But it’s too late. The piece I was missing—the piece I didn’t want to find—just slotted into place.
How much I wanted what he was giving me, even knowing it was poison.
Not psychological control. Not just fear or operational necessity.
Sex. Vicente controlled Chris through sex.
I think about every session I’ve had with Vicente. The way he talks about intimacy. Connection. When someone belongs to me, they belong to me forever. I thought I understood what that meant. I didn’t understand anything.
My body goes very still.
Sadie is watching me, stricken. “Nina, I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have?—”
“It’s fine.” My voice comes out steady. Clinical. The therapist mask snapping into place like armor. “You didn’t know.”
“If there’s anything we can do…”
“There isn’t.” I stand. My legs hold. “Thank you for telling me. I mean that.”
Sadie blinks, clearly expecting a different reaction.
“I should get back. Chris will worry if I’m gone too long.”
“Nina—” Marco starts.
“I’m fine.” I smooth my dress, a gesture that feels automatic. Professional. “Really. I just need a minute to process.”
I stand and walk away at a normal pace, heading toward the garden wall where the shadows are deepest. Only when I’m sure no one can see me do I stop, press my palm flat against the stucco, and let myself feel it.
Five years. In Vicente’s bed. While I’ve been sitting across from that man every Tuesday, listening to him talk about attachment and connection and the people he loves.
My hand is shaking against the wall. I watch it like it belongs to someone else.
I need to find Chris. I need to find Wyatt. I need to get out of this house where Vicente Amador is watching my boyfriend with the eyes of a man who still thinks he owns him.
But first, I need to remember how to breathe.
40
Chris
“I need a minute,” Nina murmurs to Callie, and I track the movement before I’ve consciously decided to. The way she braces one hand on the table as she rises. The careful way she moves—still favoring her midsection, still healing.
“I’m fine,” she says when I half-stand. “Just need to rest my eyes.”
I should go with her. But Mason’s mid-sentence beside me, and Wyatt’s across the table with his foot still pressed against the empty space where hers was, and if both of us follow her to the fire pit it’ll look like what it is. Protective. Possessive. Obvious.
So I sit back down and watch her walk away, and I tell myself she’s fine. She’s just tired. She’s six days post-op and surrounded by strangers and she needs five minutes alone.
Sadie and Marco drift that direction a few minutes later. Social. Harmless. Probably.
Wyatt waits a beat for her to settle, then rises and wanders toward the bar. Watchful, but not hovering. I try to focus on the conversation again. Sam, Maddox, and Leo sip their beers, listening while Mason continues his diatribe.
“—which is why I told the inspector he could shove his timeline up his ass,” Mason is saying. “Three weeks to review a permit revision that took them two days to reject in the first place.”
“Mm.” I drag my attention back to him. The house. He’s talking about building the house. “Sounds about right for LA.”
Mason continues his rant about his contractor threatening to walk, the electrician who won’t return calls, why half of LA construction ends up unpermitted in the first place. I nod at what I hope are appropriate intervals while my brain chews on what happened in Arturo’s office.
