What kind of husband does that make me?
I don’t say any of it. I don’t trust my voice.
Rafe shifts beside me, subtle and careful. His hand slides into mine, discreet and hidden between our thighs. He squeezes once, firm and reassuring, like he knows exactly where my thoughts have gone.
I cling to that squeeze like it’s a lifeline.
His phone buzzes with a text. A sigh follows as he says, “I’m needed back at the house about the security detail. Rachael is already there.”
A sharp pressure builds in my chest. Jesus. Was that really only yesterday?
I glance at Rafe. His jaw tightens, eyes darkening with concern. “I can go home,” I say immediately, too quickly. “You should go alone.”
He frowns. “Ollie?—”
“It’d be weird if I came,” I press. “After everything. I just… I need to go home.”
Home.The word feels fragile, but it’s true.
Rafe hesitates, clearly torn, then nods reluctantly. “Okay. I’ll be back home as soon as I can.”
I force a smile. “Yeah.”
The car changes direction at the next intersection.
When it stops outside the mansion’s ostentatious gates, Rafe leans in and presses a soft kiss to my temple. “I love you,” he murmurs.
“I love you,” I reply.
He gets out, pausing only long enough to look back at me once before the door closes.
The car pulls away again, leaving me alone with my thoughts. And for the first time since this all began, I feel truly, terrifyingly shattered.
15
The treadmill’sdisplay reads a number that should be impressive. It isn’t. It’s just proof that my body is still capable of doing what I ask it to do, even when my mind is a mess. Proof that I can push. That I can outpace the panic for a few minutes if I keep my breathing steady and my feet moving.
My shirt clings to my back. Sweat runs down my ribs, down my spine, gathering at my waistband. My lungs burn in that familiar, controlled way. It’s not the kind of pain that scares me. It’s the kind I understand.
I’ve been in my apartment building gym for nearly two hours. Not because I need the conditioning, but because I needed somewhere to put everything. Every image. Every word. My mother’s face when I saidmarried. My father’s voice like a verdict.
The ultimatum. The way Lindy had stood in the middle of it like a shield. The way Rafe had been steady at my side, never once making it about himself, even as they tried to turn him into a villain.
And then—worst of all—the quiet moment in the car when Rafe left me. Not because he wanted to, but because there was afire to put out in his world, and my world had just caught on it too.
Regardless, I’d been left feeling raw. I’ve been trying to outrun that feeling ever since.
I slow the treadmill, forcing my pace down. My calves scream in protest, my legs tight with fatigue, but my chest feels lighter than it did when I arrived. Not good or even fine, but I’m feeling less trapped.
I step off, grabbing a towel, and stand for a moment with my hands on my hips, head bowed, sweat dropping from my chin to the rubber floor. In the mirror, I look like an athlete. I even look like the version of myself everyone expects.
It’s the only place I’m still convincing.
I wipe my face, then grab my phone off the nearby bench. A dozen notifications blink at me like accusations: agent messages, team reminders, a text from Marco that I still haven’t responded to.
One from Rafe sent almost an hour ago.
Rafe: Home soon. You okay?
