She didn't look up.
"What happened to your face?"
Her fingers tightened on the ceramic. "Nothing."
"That's not nothing."
"It's handled."
I moved around the counter. Slow. Careful. Like approaching a wounded animal. Tilted her chin up with one finger so the light caught the bruise.
It broke something in me.
Not rage this time. Something deeper. Quieter. More dangerous.
"Did he do this?"
She pulled away. Wouldn't meet my eyes. "I told you. It's handled."
"Billie—"
"He grabbed me." The words came out fast. Clipped. Like ripping off a bandage. "In the locker room. I shoved him off. He grabbed harder. I told him if he touched me again I'd go public. Then I left."
My vision tunneled. Everything narrowed to that bruise. That thumbprint. Evidence of my son putting his hands on her in anger.
"I'm going to kill him."
"No." She stood. Stepped between me and the door like she could physically block me. "That's exactly what he wants. You assault him, and he ruins both of us."
"I don't care."
"Well, I do." Her voice cracked. "I didn't spend three weeks pretending to be his girlfriend just so you could throw it all away because you're pissed."
I stared at her. At the exhaustion carved into her features. The bruise darkening on her jaw. The way she still stood between me and the door like she could stop me.
Like she still believed I was worth protecting.
"You shouldn't have to do this alone," I said quietly.
"I'm not." She looked up at me. Eyes glassy. "You're here."
And God help me, I pulled her into my chest and held on.
I held her for about five seconds before the restraint shattered.
"Three weeks." My voice came out rough. Jagged. "Three weeks you let him parade you around like you're his. Three weeks you smiled for cameras while he?—"
"Don't."
"While he put his hands on you?—"
"I saiddon't." She shoved against my chest. Hard enough that I had to catch myself. "You don't get to do this."
"Do what?" The words exploded out of me. Louder than I meant. "Give a damn that my son's treating you like property?"
She flinched. That small movement — that split-second recoil — stopped me cold. Made me realize how loud I'd gotten. How my hands had balled into fists. How I was towering over her in my own kitchen like some kind of threat.
I forced myself to step back. To breathe. But she wasn't backing down.
