Page 63 of Broken Blades

But safer. Safer than cameras. Safer than strangers. Safer than my ex ever was.

That terrified me more than any headline could.

I lifted my head. Stared at the closed door separating my space from his. Wondered if he was downstairs. In his office. In his gym. Somewhere in this house, existing with that maddening calm while I came apart at the seams.

Part of me wanted to hate him for it. The cruel efficiency. The calculated touches. The way he'd turned my life into strategy without flinching.

But the rest of me…

The rest whispered something more dangerous.

This didn't feel entirely bad.

And that truth settled into my chest like a stone I'd be carrying for the next twenty-nine days.

Chapter 12

Wyatt

The Instagram post had dropped at four yesterday afternoon. Coordinated timing. Maximum visibility. A single photo from the café—her looking up at me with those wide, uncertain eyes while my hand rested at her waist. Caption kept simple: Sometimes the best things happen when you're not looking.

Vague enough to mean nothing. Specific enough to mean everything.

Three million views in six hours.

I'd watched Chastity's face drain of color when I showed her the draft. Watched her fingers tremble slightly as she read the caption. Watched her swallow hard before nodding. Just once. Permission granted through clenched teeth and barely concealed panic.

She'd disappeared back into her room immediately after. Stayed there through dinner. Through the evening. Only emerged this morning looking hollow-eyed and brittle.

The comments section had predictably exploded. Half the internet declaring us relationship goals. The other half performing forensic analysis on every pixel, every angle, every micro-expression. Speculation about timelines. Questions about my intentions. Concerns about the age gap that made my jaw tighten reflexively.

She'd read them. I knew she had. Could see it in the set of her shoulders this morning. The way she'd flinched when her phone buzzed.

Now I stood in the entryway checking my watch for the third time in five minutes. Reservation in twenty. She'd been upstairs for forty-five.

Taking her sweet time. Probably agonizing over what qualified as dinner-appropriate. What would photograph well. What wouldn't make tomorrow's headlines dissect her fashion choices alongside her supposed romantic decisions.

I should've been irritated. Should've gone upstairs and told her to hurry up.

Instead, I waited. Because rushing her wouldn't help either of us sell this.

And because some part of me understood exactly what she was doing up there. Gathering armor she didn't know she'd need.

I heard her footsteps on the stairs before I saw her. Expected the same soft sweater from this morning. Maybe those jeans that looked expensive but safe. Something that screamed I don't want to be here while still following the script we'd agreed to.

Then she rounded the corner.

Black dress. Simple cut. Nothing scandalous—neckline modest, hem hitting just above her knees. The kind of dress that probably cost half what it should because it relied on the woman wearing it to do the heavy lifting.

On her, it did more than lift.

The fabric moved with her body instead of against it. Skimmed curves I'd deliberately avoided noticing during our café performance. Drew my attention to the exposed line of her throat when she tilted her head, tucking a curl behind her ear with fingers that trembled slightly.

That nervous gesture hit harder than it should have.

My jaw tightened reflexively.

"Don't start." Her voice carried an edge I hadn't heard before. Defensive. Pre-emptive. Like she'd already imagined whatever comment I might make and decided to shut it down before I could form the words.