Esme’s tucking a piece of hair behind her ear, listening to Bit talk about something with her hands flying, animated as hell.
Angie’s hovering just behind them, watchful but not interfering.
She looks out of place.
And somehow, exactly where she shouldn’t be.
And my chest doesn’t know what the hell to do with that.
“Fuck,” I mutter again.
“Yeah,” Sawyer repeats, quieter this time.
I take one slow breath.
Then another.
Neither of them help.
I square my shoulders anyway and turn toward the house.
“If she’s staying,” I say, voice rough, “I need space.”
Sawyer doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t agree either.
Just watches me go.
Because he knows.
If she’s under my roof—if she’s walking this ranch, breathing this air, sleeping within reach—then I’m either going to figure out the truth.
The real fucking truth this time.
Or I’m going to tear myself apart trying.
And the worst part?
I don’t know which one scares me more.
Because if she didn’t betray me?
If Paul set us both up and I let him?
Then everything I’ve built my anger on for the last three years?
It’s rotten.
Right down to the foundation.
And that kind of collapse?
That doesn’t happen quietly.
That kind of truth?
It blows a man apart.
