Page 57 of Broken Blades

She glanced up at me, surprised by the contact.

I looked away. Jaw tight. Focused on the car ahead like it required my full attention.

We reached the passenger side. I opened her door. She slipped inside without a word, and I shut it carefully behind her before rounding the hood.

Once we were both inside, the privacy of the car settled around us like a shield. The engine purred to life beneath my hands.

She exhaled. Shaky. Defeated. "That was awful."

I shifted into drive, eyes on the road ahead. "It'll get worse."

She turned toward the window, shoulders curling inward. Small. Tired. Like she'd used up whatever reserves she'd pulled from this morning and had nothing left.

I should have felt satisfied. This was working. The photos would circulate. The narrative would solidify. Her father would see them and know exactly what I was doing—claiming his daughter in the public eye while he stood helpless to stop it. Perfect execution. Strategic dominance. Everything going exactly according to plan. But instead, something tugged. Unfamiliar. Unwelcome.

Annoyance? No.

Sympathy? Absolutely not.

Recognition.

That was what it was.

She wasn't built for this world. Not like her father with his polished lies and strategic handshakes. Not like my ex-wife with her calculated cruelty and perfect public face. Not like me with years of armor and scar tissue.

And yet she'd stood there, anyway. Held her ground. Held my arm. Made it look believable. Made it look like she was mine.

My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Knuckles going white against the leather.

She's already going to be a problem.

Not for the plan.

For me.

Chapter 11

Chastity

The café crowd vanished behind us, but the moment I settled into Wyatt's passenger seat, my phone erupted. Not a gentle buzz. A full-blown assault.

Notifications flooded the screen so fast they blurred together. Mentions. Tags. Messages. Texts from numbers I didn't recognize. Group chats I'd been added to without permission. My social media accounts lit up like someone had set them on fire.

I stared at the screen. Watched the numbers climb. Felt my throat constrict.

I didn't look. Couldn't. Locked the phone and set it face-down in my lap like that would somehow make it stop.

Wyatt glanced over. Once. Brief. Clinical assessment written all over his expression. "You should check it."

My laugh came out bitter. "Why? So I can have a panic attack in your passenger seat? Hard pass."

He snorted. Not mocking—amused. Like I'd said something unexpectedly entertaining. "Better to control the narrative than hide from it."

I hated when he was right. Hated the calm logic in his voice. Hated that he'd probably already anticipated this exact reaction and filed it away as predictable.

I unlocked my phone with shaking fingers. And the world detonated.

The first thing I saw was the photo. That photo. The one they'd captured outside the café. Wyatt's arm wrapped around my waist. My hand resting against his chest. His head angled down toward mine. My face tilted up toward his. We looked… intimate. Real. Like two people who'd touched each other a thousand times before and would again without thinking.