Page 107 of Broken Blades

Perfect. Nothing romantic. Nothing complicated. Just deception, investigation, and the cold comfort of other people's disasters.

I hit play and burrowed deeper into the cushions.

The narrator's voice washed over me, detached and clinical, detailing the elaborate scheme. I focused on the timeline. The evidence. The detective work that unraveled everything.

Anything to stop thinking about the man upstairs who'd held my hair back while I was sick.

The documentary shifted. Timeline dissolving into grainy footage of a college campus. A girl with bright eyes and a ponytail, arm wrapped around a boy who looked too charming. Too perfect.

My stomach dropped before the narrator even began explaining what happened next.

They went on a road trip. Cross-country adventure. Young love, endless possibilities, freedom stretching out before them like an open highway.

Except he didn't take her to see the Grand Canyon.

He took her to the middle of nowhere.

And he killed her.

The tears came without warning. Hot and sudden, spilling down my cheeks before I could stop them. I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to muffle the sob that tore from my throat.

Because I knew. I knew what it was like to love someone who hurt you. To make excuses. To believe that this time would be different. To feel the walls closing in while everyone outside thought you were living the dream.

My ex had only ever hurt me once, and I still have the scar on my side to prove it. But he'd thrown things. Punched walls. Grabbed my wrist hard enough to leave marks I'd hidden under bracelets. Screamed in my face until I was small and terrified and convinced it was somehow my fault.

The girl on screen had trusted her boyfriend completely.

Just like I had.

The documentary played security footage—the last time anyone saw her alive. Walking hand-in-hand with the man who would murder her hours later. Smiling. Trusting. Unaware.

I couldn't breathe past the tightness in my chest. Couldn't stop the tears streaming down my face as the narrator detailed the search. The investigation. The eventual discovery of her body.

"What is it?"

I jolted, swiping frantically at my eyes.

Wyatt stood in the doorway, hair still damp, dressed for practice in athletic pants and a compression shirt. His expression shifted from neutral to concerned the moment he saw my face.

"Nothing. I'm fine." My voice cracked on the lie.

He crossed the room without hesitation, sat beside me on the couch. Close. Not touching, but present. Solid. Real.

"What're you watching?"

I gestured vaguely at the screen, unable to form words. The documentary had moved to the aftermath. How the boyfriend went missing. How he killed himself like the coward he was.

Wyatt's jaw tightened. He didn't ask again. Just sat there as the documentary continued, occasionally glancing at me when I sniffled or wiped my eyes.

The credits rolled eventually. Silence settled over us, heavy and uncomfortable.

Wyatt spoke first, voice low and rough. "Any man who puts his hands on a woman is no man."

The conviction in his tone startled me. I looked at him, wiping the last traces of tears from my cheeks. "Not all violence is physical."

His eyes met mine. Understanding flickered there. "You're right."

The certainty in his voice cracked something open inside me. I pulled the blanket tighter, suddenly exhausted. "Why do people do that? Hurt the ones who trust them?"