The words hit like a whip crack.
Emma’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. Murder in her eyes, tremor in her hands.
I tightened my hold.
Garrett and I would have our reckoning—but not here. Not now. Today, I’d let my pride bleed silently. Because she was the only thing that mattered. Not the pompous bastard spewing venom I had no doubt he couldn’t back up.
“Garrett, stop!” Candace’s voice broke, desperate now.
“Stop what?” he snapped. “You wanted me to come here, remember? You wanted me to play nice, and look how that turned out. Maybe if your best friend didn’t act like she’s better than everyone—”
Emma froze against me. Her fingers knotted in my shirt.
“You’re so nasty,” Candace’s voice cracked.
Garrett laughed—dark, hollow, raising the hairs along my arms.
“Leave. Now,” Candace said, her voice trembling but fierce.
Then came the crash.
Wood splintering against wood—the thud shuddering through the floorboards beneath our feet. Footsteps. Shuffling. A gasp swallowed quickly by silence.
The pounding of faux leather soles against wood growing fainter, more distant.
And then—nothing.
Emma stiffened in my arms. Then pulled away.“I need to make sure Candace’s okay.”
I let my arms fall, releasing her now that the threat had stormed out. The echo of the slamming door still hung in the air, vibrating through the shop.
She disappeared down the aisle. I followed a moment later.
Candace stood in front of the piece of furniture Emma had loved earlier, its crooked leg now split clean down the middle. One hand rubbed the side of her neck.
Emma zeroed in on the movement.
“I’m fine,” Candace said before either of us could speak. “The aisle’s so narrow—I backed into the corner of the cabinet to give him room to leave. It caught me right in the neck. Stupid, really.”
The lie slid out smooth, too smooth, polished by repetition.
I looked down at the jagged splinter of wood jutting from the broken leg, then to the faint red mark blooming along her skin. The air thickened, pressing in on my chest. The hum of the lights above seemed louder, harsher. I’d heard that tone before. Seen that look.
Emma reached for Candace, whispering something low—soothing—but I couldn’t move. My hands flexing uselessly at my sides as every old memory came roaring back: raised voices, something breaking, the silence that followed.
Something cold and dangerous stirred inside me.
I wanted to say it—to tell her I knew she was lying, that I’d seen too many women wear that same brittle smile whilepretending the pain was their own fault. But Emma was already at her side, offering quiet reassurances, guiding her hand away from the forming bruise.
And just like that, the delicate woman I’d cradled minutes ago was gone. In her place stood the caretaker. The protector. The woman who always had to be strong, even when she was breaking. She spoke gently, her tone steady and sure, every word a balm meant to soothe someone else instead of herself.
Now wasn’t the time. Not while she was like this, holding her friend together with hands that still shook.
So I said nothing.
Not yet.
Later—when the air wasn’t tainted with denial and fear—I’d tell her what I saw. What I heard.
