Sadie and Marco both know things. They were there for part of it. When Sadie stepped into my old role, I gave her everything she needed to survive Vicente. Which means she knows too much of what he was like with me. And if Nina showed up on my arm, Sadie might have assumed she already knew the rest.
What did she say? How much? The broad strokes or the details? The years I spent in Vicente’s organization, or what those years actually looked like up close?
That’s how he operates. That’s what he does.
Or maybe I’m seeing patterns that aren’t there. Maybe Sadie just said something careless and Nina’s processing it the way she processes everything: clinically, carefully, at a distance.
Either way, something broke tonight.
I can feel it in the silence. Not the tension I’ve been carrying all week—that’s familiar, survivable. This is something else. Something in the way Nina hasn’t touched either of us since we got in the car.
“Nina,” Wyatt says finally, twisting to look at her. “You okay back there?”
“Overdid it.” Her voice is rueful, self-deprecating. Perfect deflection. “I think I need pain meds and about twelve hours of sleep. Marcella warned me not to push too hard.”
It’s a good excuse. Plausible. It’s been a long evening even with mostly sitting. Anyone else would buy it without question.
Wyatt nods, but his eyes cut sideways to meet mine. He’s not buying it either.
We don’t push. Not now, when she’s already curled against the door like she’s trying to make herself smaller. Tomorrow. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.
The rest of the drive passes in that fragile silence. When we pull into her driveway, Nina is out of the car before Wyatt’s even cut the engine, moving toward her front door with careful, measured steps.
Wyatt catches my arm before I can follow.
“Something happened at the fire pit,” he says quietly. “With Marco and Sadie.”
“Could just be exhaustion,” I say. Neither of us believes it.
Wyatt studies me for a moment, then lets it go. “Come on. Let’s get inside.”
We head inside. Nina’s already halfway down the hall toward her bedroom.
“I’m going to take something and crash,” she calls back. “You two don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”
“We’re staying,” Wyatt says. “We’ve already claimed your guest rooms anyway.”
She pauses at her door, looks back at us. Gratitude flickers across her face before she nods.
I close the distance before she can disappear. My hand settles on her waist, and I tip her chin up so she has to look at me.
“Hey.” I search her face. “You sure you’re okay?”
She holds my gaze, steady and unreadable. That therapist composure that gives nothing away.
“I’m not the one I’m worried about,” she says.
Before I can respond, she rises on her toes and presses a soft kiss to my mouth. Brief. Final.
“Goodnight, Chris.”
The door clicks shut between us.
I stand there for a moment, staring at the wood grain, trying to parse what just happened. I’m not the one I’m worried about. What the hell does that mean?
“Come on.” Wyatt’s hand lands on my shoulder. “She needs sleep. We need a drink.”
The bourbon is good—expensive. Nina doesn’t drink much herself, but she stocks well for guests.
