The woman beside Rafe laughs like this is cute. Like I’m a surprise guest. “Oh my God,” she says, voice syrupy. “Are you?—”
“Get off him,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. It doesn’t crack. It comes out flat and deadly, like it doesn’t belong to me.
She blinks at me, startled, then scoffs. “Excuse me?”
Rafe sways. His hand slips off the bottle. It thuds onto the carpet, rolling away.
I move again, faster, stepping in front of where he’s sitting. “Hey,” I snap, catching Rafe by the shoulders. “Rafe. Look at me.”
His eyes fight to focus. His mouth moves like he’s trying to form words, but they don’t land properly.
The woman stands, annoyed now. “He’s fine. Relax?—”
“No,” I cut in, louder this time. “He’s not.”
My chest is heaving, adrenaline sharp and sick in my bloodstream. I glance around the room—at the laughing, at the filming, at the faces that look entertained instead of concerned—and something in me turns feral.
I don’t care who they are. I don’t care whose mansion this is. I don’t care what this looks like. This is my husband, and he’s not safe.
The woman reaches for Rafe as he tries to stand. I turn toward her, blocking her, just as his knees buckle instantly.
“Rafe, don’t—” I say sharply, moving faster, but too late. He smacks his head on the corner of a table on the way down. “Fuck.” I brace him fully against me, hauling him up like I’m holding him together by force alone.
He makes a small sound—confused, dazed—then sags into me, too heavy, too loose.
Too gone.
My stomach clenches. I turn my head just enough to look at Miles. He’s already moving.
Robyn clears a path, her face thunderous, Miles at her side, ordering, “Out. Now.”
Vinny appears next to us, and we haul Rafe up between us. I fasten his pants before we push through the room. Someone complains. Someone films. Someone calls out his name again.
I don’t look back.
Outside, the cool night air hits us like a shock. Rafe retches almost immediately, bending over and vomiting onto the grass. I hold his shoulders, rubbing his back automatically.
“I’m… sorry,” he slurs. “Didn’t mean—fuck, I’m… sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, though it isn’t. “Just breathe.”
Vinny cleans the cut on his head quickly, efficient and calm. “Doesn’t look deep,” he says. “No stitches. We’ll monitor him.”
Rafe sags against me, heavy and unsteady. “I missed you,” he murmurs, words thick. “Love you.”
My throat closes. “I know,” I whisper, even as my heart breaks open.
We get him into the car, Rafe half-conscious, head lolling against the window.
As the car pulls away—Robyn following closely—Rafe’s hand fumbles blindly until it finds mine. His grip is weak but desperate. “I didn’ts means to,” he says again. “I just?—”
“I know,” I repeat, though I don’t know what I’m forgiving.
Rafe slumps back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut, his grip on my hand loosening but not letting go. His breathing is uneven, shallow in a way that makes my chest ache. I lift my gaze and meet Miles’s eyes in the visor mirror. It’s brief. No words. No nod. Just a look that lands hard and stays there a second too long.
This is bad. The kind of bad that settles in your bones and doesn’t leave.
Miles looks away first, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, like he’s bracing for something he already knows is coming: Something has to change.
