Agent Morris appeared in the hallway, opened her mouth to protest.
I shot her a look that could have cut glass. "We're leaving. Now."
She hesitated, reading the murder in my eyes if she tried to stop us. "Tomorrow, then. Same time."
I didn't answer. Just guided Valentina toward the exit, supporting most of her weight because her legs weren't quite steady.
In the car, she leaned her head against the window, eyes closed, hands still trembling in her lap.
I wanted to tell her she was the bravest person I'd ever known. That watching her survive that interrogation had nearly destroyed me. That every tear, every broken word, every moment of her reliving that nightmare had felt like someone was slowly flaying me alive.
That I loved her so much, it terrified me.
But words felt useless against the magnitude of what she'd just endured.
So I reached over, laced my fingers through hers, brought her knuckles to my lips, and just held on.
She squeezed back—weak but there. A silent conversation in that grip.
I'm here. You're not alone. We're surviving this together.
I drove us back to the safe house and carried her inside when her legs gave out completely in the driveway. She didn't protest, just wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her face against my shoulder.
"You were incredible," I finally said, lowering her carefully onto the couch. "You know that, right? What you did in there—"
"I just want to sleep for a week." Her voice was raw, scraped hollow.
I pulled a blanket around her shoulders, settled beside her, and gathered her back into my arms. "Then sleep. I'll be right here."
"Tomorrow?" she whispered, already drifting.
"Tomorrow," I confirmed quietly, pressing another kiss to her hair. "But tonight, you rest.
Her breathing evened out within minutes, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I held her while she slept, watching shadows lengthen across the room, feeling her heartbeat steady against mine.
Four more days of this. Four more days of watching her relive hell with nothing to offer but the arms she fell into after.
But she was doing it. For us. For the future she believed we could have.
The least I could do was be there to catch her when she fell.
Day two was worse.
Through the mirrored glass, I watched Rivera pull up photos on the screen—Valentina and Richard at charity galas, the engagement announcement, wedding venue tours. Her face in every image perfectly composed, smiling, playing the role of happy fiancée.
"Walk us through your relationship with Senator Caldwell," Rivera said. "When did you first suspect something was wrong?"
Valentina's hands clenched in her lap. I saw her throat work, saw her fighting for composure.
"I didn't suspect anything for months," she said quietly. "I thought… I thought he loved me. That my father had chosen well. That I was lucky."
"Lucky how?"
"Richard was handsome, successful, respected. He treated me well in public. Made me feel valued." Her voice went hollow."I was so naive. I actually believed I was going to have a good marriage."
My hands fisted against my thighs. She'd never told me this part—that she'd actually believed in the lie, had hope for that future.
