I watch her try.
She’s in her father’s kitchen like she never left—bare feet on cold tile, hair shoved into a knot that’s more surrender than style, shoulders squared like stubbornness counts as medical care.She moves with purpose, the way she does when fear is circling.Like if she keeps her hands busy—toast, kettle, paperwork, trash—she won’t have to feel the part where her dad isn’t indestructible.
She takes a bite of toast and grimaces like it’s a chore and not nourishment.
“This is ...so exciting,” she mutters, voice bright and dry at once.“I love a bland carb moment and being watched like I’m going to break.Really doing big things for my brand.”
Cally huffs a laugh from the doorway.He’s trying to play it cool, but he can’t.Callaway Winthrop does not come with a chill setting when Vesper looks even slightly breakable.
“You’re adorable,” he says, soft in a way that makes me want to slam the cabinet door just to hear something snap.“Eat the whole thing.”
Vesper points the corner of her toast at him.“Don’t talk to me like I’m a rescue dog.”
“You are,” he says immediately.“A feral one, but still.”
She rolls her eyes, but her mouth twitches.Sunshine, even now.Even scared.
I keep my focus where it belongs: survival.Philippe needs food.Fluids.Someone who will take the keys from him before he decides “rest” is a suggestion.
I check the fridge.Half-empty.The leftovers look like they’ve been there long enough to start producing new leftovers.I open the pantry and find exactly what I expect—protein bars, canned soup, and a jar of peanut butter that looks like it’s been used as a meal replacement for grief.
I pull my phone out and text Conrad.
Need a physician in Portland who does house calls.Today.Also: start the home search.Privacy.Space.Extra guest rooms.It’s urgent, before someone else beats me to it.
Not sure how long I have, but I need this to be solved as soon as possible.I won’t leave this to fate—or Callaway.I don’t do “maybe” when it comes to Ves.I do plans.Routes.Exits.Backup options that don’t includepretty boy.
Behind me, paper rustles.
I turn, and there she is—Vesper’s fingers hovering over a packet on the counter.County letterhead.The words I don’t have to read to know they’ve been chewing at Philippe’s nerves for weeks.
Her hand pauses.It’s just a tiny stall that tells me everything.
I’ve seen that same stillness on her father when the ice gets quiet and a kid looks too much like someone he used to love.I’ve seen it in Vesper when she laughs a little too loud and changes the subject too fast.
She sets the packet down like it might bite.
Clears her throat.Goes breezy.“Okay.We’ll deal with that after I?—”
She stops.
Her face shifts—small, fast, wrong.Like her body betrays her before she can make a joke about it.
Her swallow looks painful.Her eyes go too bright.
My stomach drops.I’m moving before she makes a sound.
“Bathroom,” I say.
She jerks her head, offended on instinct.“I’m fine.”
“No,” I cut in, low.This is just the way she looked when we were in the car.“You’re not.”
Her mouth opens to argue because that’s what she does when she’s scared—push back, make it funny, make it anything except real.
She gets one step.
Then she gags.
