Sinclair’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of old frustration beneath his calm. “Yes, Theodore.”
I shot Sinclair a look over my shoulder as I got to my feet. “Face it, Sinclair—Tank will never allow you to call him Theodore.”
My lips twitched with a wry smile, trying to lighten the tension as I headed for the door to do as he asked.
“I’m not leaving,” Melissa muttered, voice muffled against the tangled sheets as she curled herself tighter, shrinking from the daylight eking in around the curtains. She’d been rooted to that bed for days, her hair limp and her face pale, the room saturated with the sour scent of sweat and grief. The silence felt dense—every breath a reminder of what she’d lost. Roxy stood beside her, her gentle effort at coaxing just another sound swallowed by the thick air.
“Melissa, sweetheart. You can’t hole up in here forever,” she said softly, her tone not quite pleading, just tired. “Danika needs you. And—think of your baby. Ghost’s baby.”
The words drifted out, falling flat.
Melissa squeezed her eyes shut, a single tear escaping down her cheek. But she was silent, the effort of answering apparently too much.
“Please, just go.”
I leaned against the doorframe, exhaustion pooling in my chest as I watched Roxy look at me. Everyone else was alreadywaiting outside. It felt like the whole house was holding its breath. Roxy stalked over and angled herself at me, her mouth set in that line I’d seen break up countless barroom brawls.
“Well? You gonna help, or just decorate the hallway?” she hissed, voice pitched low for my ears alone.
I shot her a look, brow arched, but she didn’t flinch.
Of course she didn’t. Roxy knew exactly how to get under my skin. “I’m not impressed, Shay,” she added, eyes narrowed with a challenge. “I know what you’re capable of. Don’t pretend you can’t handle this.”
There was more in her tone—a nudge, not a shove.
Beneath her gruffness was a worry she’d never voice.
“Just help me get her up,” she muttered, then stalked out, boots thumping down the hallway.
The door closed behind her with a click that echoed. I exhaled, feeling the weight of the room press in—the drawn curtains, the air heavy with old loss and new despair. I crossed the space slowly. My own hands trembled as I reached for Melissa, brushing damp hair from her brow.
God, I felt useless.
All the fights I’d won, the messes I’d fixed, and here I was—powerless against a broken heart.
“Melissa.” My voice cracked. “We can’t stay here. The plane’s waiting. We’re all going to New York together, all of us. Please.” She turned her face toward me, eyes red-rimmed, looking years older than yesterday.
“I can’t,” she whispered, voice small, raw. Tears spilled freely now, her shoulders curling inward. “I don’t know how to leave. I don’t know how to do any of it anymore.” My chest ached with the truth of it, with the knowledge that sometimes, love just wasn’t enough to pull someone from the dark.
“Well, sweetheart,” I sighed, gathering her in my arms. “You don’t have a choice.” Carefully, I rose to my feet, cradling hergently. She felt impossibly light, her body limp as she gave in to the weight of her grief, resting her head against my shoulder. Tears streamed down her face, raw and earnest, as I carried her out of the house and into the waiting car.
The flight from North Carolina to New York City was uneventful, and by the time Melissa and I arrived at the Manhattan residence, I didn’t ask for permission; I simply carried Melissa upstairs, heading for the room across from mine, while everyone else ventured off for a bite to eat. Throughout the entire flight, Melissa never spoke, never acknowledged anyone, not even Danika, which upset the little girl and angered Dante.
Walking into the bathroom, I placed Melissa gently on a small bench, my palms lingering on her shoulders a moment longer than needed. As I crossed to the shower and turned on the water, the pipes groaned as steam filled the room, sending ribbons curling through the air. The steam carried with it the faint scent of lavender soap, sweet and clean, almost out of place in the somber hush of the room. The cold tile pressed against my knees as I kneeled before her, grounding me with its chill and reminding me how fragile this moment was. I reached for Melissa’s hands, feeling their chill seep into mine. “You need a shower, honey. Can you do this yourself, or do you want to wait for Roxy to get here?”
“I don’t want anyone.”
“Well, I’m not leaving you alone in here.” My voice was gentle but firm, echoing softly against the tiled walls.
She looked away, her eyes so swollen and emptied of tears, her heart still quietly breaking. Melissa kept her gaze fixed on the swirling patterns in the tile, as if the world existed only in those shifting lines. The silence thickened between us, filled only by the steady rush of water and the soft patter of droplets against porcelain. The steam hovered, muffling the space, and I squeezed her hands gently, searching for any sign she might letme in. But she remained unmoving, a statue carved from sorrow. For a moment, the ache inside me threatened to spill over—I wished I could take away her pain, erase the invisible wounds grief had left on her body and spirit. But all I could do was be present, hoping my steadiness might anchor her, if only for a while.
“Alright, honey,” I said, getting to my feet.
The tile was cold beneath my feet as I kicked off my shoes and removed my socks. I helped her stand, easing the blanket from her shoulders, feeling the worn softness of the fabric slip through my fingers. She didn’t resist as I removed her socks and pajama pants, but when I reached for the old T-shirt, she clutched at it desperately. “No!”
Realizing the shirt she wore belonged to my brother, I softened my tone. “I will place it on the counter. No one else will touch it. I promise.”
She barely nodded, her body so frail I could see every rib, her pelvis and hip bones jutting sharply beneath her skin. Her arms looked impossibly thin and fragile in my hands. Seeing her like this made my chest tighten with worry—I wished I could do more than simply witness her pain, wished I could gather her broken pieces and help her heal. But for now, I could only guide her gently into the shower, ensuring she stood beneath the soothing spray. The warmth of the water raised beads on her skin, steam wrapping us both in a cocoon where the world narrowed to the quiet ritual of care and heartbreak, hope flickering at the edges of my fear for her recovery.
