rug. And then the quilt—my grandmother’s—spread neatly across the bed. Sandra’s hand moved over the stitching, slow and careful, like she was reading something written there.
“This is lovely,” she said. “Handmade?”
I cleared my throat before answering.
“My grandmother’s work,” I said. “She made it for… for future grandchildren.”
Sandra dipped her head, something softening in her expression as she made a note on the clipboard.
When she left, she shook both our hands and promised a satisfactory report. The house was safe. The environment was appropriate. We’d passed.
Riley’s breath left her in a long rush, like it had been trapped since the hearing.
“One down.”
I didn’t argue. Didn’t soften it.
“Thirty days until the real test.”
She nodded, her jaw tight. We both knew the safety check was just the opening act. The comprehensive home study—the one that would really determine whether this arrangement looked legitimate—was still coming.
