Because even if I could write her a check—and I could, easily—she wouldn't take it. I know that now. The money has to be earned. Has to come from the job, not from me. Anything else would feel like charity to her. Like pity.
She’s doing all of this—the lies, the sabotage, the risk—because someone she loves needs her.
And I’m helping her do it.
In four days, this ends. She gets paid. She goes back to Boston. Takes care of her sister.
Back to carrying everything alone.
That was the agreement.
Jane shifts beside me, curls closer in her sleep, her hand finding my chest like this is where she belongs. Like she hasn't spent her whole life holding up the world by herself.
Four days suddenly feels impossibly short.
Not enough time to fix anything.
Not enough time to ask for more.
But it’s what we have.
So I stay awake, counting down the hours, and trying not to think about what happens when they run out.
Chapter 9
Lion’s Den
January 28 | Day 5 Anguilla AM | T–3
West
Ten a.m. on an island doesn't feel like ten a.m. anywhere else. The sun's already high, the pace is unhurried, and nobody expects anything from you yet.
I'm outside on the terrace, shirtless, doing a slow hip rotation that used to be part of my daily warm-up.
Wide stance. Knees bent. Core tight.
It's the kind of movement that looks lazy and feels anything but. The kind that keeps a hockey center explosive, dangerous, and effective at thirty-four.
I roll my hips forward. Pause. Back.
Everything should feel loose. Balanced.
Instead, my body is very aware of how much action it's been getting lately—and exactly who it's been getting it from.
I exhale through my teeth and decide this is a terrible line of thinking to have while shirtless in the sun.
I glance toward the bedroom, and Jane's standing there, watching me through the wide windows.
I keep my stance wide.
Roll my hips once.
Then again. Slower. And more deliberate.
The movement is lewd enough to be a suggestion, subtle enough to pretend it's still a stretch.
Her gaze drops.
