Welcome!

Hey friends,

It’s finally here—Part 2 of Shane and Becca’s story!! 🖤

Twisted Promises is Book 2 in the Twisted Path Series , and it picks up right where Twisted Fate left off. If you haven’t read Book 1 yet, I highly recommend starting there to get the full emotional impact (and trust me… it hits ).

📅 The Prologue drops Friday, July 18th, 2025 !

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE .

Just hit “Follow” on REAM to get early access without needing to subscribe. You’ll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Fridays!!!

# Prologue

Shane

There's pounding. Loud. Relentless. I can't tell where it's coming from. Maybe from inside my head. 

I manage to peel one eye open, but even that slight movement sends shooting pain through me like my skull's been split wide open. The room is dark, spinning like I'm trapped on one of those Tilt-a-Whirl rides I fucking hate. My mouth's dry—like sandpaper and regret—and my tongue sticks to the roof of it, doing nothing to mask the taste of something foul. Alcohol. Maybe something chemical. All of it fucking wrong.

Another loud bang nearly rattles the door of my room off its hinges.

"Shane!"

The voice in the hallway is muffled, angry, and way too familiar. I furrow my brow, trying to place it, but it's like I'm underwater. Everything's a blur, out of focus. Loud music thumps faintly from somewhere—everywhere—probably from another party raging downstairs. Other voices mix with laughter and the pounding bass from the speakers. The smell of beer, sweat, and bad decisions crawls through the vents. 

Typical frat house chaos. If I didn't feel like shit right now, I might even laugh.

The pounding doesn't stop. It gets worse, each slam sending jolts of pain through my skull. I try to lift my head, but the world tilts sideways, and my stomach churns. I barely manage to swallow back the bile rising in my throat.

What the hell is going on?

My limbs feel wrong. Heavy. Like they're filled with lead. My brain's lagging, slow and sticky, like I'm thinking through fog—like my whole body is submerged in wet cement.

I blink. Try to clear the haze. Try to remember where I am, how I got here, why I feel like I've been run over by a truck I don't even remember stepping in front of.

Another slam against the door.

A voice outside, sharper this time. Full of rage. 
Nick
?

Then—

The handle rattles hard. A second later, the door bursts open.

Light floods the room, too bright. Too harsh. 

And that's when everything starts to unravel. As the blinding light from the hall slices through the darkness, I wince hard, turning my face away as my stomach heaves from the sudden movement. The light feels like shards of glass behind my eyes, my brain scrambling to understand what's happening. None of this makes sense. 

Angry footsteps thunder into the room.

"Shane—what the 
fuck
—" Nick's voice cuts through the fog like a blade.

Before I can respond, I hear it:

The sound of shifting, the feel of the sheets moving. A breath against my shoulder that doesn't belong. And then, to my horror, I feel it—warm, soft, bare skin pressed against me.

No.

No.

Time screeches to a halt.

The room tilts while sharpening unnaturally as the air congeals in my throat.

I'm afraid to look. Instead, I glance at Nick, standing frozen in the middle of the room. Mouth parted. Eyes wide with disgust. Only then do I dare glance down. Slow. Dreading what I already know I'll find.

Someone's lying half-draped over me. Pale skin. Long blonde hair. Naked. Her legs tangled with mine. Her hand splayed across my stomach. Her scent hits me instantly—heavy perfume. Designer. Artificial. 

It's all wrong.

It's not my pretty girl.

Everything inside me detonates.

"Get the 
fuck
 away from her!" Nick roars, crossing the room in three strides. He grabs my arm, yanks me up so fast the world spins again, then slams me hard against the wall.

The jolt clears nothing. The pain somehow muted as I stagger, desperately trying to find my balance. 

"Nick—what is this? What the hell is happening?" The voice that comes out sounds nothing like mine. It's slurred. Weak. Frantic.

The girl gasps behind us. "Nick, stop—
let him go!
" Her voice is high-pitched, familiar. Shrill in a way that sends dread crawling up my spine.

I turn my head. She's wrapped my sheet around herself, hair falling in loose waves around her shoulders. Her expression is angry—not for me, but because Nick interrupted this fucking nightmare of a scene.

"Amanda?" The name barely escapes my lips. More breath than voice. More disbelief than sound.

No. No. No. No.

My knees nearly give out. Nick tightens his grip on the collar of my shirt, holding me up against the wall with a force that only adds to my growing panic. 

This isn't real.

It can't be.

I didn't—
I wouldn't—

Becca.

My pretty girl. My everything
. I would never do this to her. To us. Never.

But the evidence... Amanda. In my bed. Naked. Wrapped in my sheets. And I'm shirtless, dizzy, sick to my stomach, bleeding panic and confusion from every pore.

"What the fuck did you do?" Nick spits, slamming me against the wall again. "What did you 
do
, Shane?"

"I didn't—" My voice cracks. "I swear to God, I wouldn't—this isn't right—what the fuck is happening?"

Amanda flinches as Nick steps back, his lips curled in disgust like he can't bear to look at me.

And all I can do is stand here, staring at the mess of sheets. The girl who was just in my bed. The horror on my best friend's face. While my entire world begins to crack apart.

Nick's face twists with fury. 

Then his fists fly. The punches land square against my jaw, my nose, the sides of my face—hard, fast, just like I deserve.

Pain cracks through my skull. But I don't fight it. I don't move to defend myself or fight back. I don't even raise a hand.

Amanda screams behind us. "Nick, stop—
you're hurting him!
"

But I'm not listening. Not to her pleas. Not to Nick's insults. I just can't.

Because I'm done. With my pulse hammering in my ears, my legs barely able to hold me upright, the weight of what I'm seeing—what this looks like—crushes me from the inside out. 

This can't be happening.

This can't be fucking happening!

When Amanda steps between us, Nick backs off, his breath coming in ragged gasps, like the effort to stop himself from hitting me again is breaking something inside him.

"You want to know where Becca is right now?" he growls, his voice thick with anger. "You want to know what she was doing while you were up here—
fucking around with my sister?
"

My chest constricts. My lungs forget how to work, and I'm so consumed by self-loathing that I almost welcome it. The suffocating weight of it, the thought of meeting my end like this. It's no less than I deserve.

Nick steps forward, eyes blazing with fury. "She was in a fucking car wreck, Shane."

The words slam into me like a speeding train.

Everything tilts.

"What?" The word isn't even a whisper. My lips move, but no sound comes out.

Nick doesn't stop. "She's in the hospital. In surgery, Shane. Right now. And she's not okay. She's far from fucking okay."

My knees buckle, and I stagger back, grabbing onto the wall just to keep myself upright. My heart stutters. My stomach lurches as dread claws up my throat.

Amanda's screaming at him, but I don't hear it. Nick is still shouting at me, but it doesn't register. In this moment, all I hear, all I see, all I feel is her. 

My Becca. 

Her laugh. Her tears when I do or say something that makes her happy. The feel of her hand pressed against my chest, right over my heart—the place that always seems to soothe her. The memory of her body in my arms two weeks ago, when I snuck off campus for the weekend, just to be with her. 

She's my fucking Andromeda. My whole damn life.

And she's not okay. 

What the hell have I done?

"I have to..." I choke on the words. "I have to go to her." I lurch forward, barely catching myself before I hit the floor.

"You're a fucking bastard." Nick spits out, his voice cold, venomous. "You better pray to God she lives. And mark my words, when she does, I'll make sure she fucking hates you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stagger, my whole body shaking, before the floor drops out beneath me completely, and everything goes black.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
You'll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 1

Shane

(10 Months Earlier)

The silence in the room is thick enough to choke on.

I sit rigid in the chair beside my father, my hands clenched beneath the table where no one can see. My jaw aches from the sheer effort it takes to keep it set. My lungs burn from holding my breath, because the moment I exhale, I’m afraid I’ll fall apart. And if I fall apart now, they win. I’ll lose my chance to find a way to fix this.

So instead, I focus on mirroring my father’s calm. His posture. His icy expression.

But inside?

I’m a fucking storm. Every part of me is coiled tight, straining to keep the dread from clawing through my chest. My stomach turns with nausea, and my heart pounds with panic. I keep seeing Becca’s eyes, glassy with tears, her voice trembling as she begged me to come back to her. “Promise me. Promise you’ll come back to me.”

And I did. I swore I would. I meant it with the kind of certainty that lives in your bones.

But this? The ring? This insane ultimatum?

I’m terrified of what this will mean for us. For our future. For the promises I made.

I draw in a slow breath to steady myself before I speak. “Help me understand, Dad. Why now? Why Amanda? What does Charles Kline have on us that justifies this?”

Because it doesn’t make any sense. The Montgomerys… we’re old money. Our name is renowned, well-respected. Our wealth, our reputation, our business holdings… what we have far exceeds anything the Klines have to offer. There has to be a reason for this madness.

At the head of the table, my father doesn’t even blink. My mother rolls her eyes, lifting her champagne flute and sipping it like my very existence is driving her to drink.

My father sets his glass down with deliberate precision, then leans back in his chair, the picture of poise and power. “That’s not your concern,” he replies, his voice clipped. “When you’ve taken over, when you’re finally mature enough to sit in my seat as the head of this family, only then will you understand the sacrifices that were made to get you here. Only then will you appreciate the sacrifices that have been asked of you.”

Not my concern?

Not my fucking concern?

I grit my teeth so hard it’s a wonder they don’t break. His words land like a backhand across my face. The implication that my job isn’t to question what’s being asked of me, but only to fall in line, is infuriating. It might have worked when I was a kid, but now? I’m an adult. A man. And this? What he’s proposing… it’s not some business merger. It’s not some negotiation or power play. This is my life.

“So let me get this straight,” I say, the restraint in my voice starting to fray. “You expect me to sign away my future—my life —on blind faith. Just because you say it’s best for the family. But you won’t even tell me why ?”

His face doesn’t change. Not even a flicker of emotion. “Correct.”

Across the table, my mother sighs again, like I’m being difficult. Like I’ve inconvenienced them with the outrageous notion that I should get a say in my own goddamn future.

“It’s about legacy, Shane. Specifically, your legacy as a Montgomery,” she says, setting her glass down and folding her hands like she’s delivering a lesson I should’ve learned years ago. “This arrangement is positioning you for a life most people could only dream of. Power. Influence. Access. And a partner who knows how to wield it. You should be grateful.”

Grateful.

Grateful?

The word settles in my gut like poison.

She looks at me with that sad smile, like this is all so obvious, and she feels bad that I’m struggling to comprehend it. Like she genuinely believes that once I get it, I’ll thank them for selling me off like a pawn in a game rigged to their benefit. A legacy built on sacrifice, and I’m the one they’ve chosen to bleed.

Something in me snaps.

Maybe it’s the way my father’s looking at me, like my reaction is a disappointment. Or the way my mother’s smile tilts, just enough to make me feel like a naïve kid who doesn’t understand how the world works. It’s no wonder the mask I’ve been holding onto—the one I spent my whole life perfecting—starts to crack.

“I’m in love with someone else,” I say quietly. The words feel more like a confession than a declaration. Like a truth that’s tearing me apart. The fear of hearing my love for Becca reduced to something insignificant, when she’s my entire world, makes it almost impossible to say aloud.“

My father doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. He just sits there, his bored expression unwavering, like what I’ve said isn’t worth acknowledging.

But I push on. For Becca, I have no choice. “I’ve made plans. We’ve talked about a future together.”

One that looks nothing like this .

I pause for a second, letting myself see it.

New York. College. Coffee runs and late-night study sessions. A cramped apartment filled with laughter and love. I see myself proposing in our kitchen, her eyes shining as she screams yes. A quiet elopement. A baby girl in her arms. Crayon on the walls. Crumbs on the couch. A life that’s messy and real. Built on love, not legacy.

My voice tightens. “I’m not giving that up. I won’t . I love her. She’s my future.”

Like he’s had enough, my father finally speaks. “Your future is not yours to plan.” He says it like it’s fact. Like it’s always been fact. “You’re a Montgomery. And as long as I’m alive, as long as I’m in charge of this family, you answer to me . “

There’s no fury in his tone. No threat. Just finality.

My mother scoffs lightly, shaking her head. “You’re being naïve, sweetheart.” She leans in, her voice soft but cutting. “You think love matters in our world? Marriage isn’t a fairytale. It’s about sacrifice. Appearances. Alliances. That girl, whoever she is, will never fit into our world. She’ll never understand it. She hasn’t the faintest idea what it means to carry the Montgomery name, let alone represent it well. It will bury her, Shane. And your relationship right along with her.”

The words hit me like a blow to the chest, stealing the air from my lungs. Not because she’s wrong, but because, for the first time, I wonder if she might be right. At least about that.

As the panic closes in, my father leans back in his chair, lifts his glass, and takes a slow, deliberate sip. His gaze is calculating. Cold. Designed to unsettle me. And it’s working.

“You’re still young,” he says finally, calm and unbothered. “Still idealistic. I get that. We’ve all been there. But love—even real love—rarely survives reality. Especially in our world. If you’re dead set on this girl… keep her. For now. Just don’t be stupid about it. Be discreet.”

Discreet?

The word slithers down my spine like a toxin, twisting my insides. My stomach turns.

Is that what this is? Permission to compartmentalize the woman I love? To reduce her to a secret?

Beside him, my mother’s smile returns, polished and approving. “Amanda will be your wife. She’s beautiful. Elegant. She presents well in the media. She knows how to host a gala and when to smile and hold her tongue. She’ll give you strong heirs. She’ll be the other half of your image. The world will see her and see success. Stability. A woman whom other women will strive to be like. She’s perfect.”

She lifts her glass like she’s toasting the illusion.

“And as such, it’s important you protect that image. Discretion is of utmost importance for anything that happens outside your marriage,” she continues. “She’ll represent the Montgomery name beautifully, and her reward for that must be that you’ll treat her like she’s your everything. To the public eye, she is and will always be the only woman you love.”

My jaw locks so tight I feel it click. Rage and disbelief pulse beneath my skin like magma, pressurizing inside me with nowhere to go.

My father nods along, then casually adds, “Behind closed doors… love whoever the hell you want. Fuck and defile whoever the hell you please. That’s your business… hell, it’s your right. You say you love this girl, then help her understand her place. She gets your heart in private. Amanda gets your hand in public and in any other way that matters.”

Something in me breaks loose.

“You’re asking me to make the girl I love my mistress?” My voice slices across the table—sharp, raw, barely restrained. It hangs there between us, violent and quiet.

My father doesn’t blink. “What I’m offering you is a compromise.”

I go still.

Everything inside me freezes as I watch them. My parents. Calm. Comfortable in this arrangement. Like this is just how things are. How they’ve always been.

Their marriage isn’t a partnership. It’s a performance. A carefully rehearsed illusion. And they expect me to step into the same role. To live my life behind glass, playing a part I never wanted, while the woman I love waits for stolen moments in the wings.

This isn’t a future. It’s a goddamn cage. Two cages, in fact… one for me, one for my pretty girl. And they’re handing me the keys, expecting me to lock us both in.

My fingers curl into fists beneath the table, knuckles white. My jaw aches, the muscles twitching as I force each breath past the fury threatening to tear me apart.

I don’t trust my voice when it finally comes. “You’re asking me to give up on my life,” I say quietly, the words scraping out like gravel. “On my dreams. On the future I want.” I pause, my eyes flicking between them. “What kind of parents would ask that of their son?”

My father doesn’t flinch. He just lifts his glass again, sips once, then sets it down with a quiet finality.

“The kind who raised you to understand that nothing matters more than the Montgomery legacy,” he replies, his voice calm. “Not our individual aspirations. Not our personal desires. Not even love.”

His words don’t stab—they burn. Slow and corrosive.

Across the table, my mother looks pleased, like her husband has just dropped some pearls of wisdom instead of spewing grotesque bullshit.

And then he gestures toward the ring box, still sitting on the table between us like a ticking bomb. “Your time is up.”

The words land with a low thud in my chest.

“I want your final decision.”

That he has the nerve to act like he’s giving me an actual choice only intensifies the rage and helplessness suddenly drowning me.

The candlelight flickers, dancing off the polished silverware, casting long shadows across my hands as I stare down at the symbol of everything that’s now at risk. The life I’m building with Becca. Every word I whispered. Every promise I made.

I swallow hard, my throat raw, like I’ve been screaming for hours, even if only on the inside.

In my mind, I hear her voice. “Promise me you’ll come back to me.” My pretty girl. Brave. Hopeful. Holding my face in her hands like I’m her world, just like she is mine.

“I’d walk through hell to get back to you,” I’d told her.

And now I realize—I wasn’t lying. Because this? This is hell. And this is me preparing to walk through it.

One choice cuts us off at the knees, ends us right now, no warning. No hope.

And the other…

The other buys me time.

Time to find a way out. Time to come up with a plan. Time to earn her forgiveness—if she’ll even let me try. It’s the only choice that gives me a chance at keeping her in my life the way I want. Permanently and completely.

And God help me, I hope she sees that. I hope she understands.

I reach for the ring box. Not with reverence, but with fury. My fingers close around it like a vice, squeezing hard until I feel the sharp edge of metal shift and bend beneath the velvet. It digs into my skin, grounding me in the only thing I can control right now—how tightly I can hold on to the rage inside me before it explodes.

My breaths go shallow. My head bows, and for the first time all night, the room goes still. No words. No movement. Just the sound of the box groaning beneath the pressure of my grip… and the pieces of my future splintering with it.

No matter what I choose… she’s going to get hurt.

And if she walks away… I won’t blame her.

But I’ll be damned if I let her go without a fight. I can fix this. I know I can.

So I draw a slow, ragged breath and lift my head, forcing the words out through a throat full of broken glass.

“I’ll propose tomorrow night.”

And just like that, my heart splinters inside my chest.

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE .

Just hit “Follow” on REAM to get early access without needing to subscribe. You’ll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Fridays!!!

# Chapter 2

Shane

I don't remember walking back to my room. In my desperation to put distance between me and my parents, I must've climbed the stairs in a daze. Now I'm here—pacing, seething, peeling the remnants of the night off me like they're suffocating me. 

I yank off the sports jacket, tossing it across the room, the sharp crack of buttons hitting the hardwood barely registering over the pounding in my skull. My tie's next. I rip it loose with a harsh tug, flinging it away like a noose I just barely managed to escape. 

I can't catch my breath. Each inhale comes shallow, too fast, like the air is refusing to fill my lungs. The room spins, my chest rises and falls with quick, desperate bursts. 

My shirt's wrinkled, untucked, clinging to me like the netting of a trap. I run a hand through my hair, tugging hard at the roots, as if I could pull the anger from my body, or at least find some release from the tension gripping every muscle in my frame.

And there it is. 

Like an omen from hell. 

The damn ring box.

Bent. Mangled. Distorted. Still sitting on the dresser like a silent threat, daring me to pretend there's still a way out of this. Beside it, the notecard. My lines. They're printed in my mother's handwriting—neat, looping, rehearsed to the syllable. A monologue in a performance she's already sold out. 

"Amanda, you've stood beside me for years. Tonight, in front of the people who matter most, I want to ask you the most important question of my life..."

What the ever loving fuck?!?!

I tried to read the rest on the hellish ride home. I really did. But I couldn't make it past that first line without feeling sick.

I glance at it again, and the burn in my throat returns. Her words loop in my mind, like some sick reel playing on repeat. My mother's voice in the back of the limo, giddy and focused, completely oblivious to my pain as I sat there in silence, utterly devastated.

"You'll stand just after your father's holiday toast," she'd said, waving a manicured hand like she was sketching the scene into existence.

"Everyone will turn to you. You'll tap your glass, say a few sweet words about family, and then—"
 
She clasped her hands together. "You turn to Amanda. Take her hand. Tell her she's the love of your life—just like it's written. Get down on one knee. Say it slowly, let it breathe. We want emotion, but not too much. And then the kiss—don't forget the kiss! You'll lean her back, elegantly, sweetly. The kind of kiss women will see on the cover of People magazine and swoon over. A prince kissing his princess. The love story of this century."

She beamed. Beamed. As if she hadn't just narrated the moment I lose everything I actually want. And then the kicker—

"The press will eat it up. 'Heir to the Montgomery Empire Makes Holiday Proposal'—I've already given exclusive rights to People, Vogue Legacy, and Town & Country magazines. The coverage is going to be beautiful. And elegant. And amazing. Everything a Montgomery engagement should be."

I blink hard, forcing the memory away.

The walls feel like they're closing in. The realization that my life is scripted, and I'm just a puppet trapped on their strings, is as infuriating as it is crushing.

My palms curl into fists at my sides. 

I want to scream. To run. To disappear. But I can't. On my father's order, I'm not allowed to leave the house. Not until tomorrow night, after I've played the part written for me on that card, in front of an audience my mother curated. He even brought in his security team, parading them before me like a show of force, driving home the fact that from now until I fall in line with their plans, I'm their prisoner.

The gold accent on the ring box catches the light, inciting a fresh surge of rage. With nowhere for it to go, I swipe my arm across the dresser, sending everything crashing to the floor. The sound echoes through the silence, loud and violent.

The box lands upside down with a dull thud, rolling a few times. The notecard flutters down beside it—face up, like a cruel 'fuck you' from the universe. A final, mocking laugh in perfect cursive.

I stare at the mess on the floor, fighting to catch my breath. 

Slowly, I reach for my phone, my hand hovering over the screen as the weight of what's ahead presses down on me. I need to make this call—need Nick's help to cut through the chaos in my head, to figure out how the hell Becca and I can survive this. But I hesitate. Because once I say it out loud, once I speak it into truth, there's no turning back.

Still, I know I have to do this.

I tap Nick's name. Lift the phone to my ear and release a shuddering breath. It rings only once.

"Jesus, man. I've been trying to reach you," he answers, his voice sharp with tension. "What the hell happened?"

I sit on the edge of the bed, spine tight, my hand dragging through my hair. "They're making me propose tomorrow night," I say flatly. "At Christmas Eve dinner."

Silence.

"Your father and Amanda will be there. So will the press. My mother has already sold the story. 
Heir to the Montgomery Empire Makes Holiday Proposal.
 That's the headline they're going with. She actually said that. Smiled when she said it." My voice cracks as I shake my head in disbelief.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Nick snaps. "They've actually—"

"She wrote my lines, Nick." The words slice through the silence. "A speech. On a notecard. She handed it to me in the limo like I was some pageant contestant about to take the stage."

I swallow hard, forcing back the tightness in my throat.

"She told me where to stand. When to get down on one knee. When and how to kiss Amanda. What to say before I do it. Even the guests, Nick—journalists, influencers, the damn board of directors. All handpicked for the most impact."

Nick exhales harshly on the other end. "These people are fucking insane."

I don't disagree.

"You can't do this," he says. "You can't go through with it."

My jaw locks. "I don't have a choice."

"Yes, you do. Shane—"

"No, I don't." The words come out louder than I meant, but I don't walk them back. "If I don't propose tomorrow, they'll move the wedding up to June. I'll lose her, Nick. I'll lose everything—especially the life I want with her. Proposing now buys me time. Four years. Four years to find a way out, to fix this. To earn Becca's trust, her love, her future. I just hope she hangs on long enough to let me try."

I run a hand over my face, my body vibrating with defeat and despair, not knowing what to do with any of it. "If I walk now, I'll lose Becca anyway. Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe not the next day. But eventually. Because they'll destroy her, Nick. You know they will. If I don't fall in line, they'll tear her apart just to prove they can."

There's a pause on the other end of the line.

Then, quietly, Nick says, "So what the hell are you going to do? This is fucking crazy."

I sink to the floor, my back hitting the edge of the bed as I drag a hand down my face. My legs feel like they don't belong to me anymore—numb, heavy, useless. I brace my elbows on my knees, pressing a palm to my forehead like I can physically hold myself together.

"What else can I do?" I murmur. "I've got to go through with it. And I'm going to have to tell her."

The silence on the line stretches, but I know Nick's still there.

"It's just... What if she thinks I chose this?" My voice shakes, the fear in my chest so intense it sends tremors through my body. "What happens when she sees those photos in the press? What if she thinks that's what I wanted all along? That I stood up there with Amanda smiling and presenting the engagement to the world, because it means something to me."

I feel my throat tighten, my chest constrict. I press the heel of my hand into my eyes until the pressure hurts.

"She'll think I was lying to her. That I didn't mean all the things I said. That I didn't love her enough to fight harder."

The panic claws its way up again, rough, raw, suffocating.

"She won't—" Nick tries to interrupt, but he doesn't get it.

"She will. She's been hurt her whole damn life," I say, my voice cracking. "By the people who were supposed to love her—your father, her mother, the aunt and uncle who stood by and let it all happen. The whole damn town. And now I'm just one more. Another person who looked her in the eye and made her believe she was loved, that she was safe—only to tear the ground right out from under her."

There's a long pause.

Then Nick speaks, steady and low. "You need to stop this, Shane. Beating yourself up. Always assuming the worst."

I swallow hard, but I don't say anything.

"You didn't choose this," he continues. "You're in an impossible situation, and you're trying to protect her the only way you know how. She'll see that. Even if it's hard, even if it hurts, she's going to understand. The real villains here are them. Our parents. Put the blame where it belongs, and stop making the guilt your own."

I nod, even though he can't see me.

"Because this is how they work. What they do," he says bitterly. "Our parents. Their friends and associates. The whole damn machine. They twist love, loyalty, devotion—turn it into something ugly. Transactional. They use it to manipulate, to coerce, to bend others to their will. But that's not what you have with Becca, Shane. Don't you dare let them poison the love you have for her, too."

I close my eyes. His words hit hard—because deep down, I know he's right. But it doesn't make the ache any less sharp.

"She's going to look at the headlines, Nick. At the pictures. At the way I kiss Amanda in front of the world—and she's going to believe that's what's real. And if by some miracle she sees it for what it is, she's still going to run. To save herself from the pain and heartache. From the fear. From the blatant public rejection. She's going to push me away."

Nick's quiet for a second. "Then you have to make sure she understands why you're doing this. That every fucked-up piece of this plan is you fighting for your future together. That she's the reason behind every lie, every move you make going forward. All of it. It's for her. To protect the life you both want." 

The silence stretches between us—thick, heavy, dense enough to drown in. I let it sit there for a minute. Let myself sit in it. Because once I say what I'm about to say, there's no going back.

"I have to tell her. Tonight." I finally whisper.

There's no hesitation in Nick's voice. "Yeah. You do."

"She deserves to hear it from me," I add, my chest tightening. "Before it happens. Before anyone else gets to her. Before the media spins it into some fairytale." Plus, I wouldn't put it past my mother to leak the story, even before it happens.

"Exactly," Nick agrees. "You let someone else frame this, and you'll definitely lose her."

I press the heel of my hand against my sternum, like I can stop the ache there. "My parents made it clear—I'm not allowed to leave the house. Not until after the engagement tomorrow. They said I need to 'stay out of sight' until the headlines break."

A bitter laugh rumbles in Nick's throat. "Of course they did."

"That means..." I swallow hard. "I have to do it over the phone. After she gets off work."

The thought alone feels like a knife to the gut. Not being there to hold her. To catch her when the truth hits. To ground her while I explain why it looks like I'm about to shatter everything we've built. To look her in the eye when I tell her what's about to happen. That this nightmare is real, but necessary all the same. That I'm doing this for us.

My voice is barely there when I speak again. "This is going to break her." I close my eyes. "And I don't know how to stop it."

❤️

 
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Chapter 3

Becca

The second I walk through the door, I know something’s wrong.

The air in the apartment feels off, heavy. Almost like it’s holding its breath. The string lights on the little Christmas tree flicker against the walls, casting soft golden shadows that used to feel cozy. Now, without Shane here, they only make the room feel hollow and sad.

I set my keys in the bowl by the door and shrug off my coat, trying to shake the ache in my chest that’s been there all day. It’s only our first night apart, and already I miss him like a phantom limb.

That’s when I notice Nick.

He’s leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, shoulders tense. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just stares at the floor like he’s bracing himself, like he doesn’t know what to do now that I’m here. His jaw is tight. Brows furrowed. He looks like he’s trying to work up the nerve to speak, but the words won’t come.

My stomach tightens.

Did something happen?

Does he regret agreeing to stay here?

“Hey,” he says finally, his tone quiet, sounding almost apologetic.

My heart sinks.

“What’s going on?” I ask, already knowing something’s wrong, and that whatever it is, I won’t like the answer.

Nick shifts, uncrossing his arms. His eyes finally meet mine, and there’s something in them that makes my knees go weak.

“Shane called. He needs to talk to you.”

Just like that, the ground drops out from under me. Something in Nick’s voice—soft, almost careful—sends my heart into a frantic panic.

“What happened?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just watches me for a long moment before he says, “Call him. He’ll explain.”

He grabs his leather jacket from the back of the couch and slings it over one shoulder, still avoiding my eyes. “I’ll be downstairs. In the garage. Working on my bike.”

I blink through the worry burning a hole in my stomach, latching onto the only thing he said that feels remotely safe. “You brought your bike here?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Something to keep me busy.”

I nod, even though my brain’s too scrambled to fully process what he means. My throat’s too tight to say anything else.

He gives me one last, sad look before heading for the door. “I’ll be right downstairs. Just… text or yell down if you need anything.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and the silence that follows feels like a warning.

Nick said I need to call Shane, but all I can do is sit on the couch and stare at my phone like it might bite. My thoughts won’t settle.

What could he possibly have to tell me?

When we said goodbye this morning, we were sad. Heartbroken to be apart. But we were good. Weren’t we? Or at least I thought we were.

I press the phone to my chest, eyes squeezed shut, trying to steady the shaking in my hands. Then, with a breath that doesn’t feel like enough, I tap his name and make the call.

He answers on the first ring.

“Becca.” His voice is hoarse, rough, but I can hear his relief at the sound of my voice. “Pretty girl. I miss you.”

“I miss you too,” I breathe, the words slipping out on a sad sigh. It takes everything I have not to break down. The ache from this morning—those last moments tangled in his arms—comes rushing back in a tidal wave of pain.

“Oh, my sweet pretty girl…” His voice drops lower. “Please don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry.” I try to smile, hoping it hides my heartbreak, but I’m sure it’s hopeless. “I don’t mean to be so emotional.”

“It’s okay.” His breath catches, like he’s trying to steady himself too. “I feel the same way.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then a quiet, pained…

“I wish I didn’t have to do this over the phone. I wish I were there with you.”

My stomach tightens.

“Do what?” I ask, even though everything in me screams that I’m not going to like the answer. “Shane… what’s going on?”

“There’s something I have to tell you.”

The silence that follows stretches. Thick. Suffocating. One of those silences that makes your body brace for impact before your mind even knows why.

Then he says it—low and ragged, like the words scrape his throat on the way out.

“During tonight’s dinner… my parents gave me an ultimatum.” He exhales hard, the sound shaky and pained. “Either marry Amanda this coming June, or propose to her tomorrow. The wedding would happen four years from now. After college graduation.”

The room tilts.

“What?” I whisper, though it sounds more like a whimper.

“I don’t have a choice, pretty girl.” His voice cracks. “I have to propose to Amanda. Tomorrow night. During Christmas Eve dinner. In front of everyone.”

I go still.

Completely still. Like if I don’t move, maybe I won’t fall apart.

He keeps talking, but the words blur.

“There’s a whole plan. A speech. One my mom wrote for me. The press has already been tipped off. Photographers. Guests. The magazines she’s sold the story to. Everything’s locked in. She even picked the headline: ‘Heir to the Montgomery Empire Makes Holiday Proposal.’”

I still haven’t breathed. I don’t think I can. Because my mind can’t get past that one sentence, “ I don’t have a choice, pretty girl.“

My voice shakes. “Tomorrow. You’re proposing to her tomorrow?”

He doesn’t answer.

The silence that follows is louder than anything he could’ve said.

I take a step back—I don’t even remember standing. Don’t realize I’m moving until the edge of the kitchen counter clips my hip.

My gaze falls to the little Christmas tree in the corner of the room. The one he bought for me. The one we decorated together, laughing while I cursed at the tangled lights and he kept sneaking candy canes before they ever made it onto the branches.

Putting up that little tree… it was the first time in years the holidays felt like something to look forward to.

Hope.

That’s what it gave me. What he gave me. A reckless, beautiful kind of hope. And now, staring at it, that same hope turns my stomach. It feels poisoned.

I wrap my arms around myself on instinct. I’m shaking. I don’t even know when that started.

“You made me believe in this,” I whisper. “In us . You made me believe I wasn’t stupid to hope.” The lump in my throat swells, rising until it presses hot behind my eyes. “And now you’re telling me that while I’m sitting here tomorrow night… missing you. Loving you. Wishing we’d be spending our first Christmas Eve together… You’ll be out there, on one knee, proposing to someone else?”

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# Chapter 4

Becca

"Becca—" he starts, but I cut him off.

"What am I supposed to do with this, Shane? What does it even 
mean
?"

"It means nothing. It changes nothing—"

"You're getting engaged. Of course it changes everything."

"No. It doesn't." His voice cracks. "Because it's not 
real
. None of it is real."

"Then what?" My voice sharpens. "I'm supposed to just what, Shane? Do we break up? Do I wait for you? Are you asking me to be okay with sneaking around while I have to stomach you playing the perfect fiancée to 
her
? What exactly are you asking me to do here?"

"You and me, Becca—
we're
 what I want. You're the only future I'll ever choose. I'm only doing this to buy us time, baby. Four years to figure out a way to tear this charade down. Four years for me to secure a future we can both live with." 

He's rambling. Desperate. 

When his voice catches, he stops. 

Through the line, I hear him swallow hard. He takes a breath that sounds like it's tearing him apart, then says— 

"So when I get down on one knee, in our tiny kitchen, and ask you to marry me, you'll know—without a shadow of a doubt—that I fought for you. For us. For our future. You and I, Becca... we're meant to be." 

The desperation in his voice cracks something open inside me. 

The sob I've been fighting back finally rips free. 

My next words barely make it past my pain. "Just tell me this wasn't all a lie. That I'm not just some girl to pass the time with until you marry the one your parents picked for you."

The tears spill hot and silent down my cheeks, my body folding in on itself like something hollowed out. Like the bottom just dropped out, and there's nothing left to hold me up.

I should've known better. I always should've known better. Good things like this—like Shane—don't happen to a girl like me.

"Becca." He says my name. Soft. Wrecked. Like it physically pains him to speak it.

But I don't respond.

I can't.

Between the tears and heaving sobs, I just... can't.

"Please, pretty girl. Don't shut down. Don't walk away from us without hearing me out. Without trying to understand that I'm doing this for you. For us. Because I love you."

I close my eyes, but the tears don't stop. My lips are parted, but no words come out.

I want to scream. 

I want to hang up. 

I want him to take it all back. 

I want him to be here. 

To hold me. 

To kiss me until I'm breathless—until this nightmare goes away.

But he's not here. And I don't have the strength to end the call. So I sit there. Still. Trembling. Barely breathing. While the Christmas lights blink softly all around me, like they're mocking me.

"I didn't choose this, Becca," he says, his voice firmer now, but still fractured. "They gave me an ultimatum. If I don't propose tomorrow, they will move the wedding up to June. Six months from now. They'll push us apart. Make it impossible for me to see you. Impossible to be with you."

I flinch.

The word 
wedding
 punches the air from my lungs. It makes it real. Too real.

"I have no choice," he continues. "I'm doing this, so I don't lose you. So we have time to figure a way out."

The ache behind my ribs shifts. The betrayal is still there—sharp and disorienting—but as I listen to him unravel, it's now tangled with something else.

Something softer.

Something warmer.

Something I don't want to feel.

But I do.

I hear it in his voice. The quiet devastation. The raw ache in every word. A man barely hanging on.

"I didn't want to tell you like this," he admits. "I wanted to come over. Hold you. Look you in the eye and explain everything. But my parents... they've locked me down. Told me I was not to go anywhere until it's done."

I press a hand to my chest.

It physically hurts. The pressure. The grief. The war inside me.

"It's killing me too, Becca?" he says, his voice breaking now. "I'd give anything for this to not be my reality. To just say screw 
them
 and run away to be with you. But running... It's not the answer. I have to protect you. I have to protect us. Our future. And this is the only way I can see to do that."

My chin trembles. My arms wrap tight around my body like I'm trying to hold all the shattered pieces of myself together as my legs give out and I sink to the floor.

He sounds wrecked. Like he's drowning and begging me to throw him a rope.

And I hate it.

I hate how much I want to reach for him. To ease his pain. Even though I'm the one left on the outside. The one who'll have to watch him pretend to love someone else. Even if it isn't real, it doesn't hurt any less.

When I finally speak, my voice doesn't sound like mine. It's too soft. Too broken. Stripped down to the bruised pieces of what's left of my heart.

"This might break us, Shane."

He doesn't hesitate. Not for a second.

"Then I'll spend the rest of my life putting us back together. Piece by fragile fucking piece. Until you believe in us again. Until we're whole."

I let out a shaky breath, one hand dragging through my hair as I stare blankly at the Christmas lights blinking like my world hasn't just crashed and burned at my feet.

"I don't know if I can do this," I whisper.

"You can. We can, pretty girl. We have each other. We have Nick. Your friends. They'll all know the truth. We won't have to do it alone." 

And that's what finally does me in.

I crumble.

"I love you, Becca." His breath hitches. "I'd burn all of this to the ground. Walk away from my family tonight and come home to you, if you asked me to. Just say the word. But if there's even the smallest part of you that understands why I have to do this. Why it's the best way to keep you safe, to protect what we have. Then tell me you'll hang on. That even when it gets harder, you'll still be there, fighting for us. Fighting with me."

I press a hand to my mouth as the tears come again—new ones. Messy. Honest. Not just from pain, but from love. From the way he's still fighting for us, even as everything is falling apart. From the way he's giving me something I've never had before—a choice. A voice. The chance to be a part of this impossible decision.

"I... I'm scared, Shane," I whisper. "Really, really scared. But if you truly believe this is the only way, then I'll... I'll support you."

He exhales like he's been trapped underwater and just finally broke through the surface.

"Pretty girl. Christ. Thank you." His voice fractures. "I won't let you down. Just... promise me something." 

"What is it?"

"Promise me you'll wait for me. That you'll hang on. That when this is over... you'll still be there."

What he's asking shouldn't be hard. But it is. Because trust like that—faith like that—has never come easy for me. Not when every good thing I've ever had was either taken or torn away. Not when everyone I've ever trusted has lied or betrayed me in some way.

But I love him. And I want the messy little dream of a life he whispered into my thoughts. The life he imagined for us—imperfect, and beautifully ours.

So for the first time in my life, I close my eyes... and jump.

"I promise," I breathe. "I want to be with you, Shane. I want our life." The ache in my chest doesn't vanish. But it settles. "But how is this going to work?"

"We'll find a way," he says, his voice more certain now. "I'm not going anywhere. We'll have to be careful, but I still want to see you. Every day, if I can. If you'll have me, I still want us to keep moving our relationship forward. I just need time to put an end to my parents' plans."

My gaze drifts to the little tree in the corner. His gift to me. What I thought might mark the beginning of something real. And after everything tonight, I realize that's exactly what it is. That tree isn't just a decoration. It's a symbol. Of us. Of everything we want—everything we're willing to fight for. 

So I breathe in. Then out.

And when I speak again, my voice isn't broken anymore.

"Okay." 

❤️

 
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Chapter 5

Becca

I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here.

The tile beneath me is cold—so cold it seeps through my skin and into my bones. My legs feel numb. My eyes still burn. My heart… I’m not even sure it’s still beating. It just hurts —like something inside me’s been ripped apart, and I have no idea how to stitch it back together.

I’m not crying. Not really. Not anymore, at least. But the skin beneath my eyes is raw, and my cheeks are still damp.

My hand moves without thinking, reaching for the pendant around my neck. Only a few minutes ago, it was just a symbol—a connection between Nick, Shane, and me. But now… it’s more. It’s comfort. The one thing I have left to hold on to. I curl my fingers around it like a lifeline, tracing the ridges over and over, letting the pattern calm the storm inside me.

Andromeda and Pegasus.

Two constellations I knew nothing about before Shane came into my life. But now, they feel as much a part of me as the heart that’s barely beating in my chest.

Andromeda—the girl chained to the rock, waiting to be sacrificed.

Pegasus—the winged horse who carried her savior, racing through the sky to rescue her.

Perseus—the hero who fell in love with her at first sight, who knew in his heart she was his fate, and fought with everything he had to save her.

Three souls forever intertwined.

Shane, Nick, me.

Us.

The thought makes my chest ache all over again.

I close my eyes, breathing through the pain, trying to swallow the grief that threatens to rise again. I told Shane I’d wait. That I’d hang on. That I’d trust him to do what’s best for us.

And I meant it.

But God… trusting someone with something this important doesn’t make the wait any easier to bear.

A soft creak breaks the silence, and I tense, my spine snapping straight. I suck in a breath, swiping angrily at my tear-streaked face. My heart lurches in my chest, like I’ve been caught doing something wrong, something I should hide, even though under the circumstances, my breaking feels more than justified.

It takes me a second to remember I’m not alone. It’s just Nick. Probably coming up to check on me.

The door clicks softly behind him.

I don’t look up, but I hear the pause. The quiet inhale. The hesitation. I know he sees me—curled on the floor like some shattered version of myself I swore I’d never be again.

Yet here I am.

And I’m grateful when Nick doesn’t say anything.

Instead, all I hear is the soft shuffle of footsteps… and then the gentle scrape of his back sliding down the cabinet beside me. He sits next to me, shoulder to shoulder, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Like I’m not a mess. Like he’s not seeing how stupidly weak I am, how, instead of fighting or standing strong, I’m just sitting here, drowning in self-pity.

We sit like that for a long, quiet moment. Both staring forward. Breathing in the stillness.

Then gently he asks, “You okay?” His voice is soft. Cautious. Like he’s trying not to touch the raw edges of something that’s already bleeding. And maybe that’s what makes it click. The gentleness. The way he knew exactly what I needed. Just quietly sinking to the ground beside me, without a single demand.

I turn to look at him, and I see it in his eyes. The understanding. The weight of it all.

“You knew,” I say softly.

Nick doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t deny it. He just nods once. “I did. I’m sorry.”

My throat tightens. “What do you have to be sorry for? You’re not responsible for this.”

He exhales slowly, rubbing his palms against his jeans. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. It needed to come from him.”

I nod, my eyes burning again. “Yeah. I know. I understand.”

And I do. I really do.

But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

Nick leans his head back against the cabinet, staring at the ceiling like it might hold the answers we need.

“It’s fucked up,” he says finally, his voice low and tight. “What they’re doing. What his parents are asking him to give up. It’s unconscionable.”

I nod, his words settling deep. “Yeah. It is.” A pause stretches between us before I add, “But Amanda wants this.”

Nick closes his eyes for a second, his jaw tightening, before he exhales. “She does.” He pauses, then adds. “But it’s for the wrong reasons. She thinks marrying Shane is the only way to get free of our father. From the control. The expectations. Everything he’s built around her like a cage. She believes if she does this, he’ll finally let her go.”

I want to believe that. I do.

But the Amanda I know? The girl who’s spent her entire life reminding me I don’t belong? Who threatened me the second she thought Shane might care about me?

That Amanda isn’t trying to survive.

She’s trying to win.

Still… I glance at Nick. At the weight in his eyes. The guilt in his posture. None of this is his fault. He’s not just defending her, he’s trying to hold everything and everyone together. His sister. Shane. Me. He’s stuck in the middle of a war none of us asked for. One none of us has any real power over.

So I nod. Even though I don’t agree with his assessment of Amanda.

“I get it,” I say softly. “Or at least… I’m trying to.”

His lips twitch. “That’s more than most. More than anyone would expect, given my sister isn’t exactly the easiest person to feel bad for—let alone understand.”

The silence stretches again, but it doesn’t feel as fragile this time. Not like glass between us. More like comfort. Quiet understanding.

Still, it’s heavy. Weighted with sadness. Something Nick apparently has had enough of.

“So,” he says, shifting beside me as he crosses one leg over the other, “knock knock.”

I blink at him. “What?”

“Come on. Play along. It’ll be worth it.”

“Seriously?”

He shrugs. “You look like you need a good laugh. And fortunately for you, I’ve got a whole arsenal of terrible jokes I’m dying to share with my new sister.”

I roll my eyes, trying to sound annoyed, but secretly loving that he called me his sister. “Fine. Who’s there?”

“Lettuce.”

I glance over at him, unimpressed. “Lettuce who?”

“Lettuce up. It’s cold as fuck down here on this floor.”

I groan, but the corner of my mouth twitches, just barely.

“You’re right. That was terrible.”

“Don’t worry. I told you I have more. Let’s try this one.” He clears his throat dramatically. “Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Atch.”

“Atch who?”

“Bless you.” He grins from ear to ear, clearly proud of himself.

“Wow.” I roll my eyes, fighting the smile that wants to break free. “I have no words.”

“Okay, fine. What about this one? Knock knock.”

“Who’s there?”

“Cow says.”

“Cow says who?”

“No! Cow says moo.”

I groan loudly, “That’s it. I’m revoking your cheering-up privileges. These are awful .”

“Okay, okay. One last one.”

I shake my head, my lips already curling against my will as he barrels on.

“Come on. It’s a good one. I have a really good feeling about it.”

“Fine. Go ahead.” I wave my hand, signaling he can continue.

“Knock knock.”

I sigh. “Who’s there?”

“Olive.”

“Olive who?”

“Olive you. Even though you think my jokes are trash.” Nick lets the last terrible punchline hang in the air like it’s gold, which, judging by the smug look on his face, he absolutely believes it is.

I snort—an actual sound—and then cover my mouth like I can take it back. But it’s too late. The laugh slips out, breathy and unexpected. My shoulders shake once, then again. And suddenly I’m laughing harder than I have all day. Not at the joke, but at him. At the prideful look on his face.

It doesn’t last long. But it’s real. And it feels… good. Surprisingly good, actually, despite the heaviness still constricting my chest.

I shake my head, still smiling. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” he says, a little softer. “But I got you laughing, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. You did,” I admit, the tension in my shoulders easing just the tiniest bit.

We settle into silence again, but this time it’s softer. Easier. Like maybe the worst of the storm has passed—at least for now.

Then, after a moment, he turns his head slightly toward me.

“You okay?” His voice isn’t teasing now. It’s quiet. Serious. Yet somehow comforting.

I stare at the floor for a second, fingers curling loosely around the pendant. My throat tightens as I search for an answer. My first instinct is to lie, to tell him I’m fine. But after everything he’s done for me, it feels like I owe him the truth.

“No. I’m not. But… I’ll get through it. There’s no other choice.”

Nick exhales—long and low—like he’s been holding his breath, too.

He doesn’t respond right away, but something in his expression shifts. Like he’s not just worried about me , but all of it. Shane. Amanda. The house of cards Charles built, and how we’re all just standing underneath it, waiting for it to collapse on top of us.

Nick shifts beside me, his elbow brushing mine by accident.

“What Shane’s doing…” he starts, then trails off like he’s still working it out himself. “It’s for the right reasons. Even if it looks all kinds of wrong from the outside.”

I glance at him but stay silent.

“He loves you,” he continues, more certain now. “He’s just trying to fix things. To buy you guys time. All he wants is to be with you.”

My throat tightens. The tears I thought were gone sting again at the corners of my eyes, but I force a shaky breath and nod.

“I know.”

Nick turns toward me just slightly, his voice dropping into something even softer. “You trust him, right?”

I don’t answer. Not out loud. But I nod again. Slow, but certain. My chin wobbles, and I feel the first tear slip loose—but this one doesn’t feel like devastation. It feels like hope. Like belief. Like I’m choosing him and the path he’s on. Even if it breaks me for a while.

“Good,” Nick says, nodding like he needed to hear it. “Me too. Shane’s a good guy, Becca. The best man I know. That’s why I trust him with you. And…” He hesitates, then adds quietly, “It’s why I trust he’ll do right by Amanda, too.”

I look at him—really look—and not for the first time, I see how much he’s carrying. How hard he’s trying to be everything to everyone. It makes my chest ache. For him. For Shane. For all of us, trying to hold on to something good… while the world keeps trying to tear it apart.

My fingers drift back to the pendant.

I trace the star again—Alpheratz—the one that binds Andromeda and Pegasus together. The one that reminds me I’m no longer alone.

Nick’s words echo in the back of my mind. He’s right about Shane. Shane will do right by all of us . But it’s not him I’m afraid of. It’s the world that he, Nick, and Amanda come from that terrifies me. The pressure. The power their parents wield like a weapon. The way people like Charles Kline always seem to win, no matter who they destroy in the process.

Shane will fight. I know he will.

But what if it’s not enough?

I blink hard, forcing the thought away before it can take root. I’ve already made my choice. Told him I’d wait. Told him I trusted him and would support him.

And I will.

Even if it hurts.

Even if it seems impossible.

I don’t know how we’re going to survive this. But if Shane’s still fighting… then I will, too.

For us.

For all of us—even Amanda.

Nick nudges my knee gently, pulling me back to the present. I blink, my fingers still curled around the pendant.

“You hungry?” he asks, his voice casual, like we haven’t just been wading through my heartbreak. “I make a mean boxed mac and cheese.”

I huff a laugh, scratchy and broken at the edges. “I don’t even have boxed mac and cheese. That stuff’s terrible—almost as bad as your jokes.”

His mouth drops open like I’ve just hurled the worst insult imaginable.

“ Excuse me? First of all, I brought my own. I don’t go anywhere without my own supply. Emergency rations and all that.“

“Oh. My. God,” I say with a smile, wiping the last remnants of my tears from my face. “You’re serious.”

“Dead serious. And as far as tasting terrible,” he says, putting on a tone of mock offense, “I find that comment highly disrespectful. I am a boxed mac and cheese connoisseur, and I’m telling you right now—this stuff is damn near gourmet.”

I laugh again, a little more freely this time, especially when he adds with full conviction, “There is nothing in this world better than Velveeta mac and cheese.”

“Okay, fine. Since you’re such a big connoisseur of boxed mac and cheese, I guess I’ll have to take your word for it,” I say, grinning as I roll my eyes.

“Perfect. Then let’s go cook.” He pushes to his feet and holds out a hand.

I look up at it—at him—and for the first time all night, I feel… taken care of. Not fixed. Not healed. But held in the quiet way that counts.

I slip my hand into his and let him help me up.

I still miss Shane with every beat of my heart. But right now, in this moment, I’m grateful Nick’s here.

❤️

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# Chapter 6

Becca

The smell of fries and diner coffee still clings to my nose as I drop the takeout bag onto the kitchen counter. I've already showered, scrubbed the scent off my skin, and pulled on my softest sweatshirt. But the ache in my chest? No amount of soap or softness can scrub that away.

I move on autopilot, unpacking the food onto paper plates and setting the plastic utensils on the counter. Two burgers. Two orders of curly fries with cheese sauce. Two slices of cherry pie I wasn't hungry for but brought anyway, because Nick said yesterday he hadn't had a real dessert in weeks.

The apartment is quiet. No music. No TV. Just the low hum of the fridge and the distant creak of pipes adjusting to the cold. It's almost peaceful, if not for the way my nerves feel like they're humming too, tuned to a frequency only I can hear.

I catch sight of the Christmas tree out of the corner of my eye and immediately look away. The lights are off. The ornaments still glint faintly in the dim light of the room, like little pieces of the dream life Shane and I shared, just before reality came to steal it all away. 

I stare down at the fries like they're the answer to the ache throbbing inside me. But then, the sound of boots on the stairs draws my attention. A moment later, the door from the garage creaks open, and Nick steps inside, bringing with him the faint scent of engine oil and cold air.

"Smells like food in here," he says, his tone easy and warm, like he hasn't just walked into a pressure cooker.

I nod without looking at him. "I brought dinner."

He steps closer and glances down at the plates. "Is that grease I see? And fake cheese? Be still, my heart. You're spoiling me."

Despite myself, my mouth twitches. "Figured it was your love language."

"Damn right it is." He nudges a napkin into place and starts helping without being asked. "Need me to grab drinks?"

I shake my head. "Already did. They're in the bag by the door."

Nick doesn't push. Doesn't ask how I'm doing or if I've heard anything. He just grabs the drinks, and it's like he's suddenly the buffer between me and the breakdown that feels as inevitable as snow in winter.

When he comes back, we sit across from each other at the small table by the window. The food on my plate grows colder with every bite I have to force down. I keep my eyes on the burger in front of me, chewing like it's a chore I have no choice but to complete. Nick, on the other hand, eats like he's thoroughly enjoying it—something I both admire and resent.

"So," he says between bites, "I've heard you have quite the fan club at the diner. Do all your customers flirt with you, or just the ones over seventy?"

I snort softly. "Only the bold ones. There's this one guy—you might know him, Mr. Earl. Elise Michaelson's grandfather?" 

Nick nods, a lopsided grin already tugging at his mouth.

"Well, he tips me in scratch-off tickets. Says he's hoping I'll win enough so he can someday tell everyone he bought me a house. Oh—and he calls me 'his angel in an apron,' and reminds me every shift that he was once crowned the most eligible bachelor of his high school class. Which, as he puts it, '
was decades before he peaked.'
"

Nick chuckles. "He sounds like a blast."

"He's quite the flirt, that's for sure. Just last week, he asked if I'd go to Atlantic City with him. Told me he needed arm candy to impress his son, who runs one of the fancy casinos, but hasn't been down to visit in over a decade. Apparently," I shift into my best old-man drawl, "
'he's gotten too big for his britches and thinks he's too good for small-town life.'
"

Nick laughs.

"And what did you say?"

"I said I'd consider it, but only if he hit the jackpot first." I shrug. "Told him I'd need the money to buy the finest dress and shoes, you know, to really sell the fantasy." I can't help but smile, amused by the memory.

Nick throws his head back, and the sound of his laughter eases some of the tension curled tight in my chest. We keep talking—about the diner, about some paper he's writing for class, about the frozen pipe that burst in his dorm just before winter break. Then, about Columbia and campus life.

Small talk. Harmless and light. A superficial conversation meant to muffle the ticking clock as the night inches closer to the moment that might forever change the future Shane and I both want.

Beneath the conversation, the silence stretches. It's not awkward. Not tense. Just... full. Like we both know exactly what we're 
not
 saying. Shane's name lingers at the edge of every subject, like a ghost whose name we're too afraid to say aloud.

I try not to think about the time. About where he is. What he's doing. Who he's with.

I stab a fry a little too hard, smearing ketchup across my plate. Nick pretends not to notice, and I'm grateful.

And that—that's the thing I appreciate most about him. He never pushes. Never tries to fill the silence with pointless questions or platitudes. He just exists in it. Beside me. With me. Quiet and constant, like a lighthouse in a storm—never demanding to be seen, just there to guide me if I need help finding my way back.

A half hour later, I'm stacking takeout containers in the trash when my phone buzzes against the counter. The screen lights up with Shane's name, and my breath catches.

"Hey," I answer, barely on the second ring, already moving toward the far end of the kitchen, like a few extra feet might make this moment feel more private. "Are you... are you okay?"

"I'm fine." His voice is low, rushed, and muffled—like he's speaking from the inside of a closet or small hallway, trying not to be overheard. "I've only got a minute."

The knot in my stomach tightens. "Where are you?"

"At the house with my mother, the event planner, the photographers... it's a goddamn circus." He exhales sharply, like he's been holding that breath since we last spoke yesterday. "I hate this, Becca."

"I know," I whisper, hating how small my voice sounds. "I hate it too."

There's a pause. Then, softer—pained in a way that makes me want to run to him and rescue him from this twisted nightmare—he says, "You're the only thing keeping me sane right now." 

My throat tightens.

"Listen, pretty girl," he says, urgency bleeding into every word. "You have to promise me something."

"Anything."

"Stay off social media tonight. And tomorrow. Please." He swallows audibly. "There'll be pictures. Maybe even a livestream. It's all a performance. A lie. Just... don't look, baby. For me. Please don't look."

With the desperation in his voice, I don't even think twice. There's nothing I wouldn't do for him in this moment. So I nod before remembering he can't see me. "Okay." 

"I love you," he says, and instantly my eyes burn. "Whatever they post—whatever headlines you see—remember it's not real. You're my real, Becca. You're my heart. The only woman I'll ever love."

My hand presses to my chest. "Shane, I..." But the words won't come. Even now, with everything hanging over our heads—with him hurting, with me breaking–I still can't say them. 

God, why the hell can't I just say it?

Tears slip silently from the corners of my eyes, and I don't even try to stop them. 

"I already know, pretty girl. You don't have to say it. I already know how much you love me."

"Shane... I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me. I owe you the words, I just... I'm so scared." 

"I know. And it's okay." His voice gentles. "You remember what I told you? About the stars?"

I smile, even through the tears, as my heart cracks even more. "You said I'm your Andromeda."

"And I'm your Perseus," he finishes, voice breaking. "Our love is written in the stars, baby. No one can change that. No one."

I close my eyes. "Don't let them break you, Shane."

"I won't. They can't anyway. I'm not theirs to break. I'm yours, Becca." He exhales, the sound heavy with regret. "Time's up, pretty girl. I'm so sorry. I have to go."

"Wait—Shane—"

But the line goes dead. 

And just like that, he's gone.

❤️

 
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Chapter 7

Becca

His name fades from the screen, leaving behind a black void and the weight of everything I didn’t get to say.

I try to breathe, but my chest won’t expand all the way. There’s a lump lodged in my throat, thick and heavy, like if I even try to swallow it down, I’ll choke on the ache.

I don’t cry.

I won’t.

I refuse to.

Not because I don’t want to, but because if I start, I won’t stop. So I wipe away the silent tears slipping down my cheeks, determined to shove the pain into a box I can seal up tight, somewhere in the dark recesses of my mind.

Behind me, there’s movement. The scrape of a chair being pushed back in. The soft rustle of a paper bag being crushed and tossed into the trash. Though he can see me standing here, staring at my phone, Nick doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. Doesn’t ask if I’m okay.

And I’m glad.

Instead, he crosses the room, and from the corner of my eye, I see him crouch down near the TV stand. There, he digs into a bag—one I hadn’t noticed before. A beat later, he pulls out what looks like a black game console.

I blink. My brows pulling together as he starts connecting cables to the back of my TV.

“What are you doing?”

He glances up with a shrug. “Hooking this up. Figured we could play. You know, team up, blow some shit up, kill some bad guys. Pure chaos, but trust me… it’s the cure for what you’re feeling.”

I swallow hard, the edge of a laugh catching on the raw ache still burning in my chest. “You brought a game console with you? Along with your motorcycle and a stash of boxed mac and cheese? Should I ask what else you’ve got in that bag?”

He lifts a brow. “You act like all that’s weird.”

I shake my head faintly. “No. It’s not weird, it’s just…”

Nick.

It’s who he is. Always prepared for anything. Something I can relate to.

In my case, it’s a byproduct of trauma, of having to fend for myself from a very young age. But with him, I wonder what made him this way? Could it be that we share the same trauma, just different versions of the same fight?

I grew up poor and neglected. But at least I was spared the brutality of being raised by a sociopath like Charles Kline. And the more I think about it, the more I realize: no amount of money or nice things could ever make up for the kind of damage a man like that would’ve inflicted on his only son.

As I watch Nick—dark hair, dark eyes, same strong build, and squared jaw—I see the resemblance. He’s a spitting image of his father. But that’s where the similarities end. Because Nick… he’s the light to his father’s dark. He’s kind. Thoughtful. Steady. Exactly the person I never knew I needed in my life, especially now.

So I set my phone down on the counter and make my way over to the couch, the numbness still pressing in from all sides—but somehow, it’s not quite as suffocating. Not with Nick here. Not with him offering me a distraction.

“Alright then,” I say, sinking into the cushions. “Let’s blow some shit up.”

A few minutes later, I’m clutching a controller like it might explode in my hands.

“There’s… a lot of buttons,” I murmur, eyeing the screen as my character stumbles sideways into a wall, then promptly sets herself on fire.

Nick snorts beside me. “Okay, wow. That was—impressive.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, trying to aim at whatever just shot me from a rooftop. “How do I switch weapons again?”

“Left trigger. No—other left. There you go.”

The screen explodes in a haze of smoke, and my character’s rag doll body flops dramatically off a ledge.

“You sure this is fun?” I grumble.

Nick grins, completely unbothered. “Absolutely. You’re just really bad at it, which honestly, is the best part.”

I glare at him, which only makes him laugh harder.

“You know,” I mutter, “most people would appreciate how hard I’m trying.”

“Oh, I do,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his. “This is the most fun I’ve had all week.”

I narrow my eyes at the screen, then promptly unload a rocket launcher into a pack of enemies with surprising success.

“Holy crap,” I breathe. “Did I just—?”

“You did,” he says, mock awe in his voice. “You beautiful, chaotic menace. You clearly take after me.”

I grin. For real this time.

The tension, the helplessness, the grief… they’re all still there, but somehow slip to the background, softened by the absurdity of the moment. We fall into a rhythm, yelling at the screen, cheering each other on, laughing every time something ridiculous happens. Like when I blow myself up again five minutes later and Nick loses it, wheezing with laughter.

The first genuine laugh I’ve let out all day slips free before I can stop it, loud and a little shaky, but real.

Nick pauses, eyes flicking toward me. I see the way his smile softens, like maybe he knows what that laugh just meant to me.

I don’t say anything.

I don’t have to, because he gets it.

He gets me.

For now, we’re not worrying about Shane, or the headlines, or what’s coming next. We’re just two people, having fun, blowing up bad guys. And for the first time since I got home today, I feel just a little more like myself again.

About an hour later, Nick sets the controller aside and leans forward to shut off the console. The room falls quiet again, the only sounds the faint hum of the heater and the wind whispering against the windows.

I tuck my feet beneath me on the couch, still catching my breath from laughing so hard, while trying to ignore the phantom ache that hasn’t left me all day.

It’s almost eight o’clock, which means Shane is minutes away from getting engaged to Amanda… or maybe he already has.

At the thought, my eyes fill with tears, but I keep the smile planted on my face, hoping Nick doesn’t notice these tears aren’t from laughter.

He places the controllers neatly on the TV stand. There’s no rush in his movements, but there is a quiet undercurrent. A shift in the air that tells me he wants to say something, so I brace.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it,” he says as he comes back to the couch and settles in beside me. “But I think it’s important you be ready.”

My stomach knots. “Ready? For what?”

“For what’s about to happen. The headlines,” he clarifies. “The photos. Whatever carefully staged bullshit hits the press in the coming days. For the paparazzi that are gonna descend on this town for the next few weeks—maybe months.”

I swallow hard. “You think it’ll be that bad?”

He lets out a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “His mom’s behind it all. So yeah. I think it’s going to be very, very… curated. Romantic. Picture-perfect.” He glances over at me. “Designed to make the world believe it, and to make you doubt everything you know.”

He watches me absorb the words, each one making me feel smaller and more defeated with every second that passes.

“Look,” he says, resting his elbows on his knees. “The Montgomerys. The Klines. The Matthews. Families like ours don’t live in a small town like Ruby Creek by accident. They live here because of what it gives them. Because here, their wealth makes them royalty. Whereas if they lived in L.A., or Manhattan, or Palm Beach? They’d be ordinary. Hell, less than ordinary since out there, there’s always someone richer.”

He shrugs, a bitter edge slipping into his voice, like he hates even admitting it. “But here? Here, they’re the elite. The untouchable. The family everyone envies, idolizes, tries to cozy up to. And twisted as it is, the fact that they’ve chosen to live in some quaint little town? It paints them as humble. Grounded. The press eats that shit up, which gives them even more power, more clout. They become this rare diamond in the rough. And Ruby Creek? It’s the perfect backdrop—charming, scenic, accessible. Makes them look even shinier by contrast.”

I blink hard, forcing my eyes to stay on the blank TV screen instead of the tension coiling in his jaw.

I’ll never understand the world they come from. It all seems so fake. So intangible. So… sad .

“It’s all an act. A carefully choreographed life. And our parents?” He lets out a humorless laugh. “They’re masters at it. Spinning the story. Controlling the narrative. Doesn’t matter what’s real—only what the rest of the world thinks is real.”

He leans back, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the distance. “They’re going to sell this. Within hours, they’ll have the world convinced of the fairy tale romance between Shane Montgomery and Amanda Kline. Which just so happens to mean the merging of two powerful families, and their multi-billion-dollar empires. It’ll feel so true, so perfectly packaged… I’m not going to lie to you, it’s going to hurt like hell.”

He turns to me again, eyes sad, but determined to make me understand. “The dissonance will be real, and it’ll be brutal. So effective, you’ll start to question what you know. But you can’t let them fool you. You can’t let what they put out into the world destroy you, or what you and Shane are fighting so damn hard to build.”

A long pause stretches between us.

He doesn’t fill it.

He just lets me sit with what he’s said—lets me breathe through the sharp, cold ache blooming behind my ribs.

“I don’t know if I’m strong enough for this,” I whisper, the doubt choking me, barely letting me get the words out.

“You are.” His answer is immediate. Certain. “But you don’t have to be strong every second, either. That’s the point of having people in your life who want to help.”

I glance at him then.

He’s not looking at me, just adjusting the corner of the blanket draped over the back of the couch. His blanket, since this is where he’s been sleeping.

“I’ll be here for you always,” he says, softer now. “But especially when it’s something Shane can’t help you fix.”

That breaks something in me—something small and quiet and raw. I don’t respond out loud, just nod once and let him pull the blanket over me like armor.

For the first time, I don’t see him as Shane’s best friend. Not even as the guy who teased me or offered to make me laugh.

I see him as my brother.

Nick glances at me once more, like he’s debating whether to say anything else. Then, calm and sure, he must decide he should. “It’s gonna be okay. Just… remember, nothing you see or hear is real. Nothing at all, unless it comes from Shane or me. If you have a question. Ask. If you start to doubt. Come talk to me. Together, Shane and I will get you through this.”

I nod, the words settling deep, wrapping around the most fragile parts inside me.

Nick grabs the remote and flips on the TV. A moment later, that familiar jingle from childhood fills the room, and there he is. Frosty the Snowman, waddling across the screen like some ridiculous holiday time capsule.

I huff a quiet breath that’s almost a laugh.

It’s so stupid. So innocent. So not what I expected to be doing on Christmas Eve while my heart quietly breaks… with Nick Kline, of all people.

Nick doesn’t ask if I want to watch it. He just slides down to the floor beside the couch, leaning back against it. Close, but not crowding me. His presence is enough to steady me. To fill me with a sense of warmth and safety, I blissfully soak in, even knowing it won’t last. Because no matter how hard they try, I get the sense there are things Nick and Shane won’t be able to protect me from.

I pull the throw blanket up to my neck and lie down on my side, facing the screen. The couch cushions curve around me, soft and familiar. The cartoon hums in the background, silly and sweet, full of bad animation and old-fashioned cheer.

And still… all I can think about is him.

Shane.

Because right about now, he’s probably already engaged to her. And by tomorrow, the whole world will have seen it. The photos. The headlines. The perfect smiles, complete with a diamond ring.

But Nick is right.

I can’t let it break me.

The storm is coming. I can feel it rising in the distance, close enough that I can smell it in the air. And while I don’t know if I’m ready for what’s coming …

At least I won’t have to face it alone.

❤️

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# Chapter 8

Shane

When I end the call, I just stand there, staring at the screen of my phone, like if I wait long enough, her voice might come back to fill the silence.

I hate that I had to hang up first. Hate that I'm here, surrounded by polished floors and polished liars, while she's back in her apartment alone, trying to pretend she's not breaking too, just like I am.

A dull ache pounds behind my ribs. Grief, guilt, fury—all of it twisting so tight it feels like it might crack me open. Because I know what's coming for her. The headlines. The photos. The perfect fucking lie we're about to feed the world. 

And she'll have to see it all. She'll have to endure it. There's no way around it, but at least for now, I know she'll be safe from the gossip. And when I'm finally with her again, we'll sit together, go through everything they're saying. I'll hold her hand, answer her questions, and remind her that no matter what the world thinks, my heart only belongs to her. 

I press my thumb to the phone screen, over my favorite picture of her, like I can somehow reach through and touch her. It was taken in front of our little tree, right after I gave her the Andromeda ornament. She's always beautiful, but that night, even more so. 

Her rosy cheeks. That rare, uninhibited smile she only ever shows me. The glassy look in her eyes as she stared at the tree in awe. 

The memory makes me exhale, shaky and slow. The love and grief inside me fuse together into a cocktail of anger and pain that damn near chokes me. 

I'm so sorry, pretty girl.

I'm so goddamn sorry.

But then her words echo in my mind, soft and certain, wrapping around every fractured piece of me: 
Don't let them break you, Shane.

My throat closes. 

And then my own voice, raw and quiet, answers her memory: 
They can't, anyway. I'm not theirs to break. I'm yours, Becca.

God, I needed that. To hear her voice. More than air. More than my next breath.

The grief is still here. So is the rage and the ache so deep it feels like it's burrowed into my bones. But under all of it, cutting through the storm like a single bolt of clarity, is her. The only real thing I have left in this life of smoke and mirrors.

I draw in a slow breath and let it fill every corner of me, chanting the words over and over, cementing them as truth:

I'm not theirs to break.

Not anymore.

Not ever again.

By the time I turn toward the mirrored wall across the room, I've already buried the wreckage. I've swallowed the storm whole and forced it down deep, where no one else can find it.  

My spine straightens. My jaw locks in place—serious, but relaxed. And my hands, which seconds ago were trembling, are now still. Steady. Confident.

I look like a Montgomery.

I move like a Montgomery.

But inside, I'm Perseus.

Because no matter what my parents think they're seeing tonight, this isn't obedience. I'm not walking into this night to get engaged to Amanda Kline. I'm walking in to put an end to their games, to face the monster, to bring it to its knees. 

This is war. 

And tonight marks the beginning of their end. 

I won't be their pawn anymore. 

My life. My choices. From this point forward, they'll all belong to me. And every path before me leads straight to the woman I love. My Becca. My north star.

A knock sounds before the door swings open... apparently no invitation needed. My mother enters in a flurry of perfume, pearls, and that calculating smile she saves for occasions she's particularly proud of. Her entourage trails in behind her like well-trained lap dogs—a photographer, a videographer, one of her PR assistants clutching a clipboard and whispering into a tiny two-way radio. 

Mother beams like she's just walked onto the set of her very own movie—starring her.

"There's my handsome boy," she says, voice bright and too sweet to be real. As she crosses the room to me, the camera flashes follow, the photographer keeping in step at her side. 

"Tilt your chin up—no, a little more." She smiles, adjusting me like a mannequin while her assistant stands in the distance, scribbling notes. "Posture matters," she whispers, so only I can hear.

Her hands travel over me, tugging my jacket straight, smoothing down the lines of my shoulders, fussing with the knot of my tie like I'm seven years old and about to be presented at some aristocratic debut.

I let her. 

Because that's the role.

The camera keeps flashing while the videographer moves around us, recording the moment so they can replay it later on every carefully chosen outlet—after it's been edited to perfection, of course.

Catherine Montgomery: perfect, doting mother.

Shane Montgomery: heir and perfect son.

The Montgomerys: a pristine vision of class and family legacy.

The narrative she wants the world to see. 

She must think they've gotten enough, because she finally waves them out with a practiced flick of her hand, but not before directing them to capture a few more "candid" shots of me 
looking natural:

Me
 
gazing out the window.

Me standing by the fireplace. 

Me looking thoughtfully at the family portrait hanging over the mantle—
Mother's words verbatim.

It's a fucking joke.

But I oblige.

Just as she expects.

"Tonight's important, Shane," she reminds me, once they're gone, as if I could ever forget. "We only get one shot at this. And it has to be 
perfect
. Understated but elegant. Romantic, but poised. You're not just proposing, Shane. You're giving the world a love story they'll want to believe in."

I don't answer. I just give her a slight nod, doing my damndest not to let the mask drop. The roll of her eyes tells me she's noticed the tension in my jaw anyway, though thankfully, she lets it go. Instead, she leans in close, eyes glittering like the chandeliers in the ballroom.

"And don't forget the kiss. It needs to feel 
magical.
 Remember the story that's being told. You've been in love since you were kids, remember? This is the culmination of a decade-long romance. It's so romantic. Everything women dream of."

Her hands leave my chest. She brushes invisible lint off my shoulder and gives a final, satisfied smile. "The guests will start arriving soon. You've got ten minutes. And remember, when you see her, smile like she's your world. The cameras will be watching."

Then she's gone, her heels clicking across the marble like a ticking countdown clock.

I exhale through my nose and reach up to slightly loosen my tie and unbutton the top of my collar. Just one. Just enough to feel like I've taken 
something
 back. The smallest act of rebellion on a day I have no control.

She'll hate it the moment she sees it. It'll stain every photo, leave a flaw she'll never be able to ignore when she looks back at the pictures of this day. 

Which is exactly why I leave it that way. 

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
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REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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REAM
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Chapter 9

Shane

The door creaks again, but this time, it’s not a flurry of pomp and circumstance that enters the parlor. This time it’s a shadow.

My father.

He steps inside like he owns even the air in the room. Measured. Intense. Wearing that ever-present look of restrained disappointment, like the world has let him down, and he intends to correct it personally. He closes the door behind him with a soft click. No entourage. Just him and the control he wields like a superpower.

He gives me a once-over, his eyes pausing for half a second on the undone button at my collar before that unforgiving stare meets mine.

I wait for the reprimand.

To my surprise, it doesn’t come.

Instead, he crosses to the fireplace like we’re about to share brandy and life lessons. As if this is some father-son bonding moment and not a final reminder that my life will never be my own.

He picks up a glass from the mantle, then the decanter—bourbon, probably. It’s not until he’s poured himself a drink that he finally turns to address me.

“Tonight,” he says, swirling the amber liquid, “you’ll take your first steps toward becoming the next great leader of this family. A man to be admired. Respected. Held in high regard by all. A Montgomery. A man we can be proud of.”

The words land like a weight I didn’t ask to carry. The closest thing to praise I’ve ever gotten from him—and yet all it does is make my stomach twist with nausea.

He takes a sip, eyes narrowing over the rim like he’s assessing where my head’s at. Unfortunately for him, he’s taught me well—my expression, my body language… I’m an impenetrable wall. After several seconds with no luck, he finally speaks.

“I know you’ve struggled to accept this decision. You’ve strayed as of late. Made some significant mistakes that showed your immaturity and confirmed for your mother and me that this is the right path.”

With a hand in his pocket, he walks toward the large window that looks out over the back of our expansive property, like a king surveying his land.

“You’re not yet capable of making these kinds of choices. Your youth blinds you from seeing the bigger picture—something you’ll understand and learn to appreciate as you get closer to my age. But it’s no matter.”

He turns to face me, a gratified look in his eyes.

“Because tonight, we’ll correct course. You’ve already started by deciding tonight is the night, and because of it, you’ll be in control of the narrative. This is your first showing as the official Montgomery heir. An opportunity to show the world what you’re made of. So stand tall. Be the man this family needs you to be. And make me proud. I know this isn’t easy. But I know you’ll get it done.”

Because my whole life, that’s exactly what I’ve done.

Until Becca came into my life, not once have I ever gone against them. Not once have I ever defied them. Until Becca, I never had a reason to.

I was so damn naïve… How is it that I’m only just now seeing my entire existence for what it is?

I’m nothing but a pawn. A chess piece to be moved and wielded as they see fit. It’s all I’ve ever been to the people whose DNA runs through my veins. People whose only biological imperative should have been to love me unconditionally. Unselfishly.

But biology, love, benevolence… those things have no place in our world.

Yet another reason I want out.

Unaware of my disgust, he steps closer, eyes hard as he lays a heavy hand on my shoulder and squeezes. A move meant to serve as both reassurance and a warning.

“Montgomery men don’t hesitate. We make the moment ours. We define it. You remember that when it’s your time to step up. To speak. To drop down on one knee.”

I nod.

Because it’s the only acceptable response.

And because if I open my mouth, I might say something I can’t take back. Something that might further threaten the future I want with Becca.

He claps that same hand on my shoulder like we’re teammates in some legacy I never asked to inherit.

“Good. Don’t screw it up.”

Then he turns and walks out.

And just like that, I’m alone again, drenched in my father’s sick version of pride that feels more like poison.

Not thirty seconds later, my mother’s PR assistant enters the room to remind me that it’s time. The first guests are arriving, and as is customary, I must stand at my parents’ sides to greet them.

To my disappointment—though it comes as no surprise—the first guests to arrive are none other than Charles Kline, his new wife (thirty years his junior and only five years older than his daughter), and Amanda.

Charles stands tall, that smarmy, boastful smile he wields like a threat front and center as he stares me down. Beside him, Amanda damn near glows like a snow-kissed debutante in her soft white silk. When he catches me looking at his daughter, my anger slips for a moment, barely contained. Charles smirks, as if the sight of it confirms everything he’s been waiting for. He thinks he’s won.

No surprise there.

“Shane.” Charles steps forward, extending a hand I wish I could ignore. “Proud of you, son. You made the right choice.”

To anyone else, his expression might be deemed cordial, but knowing this man the way I do, what I see damn near pushes me to the brink of my control. I’d give anything to plant my fist in his face and take him down once and for all.

But I can’t.

Instead, I force myself to shake it. My grip firm. My eyes flat, conveying absolutely no emotion, just as I’ve been taught.

“Thank you, sir. It’s an honor.” I say for the benefit of anyone within earshot, my voice almost robotic.

He gives me a knowing look, the kind that says we own you now , then clasps Amanda’s shoulder with one fatherly pat before turning away and heading toward my father. His tailored coat catches the light like the dark cape of an evil villain.

Amanda lingers, standing in front of me with that coy smile that’s as real as cubic zirconia.

I’ll admit she’s radiant tonight—hair swept back in a perfect twist, cheeks flushed just enough to look charmingly youthful. Her dress is designed to make her look both sophisticated and innocent in that way the press will eat up.

“I’d say you clean up nice,” she teases, voice warm, lips curving in a delicate smile as she reaches for my tie, adjusting it in a perfect show for the cameras. “But you always do. You’re very handsome, Mr. Montgomery.”

When she leans up to press her lips to my cheek, it takes everything in me not to move… not to flinch.

I know what she’s expecting. Hell, what the cameras and everyone in this room is expecting. But try as I might, I just don’t have the stomach for it. Not right now. Not until I say my piece. Not until I’m sure she and I are on the same page.

So instead of returning her affection, my lips curve in a faint smile—one that takes far more effort than it should. Then I extend my elbow in a silent request for her to take it.

“We need a minute. To talk.” I say it loud enough to appease those listening, injecting just enough intonation to hint that I’m eager to get her alone. It makes everyone smile in that knowing way that tells me it worked. They think we’re slinking off like lovebirds, because I can’t wait to get my hands on her.

Even Amanda seems to buy it. She blinks, a flicker of surprise crossing her features before her lips morph into a radiant smile that, by all accounts, is all hearts and love.

It sickens me that she actually believes I’d want her alone for anything other than reminding her I’m not interested. Even more so when she accepts my arm and moves in close, the feel of her body against mine irritating the pool of bile sitting low in my gut.

We step into the alcove beside the parlor, out of view of the cameras, our parents, and the staff. The second I’m sure we have privacy, I turn to her.

“I want to make sure you understand my feelings on this marriage haven’t changed. I will not be marrying you, Amanda. What I’m being forced to do tonight—none of it is real.” I say quietly, just in case there are ears nearby. “It’s all bullshit. A performance. You get that, right?”

“Don’t be such a fool.” She scoffs, sounding offended as her mask momentarily slips. “Stop acting like either of us has any choice in the matter.”

“Oh, but that’s just it. I do have a choice. And I intend to take back my life. I suggest you work on doing the same.”

Amanda’s eyes narrow to slits as she gives me a smile so similar to her father’s that it sends a wave of dread shooting up my spine.

“Oh, I intend to,” she says smoothly. “I’m not a fool. Or an idiot. I know exactly what I have to do.”

“Good.” I snap, ignoring the hidden threat behind her words. “Then let me make one more thing clear.”

I meet her gaze, steady and unflinching.

“Stay the fuck away from Becca. Don’t approach her. Don’t speak to her. If you so much as look at her the wrong way—I swear to God, I’ll make sure this entire deal burns along with your trust fund. Nick and I told you we’d protect you from your father, that we’d support you financially so you weren’t beholden to him. So he could no longer hold your trust fund over your head. You fuck with Becca, and I promise you—I won’t lift a finger to help you when the time comes. You’ll be on your own. This is your only warning.”

All semblance of amusement slips from her face. A flicker of steel sharpens her gaze before she resets the mask—smooth, graceful, and dripping with faux innocence.

“As long as you play your part,” she says, smoothing an invisible crease on the lapel of my suit, “I’ll play mine. And as long as you keep your trailer-trash whore away from me, and your affair from tarnishing my reputation, we won’t have a problem.”

Then she steps past me, leaving behind the stench of wilted roses and selfish ambition in her wake.

❤️

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# Chapter 10

Shane

The ballroom is glowing. Golden light spills from the chandeliers like champagne icicles, catching on crystal glasses, sequined gowns, and towering arrangements of white roses and winter holly in polished silver urns. Waiters drift through the crowd, silver trays in hand, offering wine and amuse-bouches that no one eats, though they all pretend to enjoy. The air smells like money—aged scotch, fresh-cut florals with hints of pine, and ego dressed in designer scents.

Beside me, Amanda glides along in practiced elegance, her hand resting lightly on my arm. She smiles the way she always does when there's an audience—serene, gracious, as though this is exactly the life she was made for. Worst of all, she smiles like all of this is real.

I, on the other hand, move through it like a ghost.

Shaking hands. Returning insincere smiles and polite nods of recognition like it's my job. And in a way, it is. By my parents' design, it's what I'm expected to do.

Every few steps, Amanda's fingers tighten on my sleeve, a silent cue to slow down, to lean closer, to let her brush her cheek against my shoulder. To pretend. To perform. And each time, I force myself not to recoil, especially with the cameras around the room snapping away.

All these people—most of whom I see only once or twice a year—think they know me. As heir to the Montgomery dynasty, what they see when they look at me is money. Opportunity. A connection they can leverage in the future, when my father finally hands over the reins of his empire.

But what they don't see... is me.

Not the boy who hid in the stables with the horses to avoid piano lessons. Not the teenager who used to sneak away from events like this just to sit on the roof, watch the stars, and breathe. And definitely not the man who'd give all of this up for a chance at a life with the girl of my dreams. 

Amanda's perfume—some over-the-top floral concoction, no doubt designed to evoke my bitterness—drifts into my nose, snapping me from my thoughts. It clings to my suit like a red flag I can't wash off. And not for the first time, I consider leaving.

I sigh at the thought, inadvertently dropping my mask for the briefest second as I realize leaving would only make everything worse. I need to be careful. It's one thing for my parents, Charles, and Amanda to know I'm unhappy in this arrangement, but should the rest of the world find out, it would mean a definite end for Becca and me. My parents and Charles would make sure of that.

So I breathe in, then breathe out, forcing myself to lift Amanda's hand from my arm and press it to my lips in a show of affection that makes me feel sick. She beams up at me, and I pretend I don't see the flicker of triumph in her eyes. 

I look around, disgusted by how curated it all is. A fairy tale staged perfectly for profit. For power and gain. Even the giant tree in the corner, strung with white lights and crowned with a glass star, feels more like a set piece than a holiday decoration. And the music drifting through the room—soft, sweeping strains of 
O Holy Night
 from the string quartet near the grand staircase—feels forced. Like background noise that doesn't quite belong. 

At the front of the room, my father steps to the podium. Like magic, the crowd sinks into a pregnant silence. As if choreographed, guests find their seats without him having to say a word.

The immediate compliance, as everyone stares up at my father in that feigned reverence only the rich can get away with, makes him smile. First at the crowd, then at me.

When all eyes automatically follow his, Amanda tilts her head to look at me, her expression soft and starry-eyed for the benefit of everyone watching. I can feel her eyes scanning my profile, waiting for me to smile back. To play the part. I don't.

Not that it matters. My father, and therefore the rest of the room, have already moved on.

"Welcome, friends," he begins, voice smooth and commanding. "As always, we are honored to host you this Christmas Eve. A tradition rooted in legacy, unity, and the bonds that make our community and business partnerships strong..."

It goes on like that. Polished. Predictable. For minutes... maybe hours. I've lost count now that I've tuned him out. 

Like she's noticed, Amanda's thumb brushes lightly over my knuckles, another subtle prompt to play my part and look engaged rather than disconnected. Instead, I let my eyes wander across the crowd.

I recognize nearly everyone. Hell, I've been shaking hands with most of them since I was a toddler. But just like they don't know who I am, I don't know a thing about them either. Well... outside of who they know, their family name, their status in our circles, business affiliations—the things my father goes out of his way to recite in the name of preparing me for this life. Because in our world, identity isn't who you are. It's who you appear to be. Who you know. What power you have and how you wield it.

It's a kingdom built on masks. On pretense. On mirages, manipulations, and sleight-of-hand maneuvers.

Unexpectedly, Amanda leans her shoulder against my arm, breathing out a soft, practiced laugh when the woman seated across the aisle gestures toward us and mouths something about young love. The sound makes my skin crawl.

When the applause breaks through my thoughts, I feel it before I realize what's coming next—my mother's gaze says it all.

Sharp. Expectant. A steady smile, but beneath it, there's a hint of warning.

When our eyes meet, she gives the faintest nod.

This is it.

I guess that's my cue.

Beside me, Amanda shifts, releasing my hand so I can stand and step forward alone. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her smoothing her dress as her expression shifts to something appropriately soft and anticipatory, like she's already posing for the photos that will end up on every society page by morning.

My stomach rolls violently as I fight with everything I have not to let it show. A little nervousness... that's okay. It fits the narrative, given what I'm about to do, and the press will eat it up and spin it in a positive light. But hesitation... looking uncertain. Scared. Like I don't want to do this... I can't let anyone see that. 

So I stand with the arrogant confidence of a Montgomery. Even as my hands tremble slightly. Even as I inadvertently release a shuddering breath as I walk to the front of the room, where my father stands expectantly.

Regardless of what my parents think, I'm not doing this for them. 

I'm doing this for her. 

For the girl I love. The girl who told me not to let them break me. The girl who doesn't need candlelight, diamonds, or staged romance in the spotlight. 

All she needs is me. Honest. Whole. Free.

My Becca.

She's the reason I'm doing this.

Every step toward the front of the room is a rehearsal in control. My face remains blank. My breath steady and sure. My spine straight, yet relaxed. But beneath this polished exterior, I'm burning. 

With grief. With fury. With the sick ache of pretending. Of acting like any of this is okay.

Passing the towering Christmas tree, glittering with white lights and delicate glass ornaments, I step up beside my father, who reaches out to shake my hand. 

For the first time in a long time, he meets my gaze with a look of wistful pride. It's a look I can't tell whether it's real or performative, but which, to my dismay, appeases the little boy inside me who's always felt he didn't measure up to his father's expectations.

That this man still evokes that stupid longing inside me feels wrong... degrading. But with the expectant eyes of the crowd bearing down on me, I don't have time to dwell on it. 

Because in this moment, I don't see myself as a man about to propose, or a man giving in to his family's demands.

I see myself as a soldier. 

One step from battle. 

One lie from war. 

And as I reach for the velvet box tucked inside my suit, I don't think of tradition, or legacy, or my mother's perfect narrative.

I think of Becca and the promise I made her.

I'm coming back to you, pretty girl. Now and always.

Because this isn't a proposal.

This is the first fired shot in our war.

And one thing I'm certain of... I don't intend to lose.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
You'll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

Chapter 11

Shane

Silence. That’s all there is, the moment my hand falls from my father’s grasp.

There’s no applause. No chatter. Just the heavy hush of anticipation as I step toward the podium, the cold weight of the room pressing down on me like a second spine. More than two hundred polished eyes track my every move—some curious, some smiling with feigned admiration, most indifferent—but all waiting.

In a ridiculous display—no doubt my mother’s doing—the spotlight finds me. It burns hot against my skin, casting everything beyond its glare into a blur of shadows and blinding gold. Christmas lights flicker like camera flashes along the towering trees flanking me, but even they disappear beneath the blaze of artificial light.

It’s all so surreal. Like a nightmare I’ve been forced to step into—no warning, no chance to wake up in time to stop it.

I grip the edge of the podium to steady my hands. Somewhere in the crowd, a shutter clicks. The first of many, I’m sure.

I breathe slowly. In. Out. And then, in the quiet of my mind, I hear her voice.

Don’t let them break you.

I close my eyes just for a breath. Just long enough to remember what I told her. That they can’t break me. Because I’m no longer theirs to break.

I’m yours, Becca. I’ll only ever be yours.

And after this ends—whatever it takes, no matter the cost—I will make this up to you.

With renewed strength, my eyes open. My spine straightens. My shoulders square with the kind of posture my parents spent years drilling into me.

And then… I begin.

“Amanda,” I say, my voice strong, practiced, yet somehow foreign in my ears. “Would you join me, please?”

She rises like she’s weightless. All grace and satin. Her smile could light up the cathedral dome at Saint Peter’s, and every step she takes is a study in perfect poise.

A flutter of camera shutters follows, the mechanical click of approval echoing off the chandeliered ceiling.

She floats toward me like a fairytale princess walking toward her prince.

And I?

I take her hand. A practiced smile stretching across my face—polite, polished, camera-ready.

And I feel myself split in two.

Because the hand I want to be holding is miles away. Because this is a pageant. A performance. And I’m the lead in a love story written by someone else, for someone I’ll never be.

The room leans in, breathless and eager. Like vampires poised to pounce, ready to twist this moment into whatever serves them best.

I draw in a measured breath.

Then another.

And then I let the words fall straight from my heart.

“Love,” I begin, keeping my tone soft. Intimate. Like I’m letting them in on a secret. Which, unbeknownst to them, is exactly what I’m doing.

My words are a truth carved from the very foundation of my love for Becca. From everything that loving her has taught me. A truth that doesn’t belong to the girl beside me, but to the girl who changed everything. The one who owns every piece of me.

This is my rebellion.

My one chance to speak freely. To defy my mother’s script. To speak directly to Becca in words only she will recognize.

Words meant for her and her alone.

“Love isn’t always loud. It doesn’t have to be extravagant or perfect. Sometimes… the truest kind of love is quiet. Steady. A choice made again and again, no matter the circumstances. No matter the cost, the risks, or your differences. Because nothing else matters but that one person in the world who finally sees you.”

I pause, eyes on the crowd—never on Amanda. Because she’s already getting too much from me tonight, and I refuse to give her this.

These words aren’t for her.

They’re for the girl I’m picturing in my mind. Sitting across from me in that diner booth, working on her assignment the night I took her shift. The girl who holds my secret love of the stars. Of Greek mythology. The girl who looks at me like I’m more than my money. More than my legacy. More than my name.

“Love is the moments no one sees. The whispered promises. The comfort in the silence. It’s what keeps you grounded when the world tries to hurt you… to break you.”

My voice stays soft, careful not to give away more than the people in this room deserve. But inside, I’m unraveling, my heart splitting open with every word I utter.

“Real love doesn’t demand attention. It doesn’t need the spotlight. It just… is. Unshakable. Strong. Beautiful. Resilient. Even when everything around it falls apart. Hell, especially then.”

I swallow hard. My gaze drops, blinking against the weight of the lie I’m speaking into reality.

“I think the truest, most sacred kind of love is the kind that saves you. Not by fixing what’s broken, but by seeing you exactly as you are… and choosing you anyway. By showing you what actually matters. By breaking you down to the simplest parts of what makes us human… and then building you back up. With comfort. Understanding. Compassion and care. All without demands. Without expectations that come with strings or negotiated terms.”

I lift my eyes again and force a smile. They shimmer with emotion I can’t quite contain as I speak the words meant for my Andromeda.

My north star.

My guiding light.

It’s more emotion than my mother would like, I’m sure. But I can’t help it. And as I scan the crowd, one thing becomes painfully clear: They think they’re witnessing a man baring his soul to the woman he loves. Which fits my mother’s narrative perfectly.

But for me?

The only face I see—the only heart I’m speaking to—is across town.

Still believing in me.

Still waiting for me, even after all this.

This is for you, Becca.

Every word. Every breath.

Every vow I pretend to make tonight belongs to you.

I drop to one knee. And I don’t miss the collective gasp from the room, like they’re all thrilled to be a part of the spectacle. Privileged to witness the merging of two powerful families. Something they’ll carry back to their small, curated lives and brag about.

Without any more fanfare, I reach into my jacket and pull out the misshapen velvet box. The one I damn near crushed last night as the reality of what I’d agreed to do settled in.

I open it carefully.

The gaudy, oversized diamond catches the light, blinding and ridiculous.

Only then do I look at Amanda and speak the words scripted for her.

“Amanda Grace Kline,” I say, eyes lifted to hers, voice smooth with practiced reverence that tastes bitter on my tongue. “You’ve stood beside me for years. Been with me since before we even knew what love was. From the moment I met you, I knew you were someone special. Someone who challenges me. Inspires me. Makes me better.”

I pause for the required two seconds, just as my mother scripted.

“I want more of that. And it’s why tonight, in front of the people who matter most, I want to ask you the most important question of my life.”

I pause again—four full seconds this time—just like Mother directed. (To, as she wrote in parentheses, build the suspense .)

But as my chest tightens and images of Becca’s grief-stricken face flash behind my eyes, I lose count.

The pause stretches too long.

Too raw.

Too real.

I fight to pull it back. To force the emotion down before it breaks through my voice and gives me away.

My jaw locks.

I swallow hard, then draw in one final, shuddering breath.

“Amanda Grace Kline,” I say, voice steadier now, but still hollow. “Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

She doesn’t hesitate.

“Yes,” she breathes, her voice trembling just enough to make her sound shocked, awed, and love-smitten. Her eyes shine with perfectly timed tears, and the room exhales like they’ve all been holding their breath.

Gasps. Applause. A woman near the front dabs her eyes with a linen napkin. Flashbulbs strobe like a thunderstorm of approval.

It’s like a bad dream I can’t wake from.

Numb, I reach for Amanda’s hand. Slide the hideous ring onto her finger like I’m fastening a shackle. The diamond catches the light, obnoxiously bright under the cameras.

The crowd eats it up. Whistles ring out. Cheers and laughter echo around us, like they’re celebrating the consummation of a fairytale, a happily-ever-after in the making. Like it’s magic. As if they actually believed in it.

It’s a fucking joke.

I rise to my feet on autopilot.

Remembering the script. The choreography. The lie. I pull her into my arms.

She falls against me like she thinks she belongs there. Like she’s more than eager to build up this moment, readying the crowd for the final phase of this PR-firm-engineered fantasy.

But her body against mine… all I feel is silk and emptiness. Like holding a mannequin molded to fit someone else’s dream.

There’s nothing between us. Not anymore. Not that there ever was anything close to the love that exists between Becca and me.

Still, I do what’s expected. I pretend.

Unable to bear the wrongness of it all, I shut my eyes and picture Becca instead. The weight of her in my arms. The way she curls into me like she’s chasing my warmth. Like she’s trying to soak me in. The soft sound she makes when she whispers my name like a prayer while we’re making love.

For just a second, I let myself believe it’s her in my arms. That it’s her I’m promising forever to. When really… I’m just selling the lie. Cementing it as truth—if only for the cameras. Just long enough for them to capture the winning shot, so I can be done with this torturous charade.

Then Amanda looks up at me, wide-eyed and waiting for the kiss that will crown the moment. The final touch to seal the illusion. And for the first time… I hesitate.

Because I can’t do it.

I can’t kiss this girl. Not when my kisses belong to Becca. Not when my lips only want her .

Plus, I can’t do that to her. I can’t let the image of me kissing someone else see the light of day. Can’t let it carve itself into her thoughts. Her fears. One kiss could undo everything we are. Could leave her doubting what she means to me. Who I am. It could haunt her every time she looks at me.

A kiss—even a pretend one—feels like a line I’m not sure we could easily come back from.

So instead, I cup Amanda’s cheeks. Soft. Reverent. Like a lover would. Then I lean in and press a slow, lingering kiss to her forehead. It still feels all kinds of wrong. A benediction soaked in guilt, but necessary just the same.

My eyes fall closed, and I send a silent apology out into the void.

I’m sorry, pretty girl.

I’m so sorry you have to watch this lie unfold.

To the cameras, I look devoted to the woman in my arms. Worshipful. A prince kissing his princess—not quite the way my mother envisioned it, but close. Maybe even better, since it’s elegant. Classy but still romantic.

But a lie is still a lie.

The applause crashes over us like a wave, damn near knocking me off my feet when the grief slams into my chest.

Champagne corks pop. Crystal flutes clink. Somewhere, the quartet launches into a soaring rendition of Canon in D. It’s all so perfectly timed it makes my skin crawl.

The cheers rise. The cameras keep flashing as my parents close in, utterly glowing. My mother dabs her eyes with a handkerchief, beaming like this is everything she’s ever wanted for her only son. My father raises a glass in my direction like we’ve just sealed the merger of the century. And Charles Kline—the smug bastard—smiles like he just married his only daughter off to royalty.

Together, they pull us into position. Posing. Smiling. Turning us toward the best light as the photographers bark out instructions.

Click. Flash. Click again.

Like we’re not even people anymore. Just assets in a future headline.

Amanda’s eyes are wide with awe. She’s practically vibrating beside me. Glowing like she’s finally stepped into the life she’s always wanted.

Because that is all I am to her.

To Charles.

A means to an end. The crown prince.

Their ticket to cementing their place amongst high society.

She curls into me, her fingers weaving with mine for the cameras, and I feel sick. When I lift her hand toward the crowd to show off the ring, something inside me shatters.

Quietly.

Completely.

I glance around, desperate for someone— anyone —to see it. To notice that I’m not okay. That I’m breaking. But the only person who’s ever seen through the mask—the only one who’s ever cared enough to look—isn’t here.

She’s all the way across town, sitting in her tiny apartment, waiting for me. Needing me. Loving me. Not for who I am or where I come from—but for me. Shane. The hopeless romantic. The star-gazing optimist who believes in fate. In forever. In true everlasting love, that is meant to be.

It’s for her that I keep standing.

For her that I keep smiling.

Because even if this whole night is a lie, one truth still holds:

She’s my forever.

And the second this ends… I’m rushing home to be with her.

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE .

Just hit “Follow” on REAM to get early access without needing to subscribe. You’ll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Fridays!!!

# Chapter 12

Becca

There's no such thing as waking up from heartbreak. 

I wish there was.

It'd be nice to open your eyes after a night of tossing and turning and just—feel better. 

Imagine stretching, yawning, and thinking to yourself, 
Wow. Glad that emotional spiral is behind me. Time to get back to living my life.
 

But it doesn't work like that.

Instead, you just... lie there. Stuck in this strange limbo between pain and exhaustion so deep you feel it in your bones.

That's where I am now. Staring up at the ceiling of my tiny apartment, blinking against the watery blur clinging to my lashes. My eyes feel gritty. Swollen. Like they've been scrubbed raw from the inside. Which tracks, considering I cried myself to sleep last night—quietly, once the lights were off and the room went still.

I don't even remember falling asleep. 

Just the ache. 

The waiting. 

The silence.

My hand gropes for my phone on the nightstand before my brain fully catches up. I don't know what I'm expecting. A text? A missed call? Anything to make the last twenty-four hours feel less like a punch to the chest?

The screen lights up. 
Nothing.

No missed calls. 

No messages. 

Not last night. Not this morning.

My throat tightens, but I swallow it down. 

Don't cry, Becca. Not yet. Not until you know for sure there's something to cry over.

But I already know there is.

Did he do it?

Did he actually go through with it?

The questions loop in my head, over and over. And I'm not sure what hurts worse—knowing he probably did it... Or that he didn't bother to call me afterward.

Movement by the window pulls my attention. 

My chest seizes—irrational hope and panic flaring all at once.

Is it him? Please tell me that it's him. 

Maybe he came back. Maybe he snuck in while I was sleeping, which would explain why he didn't call—

But no.

As my eyes adjust to the brightness of the room, the shape comes into focus. 

It's not Shane. 

It's Nick. 

He's crouched under my little Christmas tree in the corner, fiddling with something beneath the lowest branches.

I blink, still groggy, trying to make sense of what I'm seeing.

Is he... tucking something under the tree? Are those—

Wait.

No.

They can't be.

But they are.

Presents. 

Well... sort of.

I sit up slowly, pushing the blanket off my legs. My eyes sweep the haphazard little pile beneath the tree. The bottom one is wrapped in birthday-themed wrapping paper—bright colored balloons on a blue background. The one on top of that? A crumpled section of newspaper, complete with a faded weather forecast from some random day in the past. And nestled between them... something that looks suspiciously like it's wrapped in paper towels? 

I squint.

Yep. Definitely paper towels.

Nick hasn't noticed me yet. His brow is furrowed in concentration, like he's making final adjustments to a masterpiece. When he finally glances over and sees me watching, he startles slightly—then stands fast, brushing his hands on his jeans like he's been caught doing something he wasn't supposed to.

"Morning," he says, voice a little too casual. "Don't worry, I ordered us breakfast. Very fancy. Michelin-star donuts to commemorate our first Christmas together as a happy blended family."

Despite everything—meaning the ache in my chest and the silence of my phone—I smile. Just a little. It's impossible not to when he says things like that.

He nods toward the coffee table. Sure enough, there's a box of donuts, two cups of coffee, and a white paper bag stamped with the Dunkin' logo.

Christmas breakfast à la Nick.

It's perfect.

I shake my head, the smile still hovering as I take it all in. This whole thing is
 so him.

I pull myself out of bed and pad across the room, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders to stave off the chill in the room. 

Nick's already claimed the floor cushions by the coffee table, where the food sits like a peace offering.

I plop down beside him and reach for the larger coffee cup. "Please tell me this one's mine."

Nick lifts his hands in mock surrender. "All yours. I figured you for a large regular—extra cream, extra sugar."

"You figured right." I take a sip and groan. "God, that's good."

"Yep. Nothing like a healthy dose of caffeine and diabetes first thing in the morning."

I smile wider at that. 

Then we fall into a comfortable silence as we unwrap the still-warm breakfast sandwiches and start eating like it's any other morning. 

Somehow, that makes it all feel even more surreal.

Then the question slips out before I can stop it.

"You sure that was a good idea? Running out to get breakfast? What if someone saw you?"

Nick shrugs, chewing around a mouthful. "Never left."

I blink. "Then how'd you get all this?"

He swallows, then says. "Mike dropped it off."

I frown. "Mike?"

"One of Cedric's guys. He's the one who's been tailing you all week. Making sure you're safe."

I pause mid-bite.

Someone's been following me?

That should freak me out more than it does, especially the part where I never even noticed. But in the growing list of things I don't have the emotional bandwidth to deal with, it just floats to the top... and sits there. 

I file it away next to Shane's silence. Next to the ever-expanding ache that's taken up residence in my chest.

I chew slowly, staring at the blinking lights on our tree—
Shane's
 and mine. 

That's it, Becca. Add it all to the pile of crap you'll have to unpack later. 'Cause avoidance... now there's a healthy coping mechanism.

I sigh.

The silence stretches as we finish the last bites of our breakfast. The coffee goes cold in my hands before I even realize I've stopped drinking it.

From the corner of my eye, I catch Nick watching me again—subtle, but not subtle enough.

I don't acknowledge it. Instead, I just stare into my cup and finally ask the question that's been clawing at the back of my throat since I opened my eyes.

"Have you... heard from him?"

Nick shifts. The answer's already there, written in the way his jaw tightens.

"No," he says finally. "But... it's done."

I freeze. "What do you mean, 
it's done
?"

He hesitates.

"Nick."

He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Connor Matthews's dad was there. Con said it went down like it was supposed to. Public. Polished. Emotional. Everyone bought it."

The air goes thin.

My stomach turns.

He didn't just propose.

He sold it.

Made it look real enough for people like Governor Richard Matthews to believe it. Which means—

My hand tightens around the coffee cup.

Did he kiss her? Touch her in ways that only belong to me? Is he still with her now?

The thoughts slam into me so hard I nearly gag.

I push the coffee away. Then the box of donuts. Suddenly, I'm not hungry anymore.

Nick notices. Of course he does. I'm quickly learning that while he's not great with emotions, he's 
deeply
 attuned to them. And right now, I can feel him watching me like I'm a ticking bomb. Like I'm seconds away from imploding in front of him. 

He's not entirely wrong.

He clears his throat, then claps his hands together. "Alright. That's enough depressing breakfast vibes for one morning." He stands abruptly and gestures toward the tree. "Time for presents."

My brain short-circuits. I blink. Then: "You... got me presents?"

He shrugs like it's obvious. "Of course I did. It's Christmas."

I don't move right away.

The inner rebel in me resents his pushy attitude. It wants to dig in, to stay curled up in the familiar ache of disappointment and self-pity. But Nick's already crouched near the tree again, brushing imaginary dust off one of the weirdly wrapped gifts. He waves me forward with his free hand like I'm an errant child not moving fast enough. 

It should annoy me.

But it doesn't.

Just one more thing I'll file away to examine later. 

Resigned, I do as I'm told and take a seat beside him.

"Alright, rules are simple," he says. "You open them. You act surprised. You shower me with praise for being the world's greatest brother-slash-Santa-slash-holiday elf."

I snort. "Got it. But let the record show I have concerns. If your ego gets any bigger, you won't fit through my door. And then how will I get rid of you?"

He grins like he knows I'm full of it and hands me the first gift. It's wrapped in newspaper and sealed with what looks like duct tape—items he probably scavenged from the garage downstairs.

With great effort, I finally peel it open—and laugh.

A box of Velveeta mac and cheese. His favorite. And based on the squished condition of the cardboard box, definitely from the stash he keeps in his duffle bag.

There's a yellow sticky note stuck to the front: 

Emergency gourmet comfort carbs. Use only in case of heartbreak (or to avoid hangry meltdowns).

The laugh that escapes me this time is the most real one I've had in weeks, maybe months. A real, god honest, uncontrollable fit, from somewhere deep at the base of my chest.

Once I've caught my breath, I tell him, "Wow. Parting with this... to give it to me? I can't imagine how difficult that must've been for you."

Nick winks. "It should prove how much you mean to me. I don't share my stash with just anyone. So, you're welcome."

The next gift he hands me is smaller. Not wrapped, just some folded notebook paper stapled at the edges into a crude little booklet. I smile as I flip it around.

The cover reads: 

COUPON BOOK

 

- Redeem with Nick. No expiration. No judgment.

Inside, I find four hand-drawn coupons:

– One Ugly Cry Session (tears optional, snacks provided)

– One Movie Night (your pick—even if it's sappy)

– One Free Pass to Spiral (no interventions until the next day)

– One Hug, Redeemable Anytime. No Limit.

I shake my head, smiling as fresh tears prick my eyes. This time for a very different reason. "You made me a coupon book?"

"Technically, I repurposed scrap paper," he says with mock pride. "I'm nothing if not resourceful."

I laugh again.

And God. I realize this is exactly what I needed.

The next present he hands me is wrapped—if you can call it that—in paper towels. Inside is a long, crumpled strip of computer paper, cut into crooked snowflakes and taped together end to end. 

"A snowflake garland!" I say, feigning excitement.

I hold it up. It immediately tangles.

Nick leans in to help untangle it and somehow makes it worse.

"I was going for festive," he says with a sheepish grin. "But clearly I have a strong knack for the... 
kindergarten art
 aesthetic."

"No," I say softly, smoothing one of the torn edges. "It's perfect." 

And I mean it. Judging by the way he looks at me, he knows I do.

Next up is a box wrapped in birthday-themed wrapping paper. Inside is my favorite mug, which he must have swiped from the dish drainer. Stuffed inside are random little things: a packet of hot cocoa from my pantry, a handful of peppermint candies from the dish on my coffee table, a face mask I'm pretty sure came from his bag, and a folded napkin with a note. 

It reads: 
Today might suck. But this should help.

My throat tightens. Painfully. Sharp and sudden.

He didn't have to do any of this. But he did. To cheer me up. To give me something good to hold on to when everything feels so wrong.

"You didn't have to do all this, Nick."

"I know," he says quietly, "but it felt like I should."

Before I can respond, he pushes one last gift towards me like he's trying to move us past the sentimentality of the moment. The gift is small. Wrapped in—of course—a paper towel. 

Inside is a keychain. Metal, slightly worn, the lettering faded from use. 

It reads: 
WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LIMES, GO BUY TEQUILA.

I laugh. More tears springing instantly, flooding my eyes.

Nick shrugs. "It's from my bag. One of my favorites, so treat it well."

My fingers close around it... and just like that, something inside me breaks.

The laugh dies in my throat. The tears hit before I even know they're coming. I blink hard, trying to stop them, but they fall anyway.

"I'm sorry." I swipe at my cheeks, mortified. "It's just... no one's ever done anything like this for me before."

Nick doesn't say anything. He just watches me from the corner of his eye, awkward in that way he gets when emotions creep too close to the surface. 

It seems to happen a lot around me lately. 

God, he must think I'm a mess...

So, in a moment of pure emotional overload, I do the only thing that makes sense to my heart.

I hug him.

He stiffens immediately, like I've just short-circuited his brain. For a second, he doesn't move. Doesn't even breathe. 

But then, slowly... he melts. His arms come around me—solid, still hesitant, but real. And I sink into him, letting myself feel the quiet, unspoken comfort of not being alone. Of finally having someone who has my back.

This isn't the Christmas I imagined. Not even close.

Just days ago, I thought I'd be waking up in Shane's arms. Kissing him under the twinkle lights. Whispering about our love, our plans, our future.

Instead... I got this. 

And somehow, it's more than enough. 

This is everything.

Nick gives me a light squeeze. His voice is quiet when he says, "Merry Christmas, sis."

The words land like a balm. Like a promise.

My heart still aches—but this time, not just from grief. There's something else now. Something growing in the space between the cracks of my heart. 

Love. 

Real familial love. 

For the brother I never expected. The brother I never knew I needed.

In the end, even if it all falls apart—even if Shane and I don't make it—he gave me this.

A brother.

And the way I see it? That alone will be worth the heartbreak.

❤️

 
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Chapter 13

Shane

I sit on the edge of the leather chair, spine straight, hands clasped tight, like I’m back in prep school, bracing for a verdict I already know won’t go my way.

Across from me, my mother lounges on the velvet settee like we’re catching up over afternoon tea. Perfectly relaxed. Smiling. As if we’re sharing a lovely family moment, and not coldly orchestrating the next phase of my life’s destruction.

“Amanda’s already confirmed,” she chirps, lifting her imported teacup in that insufferable way she does—delicate sip, pinky raised, like she’s auditioning for a vintage British drama. “The yacht’s prepped. Amanda and I finalized your wardrobe coordination—navy and cream, very classic. Charles’s team lined up a few press spots for interviews and poolside candids.”

She leans in, eyes glittering like this is the pinnacle of her year, and rests a manicured hand over mine.

“It’ll be magical, sweetheart. St. Barts,” she breathes, like she’s offering me paradise. “New Year’s Eve under the stars. The kind of romantic backdrop people envy.”

Yeah, maybe if they’re not drowning in it.

“Oh! And we pulled some strings to get you both featured in Elite Weddings Magazine . Isn’t that divine? A full spread on the engagement, the families, the yacht. Fireworks over the water. Just think of the photos.”

She says it all with a straight face, like this isn’t complete madness. Like she truly believes it’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity we can’t pass up. As if I should be thrilled my cage comes with champagne, fireworks, and a superyacht full of the fakest people on the planet.

I choke down the urge to laugh—sharp, bitter, dangerous. It’s been four days since the proposal. Five since I’ve seen Becca. And I haven’t breathed right since.

So I’m done.

“I’m not going,” I say flatly. The words are quiet. Controlled. But the temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

My mother blinks. “Excuse me?”

“I said I’m not going.” This time I lean forward, voice laced with steel. “I’ve done everything you asked. The photos. The interviews. The ring. I’ve played the part, Mother. But I’m not spending a single second parading around on the yacht so you and Amanda can stage your next viral moment while Father and Charles auction off what’s left of my autonomy.”

Her smile falters, turning brittle. “Shane, don’t be so dramatic. This trip is important. For both of you. The narrative we’ve worked so hard to build—”

“I’m done being a narrative. Your story to script.” I don’t raise my voice, but there’s an unfamiliar edge in it. A defiance that neither of my parents has ever heard from me. “I proposed. I smiled for the cameras. I let you parade me around like a pawn. Let you chain me to a future I never agreed to. But I am not wasting another second of my holiday break pretending I’m okay with it.”

Silence.

The only sound in the room is the steady tick of the grandfather clock behind my father’s desk.

Then, just as she opens her mouth to argue—

“He’s right.”

We both turn.

My father stands by the fireplace, scotch in hand, posture impeccable. Calculated. Always the strategist.

“It’ll look better if they stay home,” he says coolly. “Let the public believe they’re grounded. Responsible. A modern young couple with old-fashioned values.” He takes a slow, unbothered sip of his drink. “The boards of both companies need to see this engagement as more than champagne and headlines. Better they think the lovebirds are focused on school. Their future. On building a life of stability.”

Then his eyes meet mine. Cold. Exacting.

“But remember, son—appearances are everything. Stay out of the headlines. Stay clean. Stay out of trouble.”

A pause. Measured. Icy.

“And whatever… extracurriculars you’re about to run off to the second we leave?” His voice dips, menacing in its calm. “You keep them buried. Hidden. Where no one can find them. Where no one even thinks to look.”

My mother bristles. “But the Klines—”

“They’ll understand. Or they won’t. Either way, my decision is final.” He waves it off like it’s nothing. “The boy’s done his part. The rest of winter break is his to spend as he wants.”

Then his gaze locks on mine.

“But,” he says, voice flat, “you will lie low. No press. No headlines. No screwups.”

My pulse kicks hard in my throat. Instinctively, I already know what’s coming.

“And whatever you’re doing—wherever you’re going—don’t get caught. Do what’s right for this family… or I’ll take the choice out of your hands. Right now, you have a say. You have sway. A whisper of control. But cross me—” His eyes narrow. “And it’s gone. My word becomes law. And I guarantee you won’t like it.”

And there it is. The threat.

This is the play. The reason he’s letting me stay. He knows Becca is my weakness. The leverage he’ll use to keep me in line.

Bile rises, bitter in my throat, but I force a nod. Not because I agree. But because I can’t afford not to. Not yet.

But someday…

Someday they’ll pay for this.

And I swear to God. If they ever come for her… if they so much as breathe in her direction. I won’t just fight back. I’ll scorch the earth beneath their feet until there’s nothing left of their empires but ash.

And I’ll make damn sure they know exactly who lit the match.

❤️

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# Chapter 14

Shane

I'm done waiting. The second my father dismisses me, I'm moving. It's been five days since I last touched her, and every day since has felt like a tourniquet cinching tighter around my throat.

Back in my room, I cross to the window. Sure enough, the swarm is still there—paparazzi vans idling, long lenses trained on the house like they have a right to be there. 

"Fucking vultures," I mutter, yanking off my tie and flinging it across the room. 

I drop onto the edge of the bed, scrubbing a hand over my face. Since the engagement, I've only heard her voice twice—two hurried goodnights, each one cut short before the bloodsucking PR assistants monitoring my calls could get suspicious. With all the eyes and ears constantly on me, I couldn't risk telling her the truth. Couldn't explain that I wasn't avoiding her, only protecting her. 

So I did the only thing I could. I slipped a coded message to Nick. And now, thanks to him and Cedric, a burner phone sits in the palm of my hand. Blank. Empty. Waiting. 

Only one number stares back at me. 

I tap it without hesitation. To my relief, he picks up on the first ring. 

"Shane."

"Cedric. I have to get out. Tonight. As soon as you can manage it."

"Already on it," he says, calm and efficient, the sound of rustling papers faint in the background. "Been expecting your call. Listen carefully. First and most important rule—everything that pings stays behind. Phone, smartwatch, tablet, computer, anything electronic. Only the burner leaves with you."

"Understood." 

I cross to the wall safe, key in the code, and toss everything inside. Wallet, too—after stripping out my ID, the cash, and the one bank card my parents don't know exists.

"Pack light. Backpack only. Dark layers. Gloves. Ball cap. I had a maintenance jacket dropped off in your closet. Hood goes up the minute you're outside."

The pacing starts before I even realize it. My heart is hammering, loud enough I swear it echoes off the walls. I can't sit. Can't think past the pressure building in my chest. 

 "You'll take the service elevator down to the laundry corridor, then exit by the northwest hedges. At the gate, wait for the light to turn green, then walk straight into the trees until you hit the road."

My fingers tighten around the phone, heat bleeding into my palm. "And the cameras?"

"Handled." His answer is fast, so matter-of-fact, it doesn't leave room for doubt to bloom. "Once you're out, it's twenty minutes through the woods. The driver will be waiting in a gray sedan. He'll ask if you've got change for a twenty. That's how you'll know it's him."

"Okay. And what do I say?"

"You answer, 'Only in quarters.' If he doesn't ask, you turn right around. Go back through the trees, then call me."

A pulse of something wild climbs up my throat. I see her face, the way she looked at me the last time I saw her. Sad. Hopeful. Like she was bracing for heartbreak.  

"How long to get to her?"

"As long as it takes," Cedric says firmly. "But you'll get there. Safely." 

I grip the phone tighter, like I'm trying to hold on to that promise. "Thank you."

There's a beat of silence before his voice softens. "I've got you, son. You'll be together soon."

His words land in my chest, warm and anchoring. The surge of gratitude threatens to undo me. But by the time the line clicks dead, my hands are steady again.

As he promised, the jacket waits in my closet—navy canvas with yellow reflective striping, and a patch that reads MONTGOMERY PROPERTIES stitched across the chest. I shove my arms through and zip it up. Then slide the matching ball cap over my head and tuck the gloves into the pockets. Hiking boots laced tight, dark jeans tucked in. 

At my dresser, I open the drawer and dig out the small black velvet ring box. What's inside is nothing like the gaudy monstrosity I gave Amanda. This one is simple. Honest. Real. Perfect for Becca. 

I slide it into my pocket, pressing my palm over it like I can draw strength from the shape of it. 

Soon, pretty girl. I'll be with you soon.

Seconds later, Cedric's text pings: 

All clear. Move easy. Don't dawdle.

I don't.

The service elevator hums around me as it carries me down, steel walls closing me off from everything but the thud of my pulse. When the doors slide open, I step into a corridor that reeks of bleach and steam. Industrial fans whir in the distance. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs.

I keep my head down. My strides steady, forgettable, like I'm just another employee on an errand no one will remember.

The cameras above the loading bay blink red—then suddenly go dark. 

This is it. My chance.

I yank my hood up, slide on my gloves, and slip through the gray doors into the night. The cold air slaps my face, sharp enough to sting, but I don't slow. The hedges rise around me like black walls, towering against a sky pricked with stars. At the far corner, the gate looms. Steel. Unyielding. 

And then, just like he promised, the light over the keypad flickers from red to green. 

My chest tightens.

And just like that... I'm free. 

I slip through, easing the gate shut behind me. In an instant, everything changes. Manicured lawn becomes frozen soil. Dry leaves crunch beneath my boots. 

The air turns to pine and winter, sharp and clean, filling my lungs for the first time in days. 

The trees close behind me, making the mansion disappear. My breath fogs white in the moonlight. The cold seeps beneath the jacket, into my bones, and I welcome it. After the numbness of this past week, the bite of it feels almost like relief. 

Then comes the memory, unbidden and brutal. 

That night on the blanket. 

A night much like this one. 

Our fingers brushing as I told her about my love of the stars. The night Perseus and Andromeda became ours. The way she looked at me then, like I wasn't a Montgomery, but just a simple man. A man she wanted to be with. A man she 
chose.

That moment changed everything for us. 

Every damn thing.

But now? After all that's happened... 

What if she's done?

What if she doesn't believe in me anymore?

What if it's already too late?

My throat clamps around the fear. I swallow it down. Hard. 

I won't lose her. 

Not without a fight. 

Not while there's anything left to fight 
for
. 

So I keep moving.

Headlights flicker through the trees in brief flashes, and I freeze. Listening. 

No voices. 

No footsteps.

All I hear is the whisper of the breeze threading through the branches. 

Then I spot it. A gray sedan. Ordinary to the point of invisibility.

As I break through the tree line, the driver steps out. Hood up, face shadowed. He doesn't look at me right away. He's too busy scanning the woods behind me, like he's expecting trouble.

"Hey, man. Got change for a twenty?" His voice is low. Casual. But his eyes—sharp and searching—are anything but.

"Only in quarters," I answer.

He nods once, then opens the back door. "No phones. No electronics."

"Cedric told me. I got nothing," I mutter, sliding into the backseat.

From there, he moves with practiced ease. No wasted motion, no sound but the soft click of the door shutting behind him. No dome light. No radio. Just the quiet thrum of tires on asphalt as we pull away. His gaze flicks between the road and the rearview mirror, sharp eyes scanning everything around us. 

We don't take the obvious route. Instead, three rights turn into a left. Three lefts into another right. Eventually, pavement gives way to a narrow ribbon of cracked asphalt—an old service road behind Willow Creek State Park.

I rest a hand over the ring box in my pocket and breathe deep. Through the trees ahead, like some miracle of fate, I spot her. Blinking high above the canopy, like a promise etched in the dark.

Andromeda.

The princess chained to a rock as a sacrifice... now here to guide me home.

"This is where I leave you," the driver says at last, his first words since he picked me up. "Trail cuts through the woods to the south side of the lake. I'm told you know the way from there."

"I do." My pulse hammers in my chest. "How far do you think?"

"A mile, maybe," he answers, eyes scanning the trees.

I take a deep breath, then exhale slowly.

A mile is nothing. 

Hell, to get to her, I'd walk an eternity if I had to.

I thank him, then step into the dark. The shadows close around me, swallowing me whole. And strangely... it feels like a cleansing. Like the forest is peeling away every false layer of who I've been. 

The fake. 

The privileged. 

The polished lie of a man they made me into. 

Every step strips me down to something truer. Something worthy. Purifying me so I can reenter her world untarnished.   

The last stretch is almost cruel. 

I'm so close, I swear I can feel the warmth of her skin reaching out for me. My legs pump faster. Harder. My lungs burn. My thighs ache. 

But I welcome it all. 

The pain means I'm free. 

Every step is one less chain. 

One less lie. 

One breath closer to the only thing that's ever felt real.

Then I see it through the trees. 

The detached garage. The soft glow from the apartment windows above pulls me forward like gravity itself. 

Home
.

I stop for half a second, chest burning, tears stinging my eyes. Then I push forward faster.

The keypad on the garage blinks green under Cedric's override. The door unlocks with a quiet beep, and I slip inside. The air smells of oil, cold concrete—and her laundry soap. 

That scent... a mixture of cherries, berries, and vanilla nearly drops me to my knees.

In a blur, I take the stairs two at a time, hands trembling as I reach her door. I press my palm against the wood, bowing my forehead to it like a vow.

"I'm here, pretty girl," I whisper. "I kept my promise. This is me. Coming home to you."

Then, with a breath that feels like salvation, I turn the knob and step inside.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
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.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
You'll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

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Chapter 15

Shane

The door clicks shut behind me, and I stop cold.

For five days, I’ve replayed this moment in my head—stepping back into the only space that’s ever felt like home. Now that I’m here, it hits me so hard I can barely breathe.

The soft glow of the Christmas tree bathes the room in a wash of color, dreamlike in its warmth. Her scent lingers in the air—berries and vanilla—curling around me like an embrace. My gaze darts around the room, hungry, desperate. The couch is empty. So is the kitchen. My chest squeezes tighter and tighter until… there. A sliver of light seeps from beneath the bathroom door. The hum of the shower nearly buckles my knees.

She’s there.

Right there . Just a wall between us.

“About time the help showed up.”

The voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts, and I finally see him. Nick. He stands in the living room, half-bent over a duffel bag. He straightens slowly, eyes dragging over me, then lingering on the emblem stitched across the maintenance jacket I’m still wearing. A crooked grin pulls at his mouth, eyes sparking like it’s the funniest damn thing he’s seen all week.

“Sink’s been leaking for days.”

A rough, startled laugh bursts out of me. It sounds foreign in my ears, but it’s real. The first honest-to-God laugh I’ve managed in days.

In two strides, we’re locked in a hug that’s anything but polite. It’s not gentle. Not performative. It’s blood-deep. Bone-deep. The kind of embrace born from survival. Two men bound not by blood, but by the scars left behind by families who treat us like pawns instead of people. Brothers who’ve crawled through the trenches of high society side by side—starving, always, for something real.

Nick thumps my back once, solid and grounding. My throat burns with relief and gratitude, because in a world of masks and lies, he’s the closest thing to family I’ve ever had.

And for the first time in five days, the pressure holding me under water eases.

Because I’m home—with my chosen family.

He pulls back first, gripping my shoulders like he’s taking stock. The grin fades. His eyes narrow, serious now.

“You look like hell.”

I huff out a dry laugh, shaking my head. Because it’s been hell. Five days of nothing but staged smiles, suffocating public appearances beside a girl I’m starting to hate, and the gnawing ache of living without the one I love. But I’m not spilling that poison now. Not here. Not with the only thing that matters standing just feet away behind that door.

So I deflect. “How’s she doing?”

His expression shifts to something softer. Pride flickers in his eyes in a way that tells me leaving him here to watch over her was the right call.

“She’s stronger than she knows. Tough as nails. You’d be proud, man. I know I am.” His voice catches on the exhale. “Getting the chance to know her—to be a brother again—it’s been the best damn thing to come out of this whole mess.”

My throat burns. I glance away, press my tongue to my teeth, trying to hold it together. I know how hard it’s been for him these past few years, with Charles always pulling the strings, pitting his kids against each other like chess pieces. A game he ramped up tenfold after Nick refused to give up Miranda.

“Thank you. For looking out for her. For being here when I couldn’t be.”

Nick shrugs, but his eyes give him away. “Wish I could stay longer. But you two… you need this time.” He zips the duffel bag closed. “I’ll be at Connor’s for the rest of winter break. Still close enough to check in, especially for her. I’ve got a feeling she’s gonna need me, with everything that’s coming.”

The weight of his words settles heavy between us—part promise, part warning. But instead of bristling like I might’ve once, it settles something inside me. Because he’s right. With what’s coming, she’s going to need him. And knowing he’ll be there, that he’s in her corner when I can’t be, soothes a part of me I didn’t realize was still screaming.

He slings the strap of his bag over his shoulder, then pauses at the door that leads to the garage. “Don’t want to spoil your reunion. Tell her I said goodbye. Make sure she knows I’m not far. Just a phone call away.”

And then he’s gone. The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is deafening. My heartbeat fills it, pounding wild and uneven in my ears.

I tug off the cap and jacket, hanging them on the coat rack by the front door. My chest feels wired with electricity, every nerve ending alive and sparking as I pace the floor. My palms are slick, so I wipe them on my jeans, but it doesn’t help. My hands won’t stop trembling. Even the weight of the ring box in my pocket feels unbearable, like it’s burning through the denim, branding me with everything I need to say but don’t know how to yet.

Then it happens. The shower cuts off. Pipes groan in protest, the sound booming in the suffocating quiet of her apartment. Water drips in sharp ticks, each one like a countdown pounding against my ribs. The shower curtain scrapes back. Bare feet shift on the tile. The soft thud of movement muffled by the door.

I freeze mid-step. My lungs seize.

God, I want to storm in there. Rip the door from its hinges. Drag her into my arms and bury myself in the proof she’s still mine—that I haven’t lost her. Every cell in me screams for it. Just one second of contact to end this torture.

But I don’t.

Because after everything… after five days of damn near silence, of her picturing me beside Amanda, I don’t even know if she’d want me in there. Not yet.

I have no right.

Not until I know for sure that we’re okay.

So I force myself to wait.

Heart pounding. Sweat crawling down my spine. My chest aches as I hold a breath that burns in my lungs.

The silence stretches.

A lifetime packed into seconds.

And then—

The bathroom door opens with a soft click, steam curling out like ghostly tendrils of suspense.

And there she is.

My Becca.

She steps into view in a loose sweatshirt and sleep shorts, damp strands of hair clinging to her flushed cheeks. For a second, she doesn’t even register me. Her gaze sweeps the room absently, like she’s still in her head, still in that quiet place we all retreat to when the world gets too loud.

Then her eyes find mine.

She stops cold.

The towel in her hand slips through her fingers and hits the floor. Disbelief flashes across her face, raw and sharp, followed by something so fragile it wrecks me.

Her lip trembles.

Her chest hitches like she doesn’t trust what she’s seeing.

My throat burns. My vision blurs.

“Hi, pretty girl.”

Three words. Barely a whisper. The only ones I can manage.

Her mouth opens like she wants to speak, but nothing comes out. Just a soundless breath that dies in her throat. Her eyes shimmer, lashes fluttering under the weight of unshed tears.

And then the dam breaks.

She crumples.

Tears spill hot and fast. Her shoulders shake with the force of it.

The sight undoes me.

I don’t think. I just move. In a heartbeat, I’m across the room, wrapping her in my arms, hauling her against me. And the second her body collides with mine, oxygen floods my lungs.

Finally.

Finally, I can breathe again.

She clings to me like she’s drowning, fists twisted in my sweatshirt with all the desperation I’ve felt clawing at me for days. Her sobs shake through both of us, muffled against my chest, dampening the fabric.

But I don’t care.

Not even a little.

Like the starved man that I am, I bury my face in her damp hair and inhale. Sweet. Fresh. Unmistakably her. The scent hits me like salvation, and my whole body aches with it.

The weight of her pressed to me.

The hitch of her breath against my ribs.

The erratic stutter of her heartbeat syncing with mine.

Every detail sears into me, permanent, like a brand I’ll never let fade.

My lips brush her temple, her hair, her cheek. And the words spill out between kisses, soft and as certain as a vow.

“I’ve got you.”

“I’m here, pretty girl.”

“I’m here.”

She only cries harder. The sound rips me open, so I shift, sliding one arm around her waist and lifting her against my chest, her feet off the floor. She’s clutching something in her fist—her laundry, wrinkled and damp. I gently pry it from her grip, tossing it to the floor without a second thought.

None of that matters.

Not now.

Not when she’s breaking in my arms, and I’m finally here to catch the pieces.

Every fragile ounce of her clings to me as I carry her through the apartment that smells like her shampoo, her lotion, and the little pocket of paradise we’ve slowly carved out together.

I kick off my boots by the bed and lower us down, never letting go. She curls into me instantly, burying herself in my chest like she’s trying to disappear inside me.

And maybe she is.

Because that’s all I want too. To fuse her into me so completely, nothing and no one can ever separate us again.

I wrap her tighter. One hand splayed over her back, the other cradling the back of her head. My lips find her forehead. Her temple. The damp strands of her hair. The tear-streaked curve of her cheek.

Each kiss is a vow.

Each whisper threaded between them, a lifeline.

“I’ve got you.”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

“Only you.”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The silence between us speaks in a language all its own.

The way her breath trembles against my chest.

The way her fists knot into my shirt like I’m the only solid thing in her world.

And I know exactly how that feels.

Because for me, that’s exactly what she is.

My solid ground.

My gravity.

The only star in my night sky.

❤️

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# Chapter 16

Becca

He's here.

He's actually here.

The words loop through my head on repeat, but they still don't feel real. Not after five endless days of silence. Five days of imagining him with her. Five days of bracing for the call that would end us for good.

And yet... here I am. 

Here we are.

Tangled together on my bed, his arms locked around me like he's never letting go.

I breathe him in, and it nearly undoes me all over again. That familiar scent—soap, pine and cedar, with the faintest trace of the cologne he always swipes across his collarbone. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath my cheek. The rise and fall of his chest, anchoring me to the here and now, even when everything inside me still feels like it's spiraling.

His hand drifts slowly through my damp hair, his voice a low murmur against my temple. I can't even make out the words, just the rhythm of them. Gentle. Soothing. They settle into me like stitches pulling a wound closed.

Little by little, my sobs taper off. Each shaky breath leaves me more drained than the last. And then comes the wave of humiliating awareness.

God, what must I look like right now? 

A wreck. 

Weepy and clingy. Like I'm one of 
those
 girls who can't stand on her own two feet. Like I'm a needy, emotional mess.

I shift against him, swiping at my eyes, desperate to claw back even a sliver of composure. 

"I'm sorry," I whisper, voice ragged. "For falling apart like this. I—I don't know why I always seem to do this around you."

His hand stills in my hair. Then he tilts my face up, gentle but firm, until I can't look anywhere but at him. "Don't do that, pretty girl. Don't hide your feelings from me." 

I open my mouth to argue, but he doesn't let me.

"You're one of the strongest people I've ever met. I know how hard this is for 
me
, and I can only imagine how much harder it is for 
you
." His voice dips, raw and reverent. "And I'm just... so damn proud of you." 

His fingers trace a slow line down my cheek, his eyes following the path. The tenderness in his gaze almost makes me shiver. 

"But I need you to hear me, Becca. When you're with me? You don't have to be strong. You just have to be 
real.
 Just be 
you
."

The lump in my throat swells, not from shame this time, but from something deeper. An unbearable ache. Because I want to believe him. God, I 
want
 to. To lean into the safety he's offering. To believe there's a place in this world where I don't have to hold myself together with iron will and clenched teeth. 

But wanting doesn't ease the fear. It doesn't undo years of forcing myself to hide every crack before anyone could see them.

The silence stretches between us, thick but softer now. The question claws at my throat until I can't hold it in anymore. 

"Why didn't you tell me you were coming? You hardly called at all?" The words scrape out small, but laced with all the hurt I've been swallowing down for days.

His arm tightens around me, anchoring me before the answer even leaves his lips. "They were on me. Every second of the day. Every call, every text, every move I made... I couldn't risk it." His voice frays at the edges. "If those bloodthirsty leeches had caught even a whisper of you—of us—they would've twisted it. Found a way to ruin everything. To ruin 
us
."

His next words are quieter. Heavier. 

"Keeping you safe mattered more to me than anything. But God, I hated it. Every second without you felt like I was suffocating. Like I couldn't breathe."

I nod, but the ache doesn't ease. His explanation may be true, but it doesn't fill the hollow five days of silence carved into me. Five days of screaming into the void, waiting for him to reach back. 

 I force a shaky smile and whisper, "It's okay. I get it."

But before the lie can settle, his hand is already at my chin. Gentle but unyielding, tipping my face up until I'm trapped in the heat of his gaze. 

"No. You're doing it again. Don't hide from me. Your truth matters to me. Even when it hurts. 
Especially
 then."

The words pierce something deep inside me. Terrifying and comforting all at once. Because he doesn't just see me, he refuses to let me disappear beneath the surface like I always do. He refuses to let me shrink myself smaller just to survive the moment. 

His thumb brushes along my jaw, slow and grounding, pulling me back to him. 

"Pretty girl," he murmurs, voice edged with steel. "The only way we survive this—the lies, the headlines, all of it—is with brutal honesty. Brutal love. Brutal determination to fight our way through it. Together."

The intensity in his eyes steals the breath from my lungs. "If I'm not real with you, if you're not real with me, then the world wins. And I won't let that happen. We 
can't
 let that happen." 

His voice grows more urgent with every word. "Every doubt. Every fear. Every thought we have—we lay it bare for the other to see. No pretending. No hiding. Not from each other."

My first instinct is to flinch. 

To duck my head. Laugh it off. Deflect like I always do. Pretend I'm untouchable. That I can carry the weight of whatever life throws at me because I always have. I've spent years teaching myself not to depend on anyone. Not to break where anyone else can see. It's safer that way. Less chance of disappointment.

But he's staring at me like he already sees it all anyway. Every fracture. Every scar. Every bruise I've tried to disguise as strength. 

And still... he wants me. 

Not the version I pretend to be. 

But 
me
.

Just me.

It should terrify me. Instead, it feels like grace. Like he's tossed me a rope in the middle of the storm, begging me to hold on.

My throat burns, but I manage a whispered, "Okay. I promise. No hiding."

Relief flickers across his face as he leans in and presses his forehead to mine. His voice drops to a reverent murmur. 

"Think of it like the stars in the sky. Our ancestors named them. They made up stories about them. Used those stories to teach lessons about life, about love, about hope... even tragedy. Most importantly, they taught their people how to use those stars to find their way home."

He pauses, his breath warm against my skin.

"Speaking our truths is the same as discovering those stars. Naming them. Accepting them. Letting them guide us so neither of us gets lost. So we never forget why we're doing this. Why we're meant to be."

Something in me splits wide open, fragile but certain. "Then we won't get lost," I answer back, voice trembling. "We'll name our stars. Our truths. So we can always find our way back to each other."

"Always," he breathes.

And then his lips brush mine in the softest kiss I've ever known. 

The kiss of a vow. 

Of a promise made upon the stars in our sky. 

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
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Chapter 17

Becca

I squeeze my eyes shut, press my face harder against his chest, my heart pounding so fast it feels like it might burst if I don’t say it. “Shane…” My voice splinters, small and hesitant. “I need to ask you something.”

His arms tighten instantly, steady and protective. “Anything, pretty girl. Ask away.”

Shame curls hot in my stomach. I don’t want to sound jealous or weak. But five days of silence have left me raw, stripped down, needing answers more than my pride.

“How… how did it go?” The words scrape out broken. “The engagement. The days after. I—I need to know.”

His chest rises beneath my cheek, a slow inhale before he exhales the truth. “It was all a performance. Every smile, every toast, every word staged. But inside?” His voice roughens. “All I could think about was you.”

Relief flickers through me, but it doesn’t take long for doubt to creep in again. “Did you have to…kiss her?”

My lungs seize as I wait, terrified of what he’ll say.

“Yes,” he answers softly, without hesitation. His hand glides down my back, grounding me. “On her forehead. On her hand. Never her mouth. I couldn’t stomach it. My real kisses…” his thumb tips my chin until I’m forced to meet his eyes. “Belong only to you.”

Tears sting, blurring my vision, and the fear I’ve swallowed for days finally fractures into words. “Did you… did you sleep with her? Even just in the same room?”

“No.” His answer is like a blade of light cutting through the fog. “Not once. Not in the same bed. Not in the same room. Hell, not even under the same roof. I made sure of it. And even if they’d tried to force me, I wouldn’t have. Because I don’t want her, Becca. I only want you.”

My chest heaves with a shuddering breath. His words should be enough—they are—but the ghosts of those five days still claw at me, whispering doubts I hate myself for.

Shane must see it, because his forehead presses to mine, his voice a steady murmur that sinks deep into me. “Tomorrow, we’ll go through everything together. Every photo. Every video. I’ll show you how they staged it—what they wanted the world to believe. And when that doubt creeps back in, you’ll come to me. I’ll tell you the truth, every time. No pretending. No gaps. Nothing hidden.”

The promise seeps into me like warmth spreading through frozen veins.

His hands cradle my face, his gaze fierce enough to scorch through every shadow. “I don’t want you drowning in questions, pretty girl. I need you to know that every second I was gone—every fake smile, every empty moment—I was only yours. I still am only yours.”

My throat knots tight. The ache doesn’t vanish, but it shifts. His words don’t erase the wound of those five days, but they give me something stronger to cling to—him. His voice. His touch. His vow.

And for the first time since the morning he left me, I can breathe.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

His eyes search mine. “For what?”

“For coming back. For being honest with me.” The words scrape out small, unsteady, but I force them out anyway. “While you were gone, I kept bracing myself… for the moment you’d call and tell me it was over.”

His whole body tenses, but I don’t stop, even as shame scorches the back of my throat

“Because why wouldn’t you? Amanda’s beautiful. She’s from your world. She’s exactly what your parents want. And me…” My chest hollows as I force the truth free. “I’m just plain old Becca. The diner girl. The mistake you’ll regret once you realize I don’t fit into your world.”

The shift in his face is so sudden it jolts me. Fury ignites in his eyes, sharp and protective.

In a heartbeat, his hands are framing my face, thumbs stroking hard and steady over my cheekbones, grounding me and forcing me to confront the blaze in his gaze.

“Don’t you ever say that again.” His voice is low, fierce, almost shaking. “There is no universe where I’d want anyone but you. Not money. Not power. Not Amanda. You. Only you. I know it in my gut—you and I fit. That’s all that matters. That’s everything.”

The conviction in his tone shatters something inside me. Relief slams into me so hard my lungs feel like they might break with it. Tears spill fast, but they’re different this time—awed, disbelieving, wrecked by the intensity of his devotion.

And all I can think is—maybe he really means it.

Through the blur of tears, I manage a trembling whisper. “How long… how long can you stay?” The words sound childish, needy, but I can’t help it.

His answer is immediate. His thumb drags softly across my cheek, his gaze steady as steel. “My parents leave the country tonight. They’ll be gone at least ten days. And I swear to you, Becca, I plan on spending every single second of those days right here—with you.”

The knot in my chest loosens a fraction. Ten days. Ten whole days of him. Of us. But even as relief washes through me, the ache lingers. Another clock is already ticking down to the moment he’ll have to leave again. Every second we gain already feels stolen, borrowed against the inevitability of another goodbye.

He leans closer, voice dropping to a reverent murmur. “I know. Ten days isn’t nearly enough. Not for what I feel for you. Not to make up for the time we’ve already lost. But I’ll make every second count. I’ll prove it to you, again and again, until you never doubt that I’m yours.”

“Okay.” I try for a smile, but it wobbles, tinged with sadness.

“As for Nick…” A flicker of fondness softens his features. “He told me to tell you goodbye. Said he didn’t want to intrude. But he’s at Conner’s, and if you need him, he’s only a phone call away.”

My throat tightens, not with grief this time but with something sturdier. Warmer. With Shane here and Nick close by, for the first time in forever, I feel solid ground beneath my feet.

His hand lingers on my cheek, thumb tracing along my jaw like he’s memorizing me. The silence stretches, heavy but charged, like the world itself is holding its breath.

Then he asks, quiet and careful, “Are we okay?”

My chest squeezes. I know what he’s really asking. If I still believe in us. If I still believe in him. And the answer is the easiest thing I’ve ever had to say.

“Yes.”

The tension drains from his body. His eyes darken as his thumb drifts lower, brushing across my lower lip. “Then… can I kiss you?” His lips twitch, almost a smile, but his voice is hushed. “Really kiss you. Because for the last five days, Becca, it’s all I’ve thought about.”

A shaky laugh slips out. “You already kissed me.”

That smile breaks through. The

smile . The one that turns my stomach inside out, the one that feels like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. “I did. But that was tame compared to what I’ve been craving.” His face lowers towards mine, his breath warm against my skin. “Let me show you what I mean.”

The air crackles. My pulse stumbles, racing as his thumb sweeps along my jaw and lingers at the corner of my mouth. For one heartbeat, fear spikes…

What if it doesn’t feel the same?

What if the distance between us can’t be closed?

But then he’s there. His mouth crashes into mine, and the world shatters.

It’s explosive, desperate. Like he’s been drowning without me, and I’m the first real breath of air he’s had in days. Yet beneath the hunger is reverence. Every press of his lips is a vow. Every exhale, a promise. His desperation collides with my relief, and for the first time in five endless days, the chaos inside me finally stills.

This. This is what I want.

Him.

Forever.

Shane Montgomery isn’t just where I belong—he’s the only place I’ll ever want to be.

❤️

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# Chapter 18

Becca

The world tilts, splinters, reforms around the taste of him. Warm. Desperate. Familiar in a way that makes my heart ache, like it's remembering something it should never have lost. Every nerve ending sparks to life, leaving me trembling, and I drink him in as if it could ever be enough.

When he finally breaks the kiss, I can't stop myself. I chase him, searching for his mouth, for the anchor of his lips, the weight of his body pressed against me. He only pulls back far enough to rest his forehead on mine, his breath rough and uneven.

"God, pretty girl..." His voice is wrecked, stripped down to raw, unfiltered truth. "I thought I'd never get this again."

My eyes sting, hot tears blurring everything but him. I blink them back, clinging to the certainty burning in his gaze.

He's here.

He came back for me, just as he promised.

His thumb brushes my jaw, slow and steady, while his nose nudges mine. I memorize everything—the thunder of his heartbeat under my hands, the sharp rise and fall of his chest, the way his weight grounds me. Comfort spreads through me, fierce and fragile at once, like heat soaking into frozen skin.

With him here, I feel whole. A fact that terrifies me. I've lived so long believing I'm insignificant, barely a person given my history... the life I come from. But with Shane Montgomery, the once-paralyzing fear doesn't stop you. It dares you to hold on. To close your eyes and surrender to the thrill of what could be.

I'm helpless to fight it. Resigned to let myself fall.

I breathe him in, greedy for that soap-and-cedar scent that always feels like calm. Like safety. Like home.

"Don't let me go," I whisper against his lips. "Don't ever let me go."

"Never. Not now. Not ever," he vows, the words rough with conviction.

He grazes my mouth once more, then pulls back to look at me. His eyes are molten, fierce, yet somehow tender. Like this is the moment he's been living for.

"Becca," he rasps, every syllable thick with longing. "I need you."

The ache in his voice ignites something sharp and certain inside me. 

"I need you too," I whisper, breathless. "Please, Shane."

The second the words leave my mouth, something in him breaks loose.

He moves fast, rolling over me until his weight surrounds me—anchoring, consuming—like he can't get close enough. His chest crashes into mine, his breath hot against my lips. His thigh pins mine, solid and unyielding, and the hard press of his arousal makes my pulse spike, my breath stutter. Every shift stokes the fire until I can't tell where I end and he begins. The mattress dips beneath us, the world collapsing to this—his weight, his breath, his need burning hot and undeniable.

Desire tears through me, fierce and overwhelming, tangled with the fear it might vanish if I blink. My hands clutch at his shirt, dragging him closer until there's nothing left between us but desperation and the ache of 
finally
.

"Pretty girl..." His voice is strained, rough as gravel. His thumb traces from my jaw to the hollow of my throat, lingering there like he can feel my pulse racing for him. "Talk to me. I need to hear you say it. Tell me what you want."

My throat locks tight, words scraping raw, but my body betrays me. I arch into him, hips lifting in answer, breath fracturing into a sound I can't hold back.

"You." The word trembles free. "I want you."

His breath catches hard, like my words stole the air out of him. His eyes blaze—fierce, disbelieving—before his mouth crashes onto mine. The kiss is nothing soft. It's hungry, aching, like he's been starving for me, like I'm the only thing that can keep him alive.

When he tears back, his forehead presses to mine, both of us gasping. His thumb strokes my lip, reverent even as his chest heaves with the strain of holding himself back. "Then you've got me," he rasps, the vow breaking on a groan. "All of me. Always."

The words ignite something wild in me. I drag him down again, mouth desperate, hands sliding up his neck, tangling in his hair. His answering growl rumbles against my lips, urgency crashing between us, too fierce to deny.

His hands are everywhere, skimming my sides, gripping my hips, dragging me closer until I'm caged completely beneath him. The weight of his body presses down, hot and overwhelming, and I arch into it without thought, craving more.

"Shane—" My voice cracks on his name, half plea, half surrender.

His mouth claims mine again, harder this time, tongues tangling, urgency sharp and relentless. Every kiss feels like he's branding me, staking a claim he has no intention of giving back. His thighs wedge tighter, his arousal grinding into me until my whole body trembles with the force of it.

I clutch at his back, fingers clawing through his shirt, desperate to hold him, desperate to feel more. The fabric twists in my grip as though it's the only thing tethering me to reality.

"God, Becca..." His words tear out on a ragged breath between kisses. "You undo me."

He drags his mouth down my jaw to my throat. The scrape of his teeth there steals the air from my lungs. My hips lift in answer, meeting the hard thrust of him, and the sound that breaks from his chest is pure devastation—rough, guttural, undone.

The urgency between us burns hotter, faster, until I don't know how we'll survive it, only that I couldn't stop it even if I tried.

My fingers shove beneath the hem of his shirt, desperate to find skin. He growls into my mouth, then pulls back long enough to strip it off himself, tossing it aside. I don't wait. Sweatshirt off, sleep shorts gone—suddenly I'm bare beneath him, trembling but refusing to hide.

His eyes sweep over me and then settle—slow, burning, unblinking. "God, look at you," he breathes. "So damn beautiful. So mine."

But inside, the doubts crash in.

The scars no one sees.

The reminders of every difference between us.

What is a girl like me compared to someone like Amanda? 

Compared to the polished, perfect life his parents mapped out for him?

Shame prickles hot over my skin, and I flinch before I can stop it.

"Hey." His voice cuts through the spiral. His hand cups my cheek, eyes boring into mine with that fierce intensity that always steals my breath. "Don't do that, pretty girl. Not with me. Whatever you're thinking, please—just stop."

I blink against the tears, chest tight, throat aching with the weight of how he makes me feel. His thumb strokes across my cheekbone, grounding me, reminding me of his love.

"You're mine, Becca." The words are rough, as if they cost him something, but he never looks away. "Not because of what you wear or where you come from, or any of that fake-ass bullshit they insist defines a worthy life. You're mine because you are you. And that's everything. 
You
 are all I need."

His touch changes then, becoming gentle and coaxing. Fingertips trail from my jaw down the curve of my neck, leaving goosebumps in their wake. 

"Tell me you hear me. Tell me you believe me."

He drags his fingers across my collarbone, slow and deliberate, then lower, tracing idle circles along my ribs, skimming the swell of my breasts. Each pass chases the shame away, leaving behind nothing but scorching need. 

"Yes..." My breath catches, trembling between soft gasps. "I believe you."

My skin tingles, alive everywhere he touches, everywhere he hasn't yet. He takes his time, worship in every stroke, pulling me out of my head and back into the fire simmering under my skin. The knot of doubt unravels. Longing moves in, hot and fierce, curling through me like I'll burn from the inside out if he doesn't touch me—everywhere. All of me.

"Shane..." His name breaks from me, part plea, part surrender, my hips shifting in restless answer.

His lips trail lower, slow and teasing, down the column of my throat. Each scrape of his teeth sends shivers racing across my skin. His hand follows, sliding over the swell of my breast, thumb brushing over a hardened nipple just enough to make me gasp—then drifting away, leaving me aching, strung tighter with every retreat.

He's doing it on purpose. Every measured stroke. Every pause is deliberate. He's coaxing me out of my head, replacing doubt with fire until all that's left is the desperate thrum between my thighs.

"Shane, please..." My voice fractures on his name, hips tilting restlessly, silently begging.

"I've got you," he murmurs against my skin, the words both promise and torment. His palm slides lower, over my stomach, lingering just above where I'm aching for him. His breath hitches, his whole body taut with restraint, like he's holding himself back by sheer force of will.

My pulse pounds. My body trembles, caught between his hand hovering where I need him most and the unbearable promise in his eyes.

"Tell me," he rasps, voice wrecked. "Tell me if this is what you want."

Heat floods me. A needy sound breaks free as I arch into his touch, gasping when his fingers finally brush lower—just enough to make me whimper.

"Yes," I whisper, breathless, certain. "It's what I want."

The air between us crackles, thick with heat, with everything we've both been starving for. His gaze pins me—blazing, reverent, fierce devotion written in every line of him.

And in that look, I know... whatever comes next, I'll never belong to anyone but him.

❤️

 
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Chapter 19

Becca

He keeps me waiting, his touch grazing just close enough to make my whole body tremble. Every nerve pulls tight, humming with the ache he refuses to ease. A broken sound escapes before I can stop it, caught between need and frustration.

“Please, Shane…” The words rasp raw from my throat. My hips rise instinctively, chasing what he keeps just out of my reach.

He exhales a sound that’s part groan, part prayer, his mouth brushing my ear like he can’t breathe the words without anchoring himself to my skin. “God, pretty girl…” His voice is a strained whisper, tight with restraint. “You begging—I’ll never get enough.”

Instead of giving in, his hand slides upward again, slow and deliberate, mapping me like he’s etching the memory into his palms. He traces the curve of my ribs, circles the swell of my breast, then retreats. His mouth follows the path his fingers leave, scattering kisses down my throat, each word breathed like a brand.

“Mine.” A kiss lower. “Beautiful.” Another. “Stronger than you know.”

My back arches, caught between shivering and burning, my hands fisting in his hair. The need claws at me, but so does the dizzying rush of being wanted like this—worshipped instead of devoured.

His lips keep traveling, slow and intentional, like he’s writing vows into my skin. His hands chart me like a map he already knows but can’t stop relearning.

“You’re it for me, Becca,” he rasps against the curve of my breast, thumb circling my nipple until sensation shoots through me like lightning. “I’ve never meant anything more. There’s no other life, no other choice. All I want is us.”

Heat floods me as his eyes catch mine, the devotion burning there so fierce it steals the air from my lungs.

His mouth trails higher again, kissing the hollow of my throat, then up to my jaw, whispering between every kiss. “Mine. My beautiful girl. My Andromeda. We’re written in the stars, remember?”

The words strike deeper than his touch, turning the heat into inevitability. Our love doesn’t just feel real. It feels fated.

The world narrows to him—his vows, his weight, his worship. My body arches into his hand, my skin desperate for every stroke that proves me his. Each pass incinerates the remnants of doubt until only fire remains.

His mouth returns to mine, hotter, hungrier, branding me with the promises he’s already carved. My fingers tangle in his hair, dragging him closer, greedy for every inch of him. His hips slide between mine and sparks ignite.

I gasp against his lips, caught between aching want and the staggering truth of how much I love him, even as the words lodge in my throat.

Then he stills. His chest heaves, heat shuddering against my skin before he drops his forehead to my shoulder, a quiet curse slipping from his lips.

For a second, I think he’s pulling away. The loss of his body leaves me cold. Then I hear the rustle of denim, the scrape of his hand searching the floor.

Confusion slices through the haze. “Shane?”

He’s already pulled out his wallet, fingers fumbling until the foil catches the light. His voice is rough when he finally speaks.

“Condom. It’s my job to protect you, pretty girl. Always.”

The words hit harder than any kiss. Even wrecked with need, he’s still thinking about me—about us. Something molten sparks in my chest, burning away the last of the shadows until all that’s left is trust.

By the time he comes back to me, condom already on, his eyes blaze with a mix of hunger and reverence. He presses his body over mine, urgent and tender all at once. “Tell me, Becca,” he murmurs, voice breaking. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours.” The truth spills out before I can breathe. My voice trembles, but it’s sure. “Always yours.”

The groan that rips from him is raw, guttural. His lips crash onto mine, swallowing the last of the space between us. His weight settles over me, chest to chest, heat searing through me. His mouth grazes mine once, softer this time—a vow in the shape of a kiss. His fingers lace with mine, pinning my hands above my head as if he can’t take me without binding me to him completely.

“Becca…” My name bursts out of him, rough with need. “You’re all I’ll ever want. All I’ll ever need.”

The words fracture something inside me, erasing the last of my doubt. When he finally pushes into me, the air rips from my lungs in a gasp. My body stretches around him, trembling, trying to catch up to the reality of being filled, claimed, made his again.

A broken sound escapes me, but his mouth is there, catching it, soothing it.

“Breathe with me, pretty girl,” he whispers, his forehead resting against mine. Our breaths tangle, warm and uneven, as he holds himself still—giving me time to adjust, letting me feel nothing but him. “That’s it. My beautiful girl. I’ve got you.”

The sting ebbs, replaced by heat and fullness—by the unshakable truth that we were always meant for this. For each other. Written in the stars, just like he said. Perseus and Andromeda. Forever and always.

When he starts to move, it’s slow, reverent, every thrust deliberate, like he’s carving his love into my skin. His lips follow, scattering rough-edged promises between breaths.

“Mine.” A kiss.

“You’ll always be mine.” Another.

“Say it back.” His mouth hovers over my lips, his breath trembling. “Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” I gasp, hips rising to meet him, offering him everything. “Only yours.”

The sound he makes is pure devastation as his restraint finally shatters. His rhythm deepens, harder, faster, each movement dragging me higher, every thrust a vow I feel down to my bones.

His eyes never leave mine, burning with a devotion so fierce it steals the air from my lungs.

This isn’t just desire. It’s love—fierce and consuming. Sacred. Undeniable.

The pressure coils tighter and tighter, winding me to the breaking point until I’m trembling beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders. His name slips from my lips—fractured, breathless—each sound tugging me closer to the edge.

“Becca…” The way he says my name unravels me. His pace turns urgent, hips driving hard, like with every movement he’s searing the words onto my body. “Fuck. Becca.”

The world bursts apart as release rips through me—wild, incandescent—like starlight exploding behind my eyes. I cry out his name, lost to the rush, the feel of him, the way he fills every hollow place inside me.

He convulses with me, his body seizing with the force of his release, a guttural sound tearing from his chest as he spills into me. His face buries against my throat, the words breaking free, rough and unguarded.

“God, Becca—” His voice cracks. “I love you. Do you hear me? I love you . There’s no one else. There will never be anyone else but you.”

The confession burns hotter than the pleasure, etching itself into every broken piece of me. This time I don’t question it. This time, I believe him—not just with my heart, but with my body, my trust, my soul.

I clutch him close, dizzy and undone, every piece of me stitched back together by the only truths that matter.

His love.

His vow.

His promise of forever.

Consumed by him and claimed by his love, I know with absolute certainty I’ll never belong to anyone but him.

❤️

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# Chapter 20

Shane

The first light of morning slips through the blinds, soft and pale, painting Becca's apartment in gold. She's curled up against me, one leg tangled over mine, her breath warm against my chest. I lie still, memorizing the sound of it—the quiet, the steadiness, the peace I've been starving for.

Her place smells faintly of coffee and that fruity soap she loves. Faded paint on the walls, a squeaky old fan, the worn furniture scattered across the room. It's nothing like the mansion I grew up in—no marble floors, no glass chandeliers—yet I've never felt more at home than I do here.

The past few days replay in my mind. The forced smiles, cameras constantly in my face, my parents parading me, Amanda, and that glittering diamond around like we were the main attraction in some twisted reality show. A performance dressed up as love. A deal sealed in lies. A life I never chose.

But this—her hand over my heart, her skin against mine—is the realest thing I've ever known. 

She sighs in her sleep, shifting closer until her face finds the hollow of my throat. My chest tightens, and I can't help it. I press a kiss into her hair, pausing there to breathe her in.

"This is what I'm fighting for," I whisper, barely a sound, the truth settling deep.

The light shifts slightly, sliding across her bare shoulder, catching in her hair like morning starlight. For a heartbeat, the world outside doesn't exist. It's just us, suspended between the night we found each other again and the fragile hope of a new day.

She stirs, a soft sound in her throat, a sleepy stretch, her leg sliding over mine as she burrows closer.

"Morning," she mumbles, voice low and raspy with sleep. That sound drags something fierce and aching from deep inside me.

Her hair's a mess of tangled waves against my jaw. She blinks up at me, eyes still heavy, lips curved in a lazy, knowing smile—the kind that makes my heart skip a beat.

"Were you watching me sleep?" she teases, voice soft but threaded with amusement.

"Maybe." My thumb traces along her jaw, down the curve of her neck. "Can you blame me, pretty girl?"

She laughs quietly, that little sound that always feels like sunlight breaking through the clouds. She shifts again, body pressing closer, bare skin to bare skin, and every nerve in me sparks to life. I soak her in—the warmth, the scent, the feel of her—and still I need more. I want her. God, I want her all over again—slow, deep, until neither of us remembers what it feels like to be apart.

But I stop myself. Not because I think she'd say no, but because this morning isn't about that. It's about reconnecting. About making her feel special. About reminding her, with more than just my body, that she's the only girl I want, the only one who occupied my every thought the entire time I was gone.

And maybe because I want to remember her like this—soft, safe in my arms, tucked beneath the covers in this tiny apartment that's somehow become the center of my world. So instead of rolling her beneath me, I brush the hair from her face and press a gentle kiss to her lips.

"Go back to sleep," I whisper. "It's barely seven. You need rest."

She hums, eyes drifting shut before fluttering open again. "Bossy."

"Not bossy. Just trying to love you."

Her smile softens into something tender. She nuzzles into my chest, tracing lazy circles on my skin. Each touch sends heat through me, but I stay still, content just to feel her there.

"I'd rather stay up and be with you," she murmurs.

A groan escapes me, my body reacting to the tease in her tone and the pleasure of her touch. I kiss her again—deeper now, still slow but reverent, a silent promise of everything I feel. She kisses me back, opening to me like she can't get enough either. Her hands slide to my face, and as I lace our fingers together, that's when I remember the gift.

I dig deep, pulling on what's left of my restraint and slowing the kiss until it's nothing but breath and warmth. I pull back just enough to look at her—flushed cheeks, sleepy eyes, lips swollen and parted. She's so damn beautiful it hurts.

"Stay here," I whisper, brushing my thumb along her jaw before slipping out of bed.

The floor is cool beneath my feet, dawn spilling in quiet streaks of gold across the room. Her place is small—the kind most people would call hopelessly cramped—but to me it's a cocoon of warmth, every inch of it marked by her. The half-read books stacked on the nightstand. The chipped mug on the dresser. The blanket she always curls up with. Even the walls seem to hold her laughter, soft and welcoming, like the echo of something I hope never fades.

The small box waits on her dresser where I hid it last night, the gold etching on the elegant paper catching the light. It's perfectly wrapped—the jeweler's work, not mine—but looking at it, all I can think is how small it feels compared to what I wish I could give her.

I run a thumb over the gold ribbon, nerves knotting in my chest as I carry it back to bed.

This isn't the kind of gift my family would approve of. It isn't a diamond the size of a lie or an accessory made for camera flashes. No—this is something real. A piece of the truth. 
My
 truth. A representation of the words I can't give her yet. My quiet way of erasing that other ring—the one I wish didn't exist.

Becca sits up, blanket tucked beneath her arms, hair wild around her shoulders. She gives me a sleepy smile that twists something inside me.

"What's that?" she asks, voice soft with curiosity.

"Your Christmas present."

Her brows lift as she takes it, fingertips brushing mine. "Shane... you didn't have to—"

"I wanted to." I nod toward it. "Go on. Open it."

She hesitates for a beat, then, careful as always, tugs at the ribbon and peels the paper away. When the black velvet box appears, she stills. Her breath catches the moment she opens it.

"Oh..." The word is barely a whisper.

The ring glows faintly in the morning light—braided white gold with a single oval moonstone, pale as starlight.

Her eyes lift to mine. "Shane, it's beautiful."

"It's not a proposal," I say, my chest tight. "Not yet."

I take the box from her, sliding the ring free so it rests between my fingers. The stone catches the light again, soft and shimmering. "It's a promise. A symbol of the words I can't give you yet, but will someday."

She watches, silent, eyes shining.

"I had it designed just for you. The band's braided because it reminded me of us—our hearts tangled together, impossible to separate, stronger because of it." My thumb brushes the moonstone. "And this stone—it's like the lights in the night sky. A reminder that no matter how dark it gets, you're the light I'll always find my way back to."

"It looks like starlight," she whispers.

"It does." I take her hand and slide the ring onto her finger, the pale stone glowing against her skin. "You asked me once if I really believed our love was written in the stars. This is my answer. I can't give you forever yet, but this is a piece of it—the first step toward forever."

Her lips part on a quiet exhale. "Shane..." She shakes her head, like the words won't come. "You didn't have to do this."

"I did." My voice roughens. "After everything that's happened, we both need something real—something that's ours. No cameras, no performance. Just truth. My vow to you. To us." I breathe out. "I love you, Becca. And this is my promise that someday I'll get down on one knee and beg you to let me keep you forever. Until then, this ring will hold the place of the one I'll give you next—the one I hope you'll wear for the rest of your life."

She looks down at it, then back at me, eyes shining with quiet wonder. "It's perfect," she murmurs, then launches herself into my arms, kissing me hard, her mouth conveying the three little words she still can't bring herself to say. "You're perfect," she breathes against my lips.

I smile faintly, heart full. "Not even close. But I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be perfect for you."

When she pulls back, her fingers trace the ring as if memorizing the shape of our promise. Seeing it there—my ring on her finger—brings a stillness to my chest. A quiet knowing that our love was destined, written into the fabric of our universe long before we ever found each other. 

For a long time, we lie there in silence. She rests against me, drawing slow circles on my chest with the hand that wears my ring. The moonstone catches light every time she moves, a quiet shimmer that settles something deep inside me. I could stay like this forever—her head on my shoulder, the scent of her hair, our breaths falling into rhythm. If time were ever to stop, I'd want it to happen here.

But we're not that lucky. 

Outside, the light grows brighter as the darkness fades, bringing with it the reminder that moments like this are borrowed, not guaranteed. At least not until I find a way out from under the mess my parents have made of my life.

"Shane?" Her voice is soft, hesitant in that way that tells me she, too, feels the outside world pressing in.

"Yeah?"

"What happens when we go back?"

My stomach tightens. "Back?"

"To school," she whispers. "When people expect to see you with her."

The words hit harder than they should, probably because they drag up the truth I've been avoiding.

I tighten my arm around her, drawing her closer. "Please don't," I murmur. "Don't let them in yet, pretty girl."

Her breath catches. "I'm sorry. I just—" She swallows. "It's hard to pretend it doesn't hurt. Knowing you'll have to stand next to her in front of everyone, smiling like it's her you love, while I..."

Her voice fades.

I cup her face. "Hey. Look at me."

When she does, I make sure she sees the truth in every word. "You'll never be invisible to me, Becca. Not for a second. I don't care what they see or what they think they know. You're the only one I see. Always. Tell me you believe me."

Her eyes glisten. She presses her hand to my chest, right over my heart. "Okay. I believe you," she whispers.

I cover her hand with mine, fingers locking tight. "Good. Because whatever happens out there, nothing touches what we have in here."

She nods, though a small shadow lingers in her expression—a fear I'd give anything to take away.

I press my forehead to hers. "Always you, Andromeda," I whisper, voice rough. "You, Becca, are my one and only. Don't ever forget that."

Her breath hitches, and she gives me the smallest smile. For now, it feels like enough.

But as the sun climbs higher and the moonstone glints softly against her skin, like a fragment of starlight swallowed by dawn, I can't help but think how cruel it is that love like ours can only exist in the shadows. 

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
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Chapter 21

Shane

The barn at Grady’s Tree Farm glows in soft amber light, fairy strands trailing along the rafters like captured starlight. The air hums with the scent of cedar and cinnamon, a whisper of woodsmoke curling from the hearth Nick started earlier. It’s warm. Inviting. The kind of warmth that seeps into your bones and makes you forget the world outside.

Everywhere I look, I see reminders of her. Mason jars filled with pine sprigs and silver ribbon, the hand-cut snowflakes Felicia and Jocelyn made, the tiny imperfections that make it all real. It’s nothing extravagant, but it feels like her. Like home.

Almost exactly what I pictured.

Well… almost.

I step back, scanning the space like the success of the entire night depends on whether the string lights hang evenly or the candles sit just right.

“You’re doing it again,” Nick calls from behind me, amusement thick in his voice. He’s crouched near the speaker system, testing the playlist on his phone. “You’ve been rearranging that table for twenty minutes, man. I’m starting to think you missed your calling as an event planner.”

I shoot him a look over my shoulder. “When Becca walks in here, she’s gonna notice every detail.”

Nick snorts. “Pretty sure the girl who works double shifts at a diner and buys her coffee with loose change won’t care if the napkins are folded like swans.”

I shake my head, adjusting a candle—and the stupid swan napkins that took me forever to fold. “It’s not about that.”

He sighs, stands, and folds his arms. “Then what’s it about?”

I turn back to the table. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“I get plenty,” he says easily. “Mainly that Becca doesn’t need all this to know you love her.”

My jaw tightens. “That’s not the point.”

Nick studies me for a beat, the firelight flickering across his face, softening his usual sharp edges. “Then what is it, Shane?”

I exhale slowly, the truth bleeding through before I can stop it. “It’s about making sure she never feels alone—especially when I can’t be there. I want her to see that this is real. That what we have isn’t some secret I’m ashamed of. That our worlds can coexist, no matter how impossible it looks from the outside. That she belongs with me, and I belong with her.”

I look toward the barn doors, already picturing her face when she steps inside and realizes this was all for her. For a second, I imagine something more—a day when this barn is filled with our wedding guests instead of just a handful of friends.

“The rest of the world thinks I’m engaged to someone else,” I murmur. “They’re convinced it’s Amanda I love.” My throat tightens. “I just need her to have people who know the truth. People who see her as the girl I love—the one I’d give anything to be with. Who understand what we are to each other. Who see us for what we are—a couple that’s meant to be.”

I glance toward the window, where dusk filters through the glass in faint streaks of gold. “When I left her to come here, she looked at me like she wasn’t sure I’d come back. Even with her friends there—for what she thought was a girls’ night in—she made me swear I’d return.”

The memory catches in my chest.

Her fingers fisting in my shirt, her voice trembling as she whispered, “Promise you’ll come back tonight.”

I’d kissed her forehead and sworn I would—that she’d understand everything soon. But walking out that door still felt like betrayal. Leaving her, even for this, cracked something open inside me.

But it had to be done.

Tonight is just as much for her as it is for me.

“When she walks through those doors and sees this—sees the night we built for her—she’ll finally understand how loved she is. Not just by me, but by you. Her friends. All of us. She’ll know that even when I can’t be there—when I’m out there pretending to belong to Amanda—she isn’t on her own. And you’ll be there to remind her of that. To remind her she’s the only girl who’s ever mattered to me.”

Nick claps me on the shoulder. “You’re right. Absolutely right. So come on then. Let’s make sure it’s perfect.”

He’s halfway through checking the food table when the barn door creaks open, letting in a burst of cold air.

“Thought you said we had another forty minutes,” I say, frowning as I turn toward the door.

“That’s because we do,” he mutters, setting down a stack of cups. His brow furrows. “Then again, unless Felicia suddenly grew six feet and started wearing Italian leather boots, I’d venture to guess it isn’t her.”

A slow, sardonic voice answers from the doorway. “Well, this is disappointing. I was hoping for scantily clad women twirling around poles. Or at the very least a few high-roller tables where I could let off some steam.”

I feel it before I see him—the shift in the air, that smug sort of confidence that always precedes the headache known as Connor Matthews, only child of Richard Matthews, the Governor of our fine state.

Connor steps into the light, his long black coat dusted with snow, hands tucked casually in his pockets. His smile is pure Connor—polished and threaded with mischief—but if you look closely, it never reaches his eyes.

“Con,” I mutter. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Good to see you too, Montgomery.” He glances around the barn like he’s appraising it for a real estate deal, his expression twisting with mild disgust. “I have to say, when I pictured myself crashing your party, I never imagined I’d be surrounded by so much burlap and pine needles. Is this really where you’re spending your New Year’s Eve?”

“How’d you find us?” I ask, pulse ticking higher, already picturing headlines I can’t afford.

Nick groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You tracked my phone again, didn’t you, asshole?”

Connor smirks. “Of course I did. I was bored, and you’d snuck off the property like some thief in the night. And when you didn’t answer my texts, I figured I’d do a little investigative work of my own. You don’t mind, do you? I mean, if you didn’t want me in your business, you shouldn’t have chosen to squat in my pool house.”

Nick’s jaw tightens. “It’s not squatting when you’re the one who told me I could stay there.”

“The details are irrelevant,” Connor says lightly, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Besides, I was curious. New Year’s Eve—my two best friends vanish without a trace. I’m the governor’s son; I just assumed my invite got lost in the mail.”

“And you’ve never been good at taking hints,” I mutter, my patience wearing thin.

“Ouch.” Connor presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “If I had a heart, that might actually sting. But since I don’t…” He shrugs, lazy and unbothered. “Now that I’m here, though, I have to admit—I’m intrigued. Especially when I see that our golden boy here”—he tilts his chin at me, eyes glinting—“is ringing in the New Year anywhere but with his lovely fiancée. Imagine the headlines. What would the tabloids think?”

“You didn’t tell her.” Nick’s tone slices through the tension, sharp with warning. “Amanda doesn’t know we’re here… or does she?”

Connor arches a brow, as if the question itself is absurd. “Why would I tell her if I didn’t even know what I was walking into? But now that I see we’re all here…” He shrugs again, careless as ever. “Feels kind of wrong she wasn’t invited.”

My stomach knots, but I don’t move. “You wouldn’t.”

His grin sharpens. “Relax. I’m not that much of an asshole. Interfering in another man’s… private affairs isn’t really my style. But I do find it fascinating—after the grand declaration of love, the glowing press coverage, the public swooning—why is the golden boy himself hiding out in a barn with his fiancée’s brother and a Taylor Swift playlist? Tell me, Shane… what do you think the world would say about that?”

Nick steps in before I can answer, his tone dry. “You can stay for five minutes while we finish setting up. Grab some cider, eat whatever you want, and then you’re gone. We’ve got plans, and in case you haven’t noticed, they don’t include you.”

Connor’s gaze flicks between us, and for a heartbeat something unguarded passes over his face—hurt, maybe—but it’s gone almost as soon as it appears, like a crack he refuses to acknowledge.

“Five minutes,” he repeats, pretending to consider it. “You wound me, Nick. You know how much I love a good party. Besides, it’s freezing out there, and I’ve already gone through all the trouble of showing up. Plus, you never know—when I get bored, my fingers tend to do all the talking. God forbid I send a text to the wrong person… or the wrong organization. Imagine the chaos if the paparazzi showed up.”

“Matthews.” The growl in my voice leaves no doubt—this is a threat.

He lifts both hands in mock surrender. “I didn’t say I’d do it. I just said what if? But fine. Let me stay, and I promise to behave. Scout’s honor.” A pause, then a quiet chuckle. “Not that I was ever a Scout.”

Nick mutters something about strangling him, but I shake my head. We can’t risk him walking out of here angry—not when he’s holding the kind of leverage that could blow up the one good thing I have left in my life.

“Let him stay,” I say quietly.

Nick looks at me like I’ve lost my mind but nods anyway.

Connor’s smile widens—he knows he’s won. “Excellent. I’ll just make myself comfortable while you ladies finish up. Don’t mind me.” He gestures lazily toward the fireplace. “I’ll be right here, enjoying the show… and eagerly anticipating whatever comes next.”

He saunters past us, trailing the faint scent of expensive cologne and trouble, and drops onto one of the love seats like he owns the place.

Nick mutters, “Fuck… this is gonna be a long night.”

I glance toward Connor, who’s already scrolling through his phone with that easy, practiced indifference he’s perfected over the years. But every so often, I catch him watching us—quiet, calculating—like he’s still deciding what kind of night he wants this to be.

And as much as I want to believe he’s just here to annoy us, the look in his eyes says otherwise. Connor might have come here to watch. But he’s staying to see what he can break.

❤️

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# Chapter 22

Shane

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I dig it out. It's a text from Felicia.

On our way. Ten minutes.

My stomach tightens. Christ. Ten minutes. That's all the time I have left to make sure everything's perfect.

I've faced reporters, board members, my father, Amanda's family—but none of them have ever made my pulse race like this. I pace the length of the barn, straightening a chair, smoothing a tablecloth, adjusting a vase that doesn't actually need adjusting. The fire crackles behind me. The speakers hum with a soft holiday ballad. Neither does a damn thing to settle my nerves.

Nick lounges on one of the loveseats, one arm draped over the back, scrolling through his phone like he hasn't got a care in the world.

Connor, though—he watches me. His expression caught somewhere between curiosity and confusion.

He finally says, "So this 
girl
—this Becca—she's really the reason you're doing all this?"

I stop pacing. "All what?"

He gestures vaguely around the barn. "The lights. The flowers. The whole Hallmark Christmas special you've got going here."

His tone is teasing, but there's a sharpness underneath. "It's one thing to not want to get married, but this? This I don't get. You're you, Shane—the Montgomery heir. You could have any woman you want, and instead you're playing the doting boyfriend with... what? Some lowly small-town waitress?"

Nick's phone drops to his lap. "Watch yourself, Con," he warns, eyes narrowing. He's in full protective big-brother mode. 

It throws Connor for a loop—he doesn't know Becca's connection to the Klines or what she means to Nick. Something we can't tell him. At least not yet.

Connor lifts his hands in mock surrender. "I'm not judging. I'm just trying to understand." He gestures around the barn. "You've got the world at your fingertips, and you're acting like a guy in a bad country song—decorating barns, folding napkins, waiting on a girl who's probably never even heard of couture."

I take a slow breath, forcing myself to stay calm, pretending he didn't just toss a grenade into my chest. "That's the problem, Con. I'm done living in a world where someone's worth is measured by their status—by money, by power, by how good they look on paper. I don't want that. And that's not what I have with Becca."

He tilts his head, studying me like I'm speaking a foreign language. "Then enlighten me. Without all that, what's left? What would be the fucking point?"

"The point is that it's 
real
," I say quietly. "She's real. She doesn't care about fame, or money, or my name. When I'm with her, I don't have to perform. I don't have to be anything but who I actually am. You, of all people, know how rare that is." I pause, searching for the right words. "What you don't know—what you've probably never felt—is how incredible it feels to be wanted. 
Chosen
 for who you are, not for what you can do for them. I shake my head, the truth of it still settling deep in my chest. "There's no better feeling than that."

Something flickers in his eyes—gone as quickly as it comes—but for once, he doesn't have a comeback.

When he finally speaks, it's pure Connor. A deflection wrapped in arrogance.

"Yeah, well, hard pass." He reaches for his drink, the same one he spiked from his flask when he thought I wasn't looking. "If there's nothing to be gained, why bother?" 

He pauses, a sly grin curling his mouth. "Unless this is about rebellion. Pissing off Daddy Montgomery. Making Mama clutch her pearls." He laughs, pointing toward me. "Now 
that
 I understand."

"Fuck off," I snap, shaking my head, jaw tightening. "It's not about that. Not even close."

He leans back, smile widening, eyes glittering with the kind of cruelty that comes easy to people who've never had to work for anything in their lives—including friendships.

"Then she must be a good lay."

The sound that rips from my throat is closer to a growl than a word.

Connor's grin only deepens. "Ha. That's it, isn't it? She's a damn freak, huh?"

Before I can move, Nick's there—hands fisted in Connor's collar, hauling him off the couch and slamming him back against the wall.

"Watch your fucking mouth," Nick warns, voice low and dangerous. "He's with her because he loves her. 
Really
 loves her. And if you can't respect that—if you can't respect 
her
—then get the hell out."

"Love?" Connor laughs, short and disbelieving, but the sound falters when he sees neither of us are joking. He shoves Nick's hands off his shirt, and straightens with a scoff. "You're serious?"

"Yes," I say evenly. "I am. And before you open your mouth with any more of your condescending bullshit, you should know this—if you want to stay tonight, if you want to call yourself my friend, then you're going to shut up and start respecting what she means to me."

Connor looks between us, gauging the room. His gaze lands on Nick last, searching for some kind of shared understanding. "And you're okay with this?" he asks, incredulous. "Amanda's your sister, man. What he's doing is basically cheating on her."

Nick's voice hardens. "It's not the same, and you know it. That marriage isn't their choice. And Shane's made it damn clear to Amanda where he stands."

"Besides," I add, "I don't intend to go through with it. The proposal bought us time—to find a way out. To convince my father that this alliance isn't necessary. We don't need the Kline name to keep our company strong."

Nick crosses his arms. "If anything, Charles is the one who stands to benefit from a Montgomery union. He's got leverage—something he's holding over your parents. It's the only explanation for why they'd agree to this mess."

Connor barks out a sharp laugh and drags a hand through his hair, pacing a few steps like he's trying to shake off the absurdity. "What the fuck is happening right now? You two are 
seriously
 conspiring against Charles Kline?" He lets out another disbelieving laugh, though forced this time. "After what happened last time? Jesus. Haven't you idiots learned anything?"

Nick's shoulders drop, just like they always do when the ghost of Miranda surfaces. It's a subtle shift most people would miss—but not us. Not the ones who lived through the wreckage with him.

"Yeah, we learned." He exhales hard, planting his hands on his hips like he's trying to steady himself. "We're not getting into it here. It's not the time or the place. But know this time, we have help."

"Help?" Connor echoes, wary now.

"Yes. We can fill you in later if you want. But for once, you'll need to act like a fucking human being. If you can do that, if you can put your elitist bullshit aside and actually be a friend—"

"A fucking brother," Nick cuts in.

I nod. "If you can do that, if you can be there when it counts and help us protect the girls—"

"Both of them," Nick adds quietly. "Amanda and Becca."

"Then fine," I finish. "After this ends, Nick will go back to your place and fill you in. But if that's going to be a problem, if you're worried about getting caught up in what's coming, then walk away now. Go home. And forget this conversation ever happened."

❤️

 
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Chapter 23

Shane

Before Connor can answer, headlights flash outside the barn doors.

My breath hitches.

Nick glances up from the speaker, gives me a quick nod, then turns the volume down until the music melts into the quiet hum of the room.

“They’re here,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

Nick pushes to his feet, grinning. “Alright, lover boy. Time to see if all your swan napkins were worth it.”

Gravel crunches outside. Then a burst of laughter.

The latch lifts.

The barn goes still, like even the air is holding its breath.

The door creaks open. Felicia and Jocelyn slip in first, cheeks pink from the cold, conspiratorial grins already giving them away. Between them is Becca—blindfolded, hands out in front of her, giggling as the girls guide her over the threshold.

“Okay, okay, I swear I’m going to faceplant,” she says, the sound of her voice threading straight through my ribs to the heart beneath, which as of late, only beats for her.

“You’re fine,” Jocelyn reassures. “Left. Little step. Another step.”

Nick swings the doors shut behind them, sealing us in from the cold. Felicia and Jocelyn’s boyfriends, Tommy and Parker, slide in just behind and fan out, both trying—and failing—to look casual. Judging by their girlfriends’ faces, that failure only makes them more endearing.

Connor, meanwhile, stays near the bar, his expression the usual unreadable mask, though one brow arches like he finds the whole thing utterly ridiculous.

Joss positions Becca in the center of the room. “No peeking.”

“I couldn’t if I tried. You tied this thing on like you’re a professional kidnapper.”

“Ready?” Felicia asks me, her voice giddy with excitement.

“Ready for what?” Becca laughs.

Felicia squeals, fingers working quickly at the knot behind Becca’s head. “Three. Two. One.”

The blindfold slips away.

Becca blinks into the light, eyes sweeping the room—the strands of fairy lights spilling across the rafters, mason jars flickering with tiny candles, the scent of cinnamon and cedar curling up from the hearth. The fire crackles, painting everything in shimmering gold.

For a heartbeat she doesn’t move, like she’s trying to take it all in. Then, her hand flies to her mouth.

“Oh my gosh,” she whispers when her gaze finds mine, her voice catching on the last word.

And in that look—God, I swear my heart stops. Because I see it all. Our future, our life, the woman who’ll someday be my wife. The mother of my children. My entire world laid out in front of me. And I have never wanted anything more.

The moment shatters when everyone cheers at once.

Felicia wraps her in a hug that nearly knocks her over, with Joss diving in right after.

Tommy throws a victorious fist in the air. “Happy New Year, B!”

Parker leans down, hugging her once the girls finally release her. “Surprise, Becks.”

When it’s his turn, Nick gives a theatrical bow. “You’re welcome,” he says, then pulls her in, dipping his head to murmur something only she can hear. Whatever it is makes her laugh, eyes shining with the kind of joy that makes my chest ache.

Connor lifts his glass from the bar and offers a lazy salute. “Charming, really. Nothing says celebration like a beat-up old barn decorated with tacky ornaments.”

Felicia shoots him a glare that could peel paint. “Who the hell invited you?”

“Come now, little bird. Don’t you know who I am? Connor Matthews, beloved son of Governor Richard Matthews. I don’t need an invitation.” He winks, his tone laced with the kind of charm and privileged confidence that usually leaves women blushing and swooning at his feet.

Felicia just rolls her eyes, dismissing him like he’s nothing more than a gnat.

Connor’s smile falters. His frown lingers longer than he probably means it to.

Felicia turns back to Becca, her tone soft again. “Do you like it?”

Becca can’t stop smiling. “It’s beautiful.” She spins slowly, taking it all in—the little vases, the folded-swan napkins Nick swore she wouldn’t notice, the way the firelight throws gold along the decorated beams.

Her gaze skims the room until it lands on me, and everything else blurs.

She doesn’t come to me right away. She doesn’t have to. The question in her eyes is clear, and I answer it with a small nod.

Yes, pretty girl. This is all for you. Every last piece of this night, and all the nights that will come.

I can’t wait another second. I cross the space and gather her into my arms, lifting her feet off the ground as I press my mouth to hers. She tastes like cherries and something sweeter, my tongue tracing hers as if I’ve forgotten where we are.

When I finally pull back, she’s smiling against my lips. “You planned all this?”

I shake my head, grinning like a fool. “I had help. Lots of help.”

“Okay, okay, you two are so disgustingly sweet, I’m getting a fricken toothache.” Joss swats at me. “Hands off, Montgomery. Our girls’ night doesn’t officially end until midnight.”

She takes Becca’s hand and tugs her away before I can argue. Becca glances back, smiling in apology while I just stand there, nodding like the lovesick fool I’ve become.

I hang back, content to watch her as she talks and laughs with her friends.

Sound swells around her. A mix of laughter, clinking of glasses, the low hum of the room settling into a cozy cocoon that feels a lot like family.

And there she is, in the center of it all like a small sun, everyone orbiting closer, drawn to her light.

My throat burns. Because this—this is what I want for her. Always. A life that’s full, bright, never lonely.

The family she never had.

The one she deserves.

Laughter fills the barn, spilling through the rafters like music of its own. Someone’s cranked the volume on the playlist—something bright and fast—and the sound bounces off the walls, wrapping the space in pure, chaotic joy.

And to my delight, Becca’s right in the middle of it all.

Felicia’s pulled her onto the makeshift dance floor in the center of the room, both of them twirling with drinks in hand while Joss claps along and Tommy pretends to know the steps. Parker, of course, jumps in with exaggerated moves that have everyone howling.

Becca’s cheeks are flushed pink, her silky brown hair spilling around her shoulders, her laughter lighting up the whole room. She’s carefree in a way I’ve never seen before—spinning barefoot on the wooden floor, arms raised as if she’s trying to catch every flicker of light and sound filling the space.

And I just stand there, useless, in awe, with a grin I can’t shake.

God, she’s beautiful.

Nick elbows me from where he’s come to stand beside me. “You did good, Montgomery. She looks happy.”

I can’t take my eyes off her. “You think so?”

“I know so.”

I watch as Becca leans into Jocelyn, laughing so hard she nearly spills her drink. “I just… want her to always feel like this. You know?”

“Yeah,” Nick says, his tone softer now. “I know.”

Behind us at the bar, Connor scoffs loud enough to cut through the music. “The fuck is wrong with you two?”

Nick doesn’t miss a beat. “Oh, I’m sorry—did we interrupt your regularly scheduled bout of cynicism?”

Connor smirks, swirling his drink. “Nope. Please, by all means, continue the emotional Hallmark special. It’s… quite fascinating.”

“Translation,” Nick says, turning to me, “he’s feeling things—the warm and fuzzy kind—and doesn’t know what to do with them.”

Connor’s smirk falters just slightly before he rolls his eyes. “You’re both insane. This isn’t a party—it’s a small-town hoedown with better music. No sexy women, no high-stakes poker, no champagne, not even a decent single malt. Just… the equivalent of a high school dance complete with teenage angst.”

I laugh under my breath. “Maybe that’s the point. Kind of nice not having to pretend to be anything other than who we are.”

Connor takes a long sip of his drink, eyes drifting toward the dance floor. Becca and Felicia have now pulled Joss in, the three of them shouting lyrics and doing some kind of half-coordinated twirl. For a second—just the briefest second—Connor’s gaze softens. The hard edges that shield the real him drop, giving me a glimpse of the boy I used to know. But then he catches me watching, and his armor snaps right back into place.

“Can’t believe you trust those muscle-headed peasants with your secret love life more than you trust me,” he mutters, nodding toward Parker and Tommy, who’ve joined the girls.

“They’re my teammates,” I say simply. “I trust them. And they love Becca—they’re part of her world. Her people.”

Connor raises a brow, unimpressed. “So now you’re collecting peasants, got it.”

Nick snorts. “You’re such a jackass.”

Connor gives a half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Takes one to know one.”

The three of us fall quiet. The fire pops behind us, casting shadows that dance across the wood-paneled walls. The song shifts into something slower—still lighthearted, but gentler now, threaded with the kind of warmth that sneaks under your skin.

I glance toward Becca again. She’s still laughing, still glowing, but there’s a new softness to it—something quieter, deeper. And as I watch her move through the circle of people who love her, something in my chest settles.

This—this is what I’ve been chasing. Not the illusion of perfection my parents worship. Not power or control like everyone in my world expects. Just this—laughter echoing off the rafters, friends and teammates who came together at the last minute to make this night happen for the girl I love.

And there she is, right in the center of it all. Safe. Seen. Free to be happy. To be loved. To just be.

For the first time, I believe it’s possible. That our two worlds can actually meet somewhere in the middle and that our love might just be the glue that holds it all together.

The laughter swells as the night stretches toward midnight. The playlist drifts into songs about love, dreamers, and new beginnings—the kind that hum with hope, joy, and the promise of what’s to come.

The group crowds near the center of the barn—Felicia with her phone in hand, ready to shout the countdown. Parker and Tommy argue over who poured the better glass of champagne, to Connor’s utter disgust, non-alcoholic. Jocelyn leans against Felicia, giggling as she holds her drink, and even Connor looks… relaxed. Still aloof, of course, but less like he’s above it all.

Becca stands near the hearth, her eyes reflecting the fairy lights, her cheeks flushed from laughter. When she catches me watching, her smile curves soft and shy, like she’s still unsure if it’s okay to let herself be this happy.

It’s more than okay, pretty girl.

I move toward her as Felicia starts the countdown.

“Ten!”

The crowd joins in, voices overlapping in the warm, familiar chaos of friends and laughter.

“Nine!”

Becca’s smile falters just slightly, a glimmer of emotion flickering behind her eyes—like she’s feeling everything all at once.

“Eight!”

I reach her, my hands finding her waist.

“Seven!”

She exhales, leaning into me, her palms flattening against my chest.

“Six!”

The world outside disappears. It’s just us—the music, the lights, the steady rhythm of our heartbeats.

“Five!”

She tilts her chin up, eyes shining.

“Four!”

Her breath catches.

“Three!”

I brush a strand of hair from her cheek.

“Two!”

The barn seems to hold its breath.

“One!”

The clock hits midnight, and I kiss her.

Sound erupts around us—cheers, laughter, champagne corks—but all I feel is her. The press of her mouth against mine. Her hands fisting in my shirt as she melts closer. Her heartbeat racing against mine, fast and wild and alive.

The kiss is slow but steady—a vow sealed beneath the hum of fairy lights and the laughter of the people who love us.

When we finally part, she looks up at me, her voice barely a whisper. “Happy New Year, Perseus.”

I smile, my thumb tracing the curve of her jaw. “Happy new beginning, Andromeda.”

She blinks up at me, eyes full of emotion as her lips curl into the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. I kiss her again—hard, certain, sure that as of this moment, as of today, she’s mine in every way that matters. Just as I am hers.

Because that’s what this is. The start of something real.

Our true beginning.

The start of our forever.

The first day of the rest of our lives.

❤️

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# Chapter 24

Becca

The first thing I notice is the light.

Soft, pale, creeping through the crack in my curtains like it's trying not to wake us. It paints the walls in a hazy gold that makes everything look gentler than it is—my cluttered desk, the tiny kitchenette, the pile of Shane's jacket and boots in the corner by the door. Even the dust in the air looks magical, suspended and glowing, like my apartment is part of some storybook world.

I should still be asleep, but my eyes snapped open the second the sky started to lighten, my heartbeat already too loud in my ears. It's like my body remembered what my mind refused to face—the truth that it's January first, which can only mean one thing:

Tomorrow is when the fairytale ends.

Tomorrow is when the real world comes back to remind me exactly where I stand.

I roll over carefully, peeling myself off his chest as slowly as I can so I don't wake him.

Shane is sprawled across my mattress, one arm thrown above his head, the blankets twisted low around his hips. His hair is a mess from sleep, and his mouth is relaxed—soft, boyish, unguarded. Vulnerable in a way the rest of the world has probably never seen.

God. It hits me like a punch every time.

How beautiful he is like this.

How peaceful.

How impossibly temporary this moment feels.

The ache starts low in my chest, blooming outward, warm and heavy. I want to stay here. I want to memorize him like this—quiet and safe and all mine, even if the world outside can't know it.

Careful not to disturb him, I slip out of bed and pad across the cool floor. His sweatshirt is draped over the back of the loveseat, rumpled from the last time he wore it, smelling like cedar and winter air and him. I pull it over my head without thinking, and the second it settles around me, my whole body exhales.

It hangs almost to my mid-thigh, worn soft from too many washes, and the way it wraps around me is so warm, so familiar that if I close my eyes, I can almost pretend it's him holding me.

Wearing it makes me feel like I belong to him. And like I'm claiming him in the one small way I'm allowed.

At least for now.

I move to the kitchenette and start pulling out ingredients—pancake mix, eggs, bacon, the cheap coffee he only pretends to like. My hands need something to do. Something simple. Something that keeps my mind from spinning too far ahead. Something that tricks me into believing this is just a normal morning in a normal life where moments like this are ordinary.

The coffee maker clicks on.

The pan sizzles.

And for a few blissful minutes, as breakfast scents fill the apartment, it almost feels real.

But then the light shifts again, stretching farther across the floor, touching the foot of the bed. A reminder. A warning. The sun is climbing higher, dragging the day with it. A sign that time is moving rapidly along, whether I want it to or not.

Twenty-four hours.

That's all we have left before school starts. Before he has to step in front of everyone and act like he belongs to Amanda. Before I have to pretend I'm okay watching him do it.

My throat tightens.

The dream is slipping.

Morning is here.

And yet another countdown has already begun.

As I move around the kitchenette, I think of the party last night. The beautiful barn glowing with candles and string lights. The small romantic touches I'll never forget because they made me feel like a princess. The warm laughter of our friends as we danced the night away. And most of all, the way Shane held me as he kissed me when the clock struck midnight. 

Every second of last night was a kind of happiness I've never dreamed of. A kind of happiness I've never experienced. But the higher the sun rises, the more it feels like I'm waking from a dream I was never meant to keep.

And it's heartbreaking.

I look over at him—peaceful, resting soundly, still oblivious to the pressure of the lie waiting for us tomorrow—and something inside me fractures. Because in less than twenty-four hours, he'll be back to playing Amanda's fiancé. Back to smiling beside her, pretending he's in love with her while everyone believes it. While I stand there watching, like it's some twisted punishment for the crime of loving him.

A tight, familiar panic curls through my ribs, and I grip the counter, willing my hands to steady.

Just five hours ago, I fell asleep on his chest, wrapped in a hope so bright it almost felt safe.

And now... dread settles in its place, a cold reminder of how fragile this all is and how easily I could lose him.

The pan crackles, bacon popping softly in the sizzling oil, and I'm so lost in my own head that I don't realize he's awake until a low, sleepy hum rolls across the room.

"Something smells good," Shane murmurs, voice rough and warm with sleep.

I lift my gaze, and there he is on the bed, pushing up on one elbow. His curls are twisted in every direction, his eyes half-lidded and soft in the morning light. He looks boyish, undone, impossibly sweet. And when he sees me standing there in his sweatshirt, something warm flickers across his face.

I nod, turning back to the stove as I slide the last pancake onto the stack. "It's all done. We can eat now, if you want."

"Come here," he says, and that sleepy, playful grin I love so much lights up his whole face.

I should tell him to stay in bed and rest a little longer.

I should turn back to the stove and finish setting up breakfast.

But my traitorous body moves to do as he says before I can stop it.

I switch off the burner and cross the room. He pulls me straight into his lap, straddling him, his arms wrapping around my waist as his face buries into my neck like he's been craving this since the moment he drifted off. His lips brush my jaw, my cheek, the corner of my mouth—not demanding, not heated. Just soft. Devoted. Like kissing me is his favorite way to show he loves me.

"Morning, pretty girl," he whispers, smiling against my skin.

My whole body melts into him. I can't help it. I never can. His touch feels like safety and fire all at once—like he knows exactly how to hold me so the rest of the world can't reach me.

I try to match his smile, to give him back even a fraction of the happiness pouring off him.

But he senses it—my tension, my fear—almost instantly.

He goes still.

Not stiff. 

Not tense.

Just... still. As if the only thing he's listening to is everything I'm too afraid to say.

His hands slide to my hips, grounding and firm enough that I can't slip away. He pulls back just enough to see my face, his eyes clearer now, sharper, searching.

"Becca." One word, and it hits like a spotlight.

I swallow hard, then glance toward the stove. "I should set the table—"

He reaches up, fingers tipping my chin back toward him, gentle but intentional.

"That can wait." His tone is soft but threaded with warning, and a fierce kind of love that makes my heart stutter. "Talk to me. Something's wrong. And if I'm going to help fix it, I need to know what it is."

"I'm fine, I'm just—"

He lifts my chin again, two fingers holding me steady, eyes locked on mine.

"Becca." It's a whispered growl—low, steady, intimate. Serious yet tender enough to steal the air from my lungs. "Remember our promise. No hiding. No pretending. Just brutal honesty. Brutal love. Brutal determination that we'll fight our way through this together."

His thumbs sweep down my cheeks to my jaw, steadying, grounding.

"Be brave with me, pretty girl."

A breath. A heartbeat.

"Stand with me and fight."

❤️

 
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Chapter 25

Becca

His words land in the center of my chest, sharp enough to steal what little breath I have left.

“Stand with me and fight.”

He makes it sound so easy.

I try to nod. Try to breathe. Try to look calm, mainly for him. But the second he says it, something inside me buckles, like a beam giving way under too much weight. And he feels it. His hands tighten on my hips, thumbs sweeping slow, grounding circles into the bare skin at my waist.

“Hey,” he murmurs, softer now. “Talk to me. Whatever it is, I’ll help you through it.”

I shake my head, swallow hard, blink fast—anything to keep the pressure behind my eyes from spilling over. I want to hold it together. I really do. But the truth is already climbing up my throat, hot and determined and impossible to swallow.

“What happens tomorrow?” The words escape in a voice I barely recognize as my own. “At school. With her. With all of it.”

His brows pinch, worry sharpening his features, but I can’t stop now. If I stop, I might break.

“What am I supposed to do while you’re with her?” I force out, eyes darting away because looking at him hurts too much. “While everyone thinks she’s the one you chose. While you’re… smiling next to her. Touching her. Pretending she’s the person you want.”

My jaw trembles. I bite down hard to try and stop it—but a tear breaks loose anyway, slipping down my face before I can catch it.

Shane sees.

He always sees.

He lifts a hand to my cheek, thumb brushing the tear away with a tenderness that unravels me. His fingers slide into my hair, guiding my forehead gently to his.

“I know it’s not real. That it’s fake,” I whisper, voice cracking. “But knowing doesn’t make it any easier. I don’t know if I can handle watching it. Seeing it. Standing there while you pretend you belong to her, while I pretend it’s not killing me inside.”

A soft, choked sound slips out of me. His arms are around me instantly, pulling me closer, his chest solid and warm as he tucks me against him. He breathes me in—slow, steady—like he’s anchoring himself too.

“It just… it doesn’t seem fair,” I whisper against his collarbone. “That I’m the dirty little secret, while she’s the one who gets to touch you. To be with you. To look like she belongs to you.” My voice breaks. “I hate it so much.”

Pain flickers across his face when I finally feel brave enough to look at him. Quiet, devastated pain. His thumbs sweep under my eyes again, catching the next set of tears before they fall.

“Pretty girl…” His voice cracks on the words, and it undoes me completely.

I try to speak, but my breath stutters. My fingers curl into his shirt, gripping tight, needing something to hold onto as the fear surges through me.

“I don’t want tomorrow to come,” I admit, barely audible. “I don’t want to lose you to something I can’t do anything about.”

He cups the back of my head, thumb stroking the sensitive space behind my ear—slow, calming, reverent.

“I don’t want to watch you be hers,” I whisper. “Even if it’s pretend.”

And with that, whatever wall I was trying to hold up gives way. Not in sobs—not in anything loud or dramatic. Just in the soft collapse of my weight against him. In the quiet tremor of my breath. In the tears I can’t hold back anymore.

Shane wraps both arms around me tighter, one hand splayed between my shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of my neck, like he’s desperate to hold me together.

But it doesn’t work.

The fear doesn’t disappear.

Instead, it sharpens.

And before I can stop myself—before I can think it through or pull the words back—they rush out of me, shaky and desperate.

“What if we told the truth?”

Shane stills.

A subtle, startled pause beneath my palms.

I don’t look at him. I can’t. My eyes stay fixed on the soft cotton of his T-shirt, on the place where my fingers clutch him like he’s the only thing keeping me from slipping away.

“I mean it,” I whisper, voice trembling. “What if we just… told everyone? That you’re not really with her. That the engagement is fake—an act forced by your parents. That it’s us—” My throat tightens painfully. “That it’s always only ever been us.”

Shane exhales slowly, the sound warm against my skin. His hand slides from my neck to my jaw, guiding my face up, urging me gently to look at him.

When I finally meet his eyes, something aches there. Something that looks an awful lot like heartbreak.

“Becca,” he breathes, my name like a sigh, like a prayer sliced open. “Sweetheart…”

“I know it’s stupid,” I rush on, eyes burning again. “I know it doesn’t make sense. People will talk. I know what they’ll say about me—about us.” My chest heaves with each confession. “But the thought of standing there tomorrow, watching you pretend she’s who you love… who you want—”

My voice breaks.

More tears slip free.

I pull in a shaky breath and force the last part out.

“It makes me feel like I’m losing you before I’ve even had the chance to keep you.”

Shane’s fingers tighten along my jaw—not harsh, just firm—as if he too is struggling with the distance growing between us with every second that brings us closer to tomorrow. He presses our foreheads together, his breath mingling with mine.

“Oh, pretty girl.” His voice is a low whisper of wrecked tenderness. “You’re not losing me. Not now. Not ever.”

His thumbs sweep across my cheeks, catching each tear as it falls—like he’s trying to absorb the hurt himself.

But the question lingers, hanging in the air like a storm cloud.

Heavy.

Wild.

Dangerous.

“Let’s tell the truth. Please. What if we tell everyone the truth?”

The words echo louder this time, pulsing with the terror that made me speak them in the first place.

Shane closes his eyes for a beat, a muscle in his jaw ticking under the weight of what I’m asking.

When he opens them again, they’re soft. Devoted. And, unfortunately for me… devastated.

And I know—without him saying a word—that whatever he says next is going to break us both.

❤️

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# Chapter 26

Becca

"Pretty girl," he whispers, the words fraying at the edges. "You have no idea how badly I wish we could."

My chest tightens.

"But we can't," he says quietly. "Not yet."

A soft, broken sound slips out of me before I can swallow it. His thumbs sweep across my cheeks again, brushing away tears as fast as they fall, his expression carved with pain.

"Becca, baby... look at me."

His breath trembles as it leaves him.

"If I could rip that ring off her finger in front of everyone and tell them you're the one I love—the only one I want—I'd do it in a heartbeat. If I could choose you publicly the way I choose you privately, I'd do it without a second thought. You know that, right?"

I nod weakly, because I do know. I just wish knowing was enough to make this hurt less.

"It's not Amanda that's stopping me. Or my parents and their stupid expectations."

His fingers slide into my hair, gently gripping the base of my skull—not controlling, just anchoring me.

"It's you," he whispers. "I won't do it because I'm protecting you."

My lips part, but nothing comes out.

His gaze deepens, earnest and cracked at the edges. "Because the fallout... you don't deserve the hell they'd throw at you. The lies. The rumors. The headlines. The way they'd tear you apart just to get to me. I'm not risking you, Becca. I won't."

He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead just as another pained sob breaks loose from my chest.

"It won't be forever," he murmurs. "I swear it. When it's safe—when I've figured out how to end this engagement without blowing up your life in the process, without putting our future at risk—we'll tell everyone. I'll choose you publicly. Proudly."

He pulls me closer, wrapping me in his arms, holding me like I'm the most sacred thing in his universe.

"Because you 
are
 my future, pretty girl," he breathes into my hair. "A future I'm working hard to secure. Every day. Every single second. Even when you can't see it... everything I'm doing is for us."

My breath shudders.

His grip tightens.

"This isn't me choosing her. Or my parents. Or my stupid family legacy," he says, firmer now. "This is me choosing you. Choosing to protect the girl I love from something she doesn't deserve—something she should never have to endure. This, Becca... this is me honoring our love. This is me honoring you."

He tilts my face, brushing my tears away with the backs of his fingers.

"I'm not asking you to be okay with this," he whispers. "I'm just asking you to trust me. To not give up on us. To not give up on me."

He searches my face with a quiet desperation, like he's begging for my trust—looking for the smallest sign that I'm still with him, still choosing him too. His eyes flick back and forth between mine, so vulnerable it hurts to look at him.

Shane, who is always steady. Always certain.

Now shaking as he holds me.

Seeing the fear beneath all that love... it shifts something inside me.

My hands move before my thoughts do. I cup his face gently, my palms warm against his cheeks as his breath catches—like he wasn't expecting me to comfort him. Like he wasn't expecting me to look at him with anything other than hurt.

I understand why.

It's the first time I've touched him this way since the conversation started. Hell, maybe the first time I've ever touched him this way, period.

Not seeking his comfort.

Not clinging to him out of fear.

But steadying him. Reassuring 
him
.

Suddenly I remember every time he's told me he loves me. Every time he's touched me like I'm precious. Every time he's chosen me—loudly, quietly, relentlessly—while I held back, terrified of what loving him out loud would cost me. Terrified that saying the words would be the beginning of the end.

But looking at him now—hurt and trying to hide it, desperate and trying to stay strong—I hate myself for it. For making him carry the weight of loving me alone. For letting him believe he didn't deserve to hear the words when he's the only person who's ever made me feel safe enough to speak what's in my heart completely.

A tear slips down his cheek, and that wall inside me—the one I built to survive heartbreak—finally cracks.

"I trust you," I whisper, my voice barely holding together. "More than I've ever trusted anyone."

His breath stutters. His hands tighten around my waist like he's bracing for impact—waiting for the 
but
 he's heard so many times.

And God, I hate that I'm the reason he expects it.

"I'm sorry," I breathe. "For holding back. For being selfish and making you wait." The words rise in my throat—terrifying and huge, but finally ready. "I—I love you."

He freezes.

Absolutely still.

Not even breathing.

His expression is caught in stunned, reverent disbelief—like those three words knocked the world off its axis.

Finally, his lips part. His eyes shine. His fingers tremble against my skin.

"Becca..." It's more breath than voice. More prayer than word.

I lean my forehead to his, closing my eyes so I don't have to see how undone he looks—except I feel it. In the tremble of his fingers against my skin. In the way his breath stutters against my lips, like he's standing on the edge of something he's wanted for so long he stopped believing he'd ever reach it.

"I love you," I repeat, softer, steadier. "With everything I am. And I'm scared. Not of you. But of this. Of how much I love you. Of how much I suddenly have to lose. But I can't take it back. I won't. I don't want to—because I love you, Shane Montgomery. I. Love. You."

For a heartbeat he just stares—eyes shining, lips parted—like he's trying to memorize the moment in case it vanishes.

Then he moves.

Not slow.

Not careful.

Not controlled in the slightest.

It's all raw, stunned, overwhelming need.

He surges forward, capturing my mouth with his, like he's been holding this back for months and my confession shattered the last of his restraint. His hands frame my face, fingers trembling as he drags me closer—closer—like he's terrified I'll disappear if he isn't holding on tight enough.

The kiss is desperate, yes, but reverent too. Each brush of his lips carries everything he feels:

Gratitude.

Relief.

Awe.

Love—so much love it makes my chest ache.

By the time he pulls back, he's breathing hard, forehead resting against mine, his thumbs sweeping over my cheekbones like he's afraid to miss even a second of this.

"You have no idea," he whispers, voice wrecked and trembling, "what it means to hear you say that."

"I'm sorry," I breathe. "For taking so long. I should've told you. That first night, I felt it. The first night I realized there was no going back."

He draws back just enough to see my face, eyes shining, soft with awe.

"What night?" he asks. "Tell me, pretty girl. I need to know."

"That night at the tree farm. By the campfire." A shaky laugh slips out with my tears. "That was the first time I knew I was in trouble."

His expression breaks open—relief and wonder mingling with something almost boyish in how brightly he smiles at me.

"But I think it was before that," I murmur. "That night under the stars... when you told me about Alcyone and Ceyx. About Perseus and Andromeda." I swallow. "I think that's what sealed it. The night that made me fall."

He stares at me like he's seeing something impossible—something he never let himself hope for. Awe softens every angle of his face.

And I'm grateful. So damn grateful to have finally spoken the truth out loud.

"I'm in love with you, Shane. Irrevocably. Completely. So terrifyingly in love with you, I don't think I'll ever be the same. And that scares me, because every time I love—every time I let myself go there—I lose a little more of myself when it falls apart." My voice cracks. "And this... I think this might be my biggest test, because I don't think I can survive losing you."

His hands come to my face instantly, like he's afraid I'll fade away if he doesn't anchor me. His eyes lock onto mine—steady, fierce, determined enough to leave me breathless.

"Pretty girl," he whispers, voice rough, "you're it for me. You've been it from that moment in Mr. Blair's office. From the second you let me help you. From the moment you let me into your life."

His thumb sweeps my cheek.

"And that night you let me kiss you for the first time? That's when my heart—my soul, the essence of everything I am—became yours. That's the only truth that matters. That I'm yours, Becca. Now until forever. Whatever tomorrow brings, nothing will ever change that."

He leans in and kisses me—slow, reverent—so tender it sends a fresh wave of tears slipping down my cheeks and makes my heart squeeze painfully tight around the love swelling inside me.

"I promise you," he breathes against my mouth. "We'll get through tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that until we can be together the way we're meant to be. We'll get through all of it. Together. You and me."

A part of me doubts.

A part of me fears.

But the part of me that said 
I love you
... trusts him.

Chose him.

And needs him to know it.

I nod, tears trailing down my cheeks—only this time they're not from fear, but from a love so big it feels like it could swallow me whole.

"You and me," I whisper. "I choose you, Shane. Even when it's hard. Even when I'm scared." My fingers curl into his shirt, holding him close. "I just need you to know... I will always choose you."

Because even if the world isn't ready for us, I'm finally ready for him.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
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.

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REAM
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Chapter 27

Becca

The sharp, biting January wind cuts straight through my coat the second I step out of Jocelyn’s car. I tug the zipper higher, but it doesn’t help. Not against this. Not against the crowd gathered outside the school, lining the walkway like they’re waiting for celebrities instead of two teenagers who spent winter break pretending to be in love.

Press vans.

Photographers.

Reporters shouting questions at students like wolves sniffing for blood.

Shane warned me this might happen.

“ Mom will leak it to the vultures. Amanda will feed into it. And the press will eat it up like the foolish snakes they are .“

But all the warnings in the world could never have prepared me for this.

Seeing it.

Feeling it.

Being swallowed whole by it.

This is something entirely different.

Students swarm the front steps, buzzing so loudly it nearly drowns out the wind.

“Did you see the proposal video?”

“Oh my God, he cried. He had actual tears in his eyes.”

“Amanda Kline, soon to be Montgomery—future queen of Willow Creek.”

“They’re literally perfect. Like a real-life fairytale.”

My stomach twists at the whispered commentary, a slow, sickening curl that tightens with every word.

I clutch my backpack strap in one hand. The thumb of my other hand rubs over the smooth surface of the moonstone ring he gave me, the same way I rubbed his knuckles this morning when he kissed me goodbye before leaving to pick up Amanda.

His voice still echoes in my mind, warm and sincere even now.

“Remember, Andromeda. I’m yours. Now until forever.”

But dread still curls low in my stomach, heavy as the moonstone on my finger, anchoring me in place.

Jocelyn steps closer, linking her arm with mine. Felicia flanks my other side, the three of us moving as a tight unit through the chaos.

“Don’t let this get in your head,” Felicia murmurs, her voice fierce with protectiveness. “This is all for show. Smoke and mirrors.”

Jocelyn nods. “These people don’t even know him the way you do. The way we do. If they did, they’d know she’s the last person he’d ever want to marry.”

“Someday,” Felicia adds softly, “I hope to find a man who looks at me the way he looks at you.” She sighs, a smile blooming across her face. “And that kiss at the New Year’s party he threw for you… God, Becca. That man is absolutely gone for you.”

I try to smile.

And breathe.

And pretend the world isn’t tilting under my feet.

But every shout, every camera flash, every whispered they’re perfect digs a little deeper, reawakening the doubt I swore I’d buried for good.

After telling him I loved him last night, Shane promised me nothing would change. That we’d be okay in the end. But standing here on the edge of a spectacle built to celebrate their fake engagement… I can already feel our reality changing.

The second we step through the main doors of the school, the noise hits me like a physical force. The hallway is packed —even more crowded than the entrance outside—but it’s the decorations that steal the breath right out of my lungs.

Balloons tied to lockers in glittering gold and white. Red rose petals scattered across the ground like we’ve wandered onto the set of one of those small-town romance movies that only ever show the happy parts of love.

And worst of all…the giant printed banner stretched across the far wall that reads:

CONGRATULATIONS, SHANE & AMANDA!!!

My stomach drops.

This. This is exactly the kind of spectacle I feared would overtake our reality.

His mother’s handiwork, undoubtedly.

Amanda’s dream come true.

And the perfect PR opportunity, encouraging students to livestream every second straight to social media.

Teenagers swarm beneath the banner, squealing, pointing, snapping photos like this is the premiere of some blockbuster romance and not the ugliest lie I’ve ever had to witness.

Jocelyn mutters, “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Felicia’s jaw locks tight. “His mother seriously needs to find some new hobbies.”

Me, on the other hand, I can’t speak.

Hell, I can hardly breathe.

My fingers clamp around the strap of my backpack. My other hand curls tight, squeezing the moonstone ring between my fingers, welcoming the small bite of pain, using it to distract myself from the deeper ache gnawing at my chest.

Then the screaming starts.

High-pitched. Excited. Immediate.

“Oh my God, they’re here!”

“Move—move—I need a video!”

“Amanda. Amanda. Over here!”

I turn, even though I shouldn’t.

And there they are.

Amanda enters first, practically glowing, her arm looped possessively around Shane’s like she’s determined to show every camera exactly who he belongs to. She waves like she’s royalty on parade, smiling with all thirty-two pearly white teeth showing, basking in a spotlight she orchestrated. Acting shocked and awed by the fact she’s the center of attention, even though this is exactly what she wanted.

Shane, on the other hand, looks the opposite of her in every possible way. He walks beside her with that rigid, careful posture he uses when he’s building walls around himself. His jaw is tight. His shoulders stiff. His eyes fixed straight ahead, refusing to meet anyone’s gaze.

Refusing to meet mine , even though I feel the exact second he senses me .

His discomfort is obvious, painfully so. But to a hallway full of students desperate to be a part of the fairytale they’re filming for social media, he probably just looks like a brooding prince.

The crowd surges, swallowing them whole.

“Shane! Over here—look here!”

“Kiss her! Kiss her!”

“They look so perfect together.”

“Their kids are going to be gorgeous.”

“Did you see the way he looked at her in the proposal video? Now that’s love.”

Each word slices deeper.

I keep my eyes averted, but the comments still find me. They slip under my defenses, carving into the soft, fragile parts of me I swore I’d fortified.

My thumb drags across the sharp edge of the moonstone setting so hard it burns.

I swallow, forcing air into my lungs.

Remember his words.

Remember last night.

“I’m yours, Becca. Now until forever.”

But right now?

Right now, he looks like hers.

The crowd presses in tighter, bodies and phones blocking my view, but it doesn’t matter. I’ve already seen enough to feel the fracture forming inside my chest.

Felicia’s hand lands gently on my arm. “Let’s just get to our lockers, okay? We don’t need to stay for this.”

But the truth is, it doesn’t matter if we stay or not.

Every sound.

Every cheer.

Every whispered, “ They’re perfect .“

I feel each one like someone has taken a spoon and is carving out a Shane-shaped hole in the middle of my chest.

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

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# Chapter 28

Becca

I try to walk away. God, do I try.

Felicia and Jocelyn are already tugging me toward the lockers, urging me to keep moving, to look anywhere else—but my feet refuse to cooperate. They stay rooted to the floor as the crowd shifts and parts, and the scene ahead of me snaps into brutal, perfect focus.

And I can't look away.

Amanda's arm is looped through Shane's, clinging tighter every time a camera lifts in their direction. Her hand slides up and down his chest—slow, possessive, deliberate. She laughs too loudly, leans in too close, tilts her head just so, like she's posing for a magazine cover instead of standing in a school hallway.

Every move she makes is calculated.

Every move he makes is the opposite.

Shane keeps trying to pull away without making it obvious. A subtle adjustment of his jacket. Straightening the straps of his backpack. Shifting his stance just enough that her body doesn't press fully against his.

All the while, he answers questions with polite nods and a dead-eyed smile that looks nothing like the man I know.

And not once—not once through all of it—does he look in my direction.

It stings, even though I understand why.

He warned me last night it would have to be this way. For us, and for the future we're fighting for, distance equals safety. Distance protects us. But knowing that doesn't dull the ache blooming sharp and fierce in my chest. If anything, it makes it harder to swallow.

When Amanda's gaze flicks past a cluster of her friends—frantically posing for selfies with the 
celebrity couple
—and lands on me, her smile sharpens with malice.

She turns back to them, voice ringing through the hallway. "Ladies! Photo of the happy couple for the engagement page in the yearbook!"

Phones snap up instantly. The crowd leans in, breathless and eager, hungry to capture a moment they'll immortalize in glossy print.

My stomach plummets.

"Amanda," Shane mutters under his breath, just loud enough for the warning to be unmistakable.

Her smile widens, as if she's heard that tone before and long decided it doesn't apply to her. Or maybe she simply doesn't believe he'd ever refuse her.

She turns fully toward him, perfectly manicured hands lifting to cup his jaw in a move that's far too intimate for a girl who knows this is nothing but performance.

My breath catches.

Shane's shoulders tense.

"Amanda..." he tries again, his voice softening into something meant to sound loving. Almost tender. But beneath it, I hear the edge of warning. "Sweetheart. Not now. Remember? Our kisses are supposed to be just for us."

It's a lie. A line pulled straight from the fantasy version of him his parents crafted for the cameras. 

But it still hits me like a punch.

Not just because it sounds convincing, but because he said something similar to me the night he came back. After he promised he never kissed her during the proposal.

When he whispered, 
"My real kisses belong only to you, Becca."

And I believed him. 

I still do.

But hearing him say anything even close to that to her still hurts. It sends my thoughts spiraling—scrutinizing every glance, every touch, every inch of space between their bodies—searching for signs that maybe, just maybe, there's truth hiding inside the performance.

Amanda, however, doesn't even blink.

She rises onto her toes, leaning in as cameras flash around us—bright, relentless bursts of light—while the hallway seems to hold its collective breath. Shane stands there frozen, shoulders locked, jaw tight, every muscle screaming with restraint.

He doesn't move to kiss her back.

He doesn't touch her.

He doesn't soften.

And just before her lips reach his, I see it.

A tiny shift.

A subtle tilt of his head.

A last-ditch attempt to avoid the meeting of their mouths.

But it's too late.

From where I'm standing across the hallway—half-hidden behind a wall of bodies and glowing phone screens—from this awful angle, it looks like Shane—
my Shane
—kissed her.

A real kiss.

The kind the cameras wanted. The kind Amanda planned. The kind everyone in this hallway was hoping for.

The crowd erupts.

"Awww, that was perfect!"

"Wait, I got it on video—look!"

"That's totally going viral!"

"Post it! Post it!"

And that's the moment my heart shatters. Because even though I know he tried to turn away, the image of what just happened is already seared into me. Permanent. Relentless and unforgiving.

The hallway is still ringing with cheers.

Amanda is practically vibrating with triumph.

And Shane?

Shane looks like he's going to be sick.

He steps back from her touch too late to undo the damage, shoulders rigid, jaw clenched like he's holding himself together by a single, fraying thread. His eyes drop to the floor, looking anywhere but at her, anywhere but at the cameras.

And then, for the briefest second—just a sliver of a heartbeat—he looks at me.

The world stops.

Everything.

The cameras. The cheers. The crowd. The hollow, perfect fairytale lie we're trapped inside. 

All of it fades until it's just him and me.

And in that single glance, I see everything.

Terror—the kind that grips him like a fist.

Apology—raw and helpless.

Self-loathing—because he wasn't able to stop it.

Regret—sharp enough to bring tears to my eyes.

And beneath all of it, breaking through like a star cutting through storm clouds, there is love.

Unmistakable.

Overwhelming.

Heart-shattering.

Love.

It hits me so hard I forget how to breathe. Because the truth is right there in his eyes—clearer than anything he could ever say. He didn't want that kiss. He doesn't want her. He didn't choose any of this.

But God... it doesn't stop the hurt.

Not when the whole world believes the lie. Not when the cameras caught it. Not when the performance was convincing enough that even 
I'm
 left wondering where the lie ends and the truth begins.

I watch his face crumple—just a flicker, barely there, but I see it.

And in my eyes, he sees everything too. 

The hurt I couldn't hide. The betrayal I couldn't help but feel. The devastation curling tight around my chest. The chasm forming silently between us. 

The price I'm paying for loving him.

Shane flinches. 

A tiny, involuntary jolt—like the sight of my pain lands as a physical blow.

I tear my gaze away first. Maybe to protect him. Maybe to protect myself. I don't even know anymore.

But the second our eyes break apart, everything inside me starts to crumble.

Jocelyn is saying something—maybe my name, maybe trying to calm me—but her voice barely registers beneath the pounding of my heart in my ears.

Felicia steps in front of me, eyes soft with apology, trying to block my view. Her voice drops low and urgent.
 "Becca, don't. Let's just... let's just go."

But I can't breathe.

The crowd. 

The cheers. 

The flashing cameras.

It all presses in at once, like the walls are closing in around me. My vision blurs. My pulse spikes. The hallway tilts beneath my feet, swaying like I'm standing on the deck of a ship caught in a violent storm.

"I... I need a second," I manage, my voice somehow steadier than I feel.

Before either of them can stop me, I turn. 

My feet move without thought. Fast. Then faster.

Past the whispers. 

Past students replaying the video on their phones. 

Past the posters and balloons and the congratulations that scrape across my heart like salt ground into an open wound. 

I don't stop until I reach the bathroom.

The door swings open.

Cold fluorescent light.

Blank white tiles.

Silence.

I slip into the farthest stall and lock it with trembling fingers. My back hits the tiled wall as I slide down to the floor.

And then I break.

My hand clamps over my mouth, desperate to smother the sound clawing its way up my throat. My sobs force their way through anyway—quiet, violent tremors that steal every last bit of air from my lungs.

I press my other hand to my chest, needing something—anything—to anchor me. To slow the frantic pounding beneath my ribs.

But all I feel is the cold bite of the moonstone ring against my skin.

Cold where Shane's touch was warm last night. 

Cold where his promises still echo inside me, cruel and tender all at once.

My body curls inward, folding around the ache. Around the fear. Around the image of that kiss burned into my mind like a brand I'll never be able to scrub away.

My forehead drops to my knees, breath coming in splintered, uneven gasps.

And the truth hits me with brutal, shattering clarity.

I thought we could do this.

I believed him when he said our love was enough.

I was so sure we were strong enough to face this head-on.

But now? 

How could I have been so wrong?

Because nothing about this feels survivable. 

Nothing about this feels unbreakable. 

And nothing about this has anything to do with love at all.  

This—all of this—isn't about romance or devotion or destiny.

It's about power.

About greed.

About a world built to break everything that doesn't fit its narrative. 

A machine designed to crush the very thing we're desperately trying to protect. 

And what a foolish, naïve thing it was to believe we ever stood a chance against that.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
You'll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Fridays!!!

Chapter 29

Becca

The bathroom door flies open.

The sound cracks through the room like thunder, ricocheting off tile and porcelain. I flinch where I’m folded on the stall floor, knees to my chest, arms locked tight like that might be enough to keep me from coming apart.

“Becca?” Felicia’s voice cuts through the echo, breathless and panicked. “Becca, please—are you in here?”

Footsteps rush closer. The door to my stall rattles.

“Open up,” Jocelyn says, her voice firm in that way she uses when she’s bracing herself to take control. “Becca. It’s us. Open the door.”

I press my forehead to my knees as another sob tears loose, raw and uncontained.

It’s all too much.

The hallway full of gawking whispers.

The cameras.

The kiss.

The way his eyes looked at me right before I ran.

Another knock breaks through the spiral—softer this time.

“Hey,” Felicia says gently. “You don’t have to go through this alone, Becks. We’ve got you. Just… open the door, okay?”

My hands are shaking when I reach for the lock. The metal slips beneath my fingers. It takes two tries before it finally slides open.

And then they’re there.

Felicia drops in front of me instantly, eyes bright with worry, hands reaching for me. Jocelyn steps closer, one steady palm bracing my shoulder as her gaze sweeps over my face, assessing.

“Oh, Becca,” Felicia whispers. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

I try to speak, but nothing comes. My chest still won’t settle, breaths dragging in shallow pulls that barely count as breathing.

“It’s okay,” Jocelyn says calmly. “You’re going to be okay.”

They help me stand. Felicia keeps hold of my hand, her grip warm and insistent, while Jocelyn stays close—watchful, ready—like she’s prepared to catch me if I falter.

Felicia hesitates for a second before she speaks again. “Becca… Shane sent us.”

The words hit like a blow to the chest.

I know it hurt him to see me run like that. But did he really break character, risking everything, just to make sure I wasn’t alone?

“He did?” My voice barely works.

“He saw you,” Felicia says. “When everything happened. He couldn’t come after you—” She swallows. “But he looked at us. Like he was asking. Like he was begging us to do what he couldn’t.”

Jocelyn nods once. “He’s worried about you.”

Something inside me gives way.

I know how he feels about me. How much he loves me. How badly he wishes none of this were happening. But knowing that doesn’t fix what just shattered inside my chest.

My breath stutters, sharp and painful.

Felicia squeezes my hand. “He’s wrecked, Becca.”

I press a palm over my heart, trying to slow the frantic pounding. Knowing he’s not okay either doesn’t comfort me—it just makes everything hurt more.

“I don’t know if I can do this,” I say suddenly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

I drag in a shaky breath, staring at the cold white tile beneath our feet, wishing the ground would open up and take me anywhere else but here.

“I love him,” I whisper, cringing at the pain packed into those words. “Not like a crush. Not like anything I’ve ever felt before.”

My chest tightens. My throat burns.

“I love him in a way that feels too real. Too dangerous.” A breath shudders out of me. “The kind of love that changes you. The kind that has the power to destroy you. And I’m so scared—terrified—because losing him… standing by while this world takes him from me…” My voice breaks. “I don’t know how I’ll survive it.”

Felicia’s eyes shine, but she doesn’t interrupt.

“There’s a part of me that wishes I’d never let this happen,” I admit, shame curling hot in my chest. “That I’d never let him get this close. Because at least then it wouldn’t hurt like this. At least then I wouldn’t know what it feels like to love—” My voice cracks. “To be loved. To need someone like that.”

Felicia exhales slowly, like she’s been holding her breath for me.

“Becca,” she says gently, sinking down until we’re eye level. “I won’t pretend this shouldn’t hurt. Or that it doesn’t absolutely suck. Because it does. What you’re going through… it’s awful. Anyone would feel the same.”

She reaches for both my hands, holding them firmly. “But I need you to hear me.”

I lift my eyes to hers.

“This—you being with Shane—is the happiest I’ve ever seen you,” she says, her voice steady but deep with emotion. “Not just lately. Ever. You laugh differently now. You smile more. You’re lighter. More you .”

My throat tightens.

“Spending New Year’s Eve with you two…” She shakes her head softly. “What you have is rare. It’s real. So real that anyone who sees the two of you together can feel it.”

Her smile trembles before her expression turns serious again.

“Walking away from that won’t protect you, Becca,” she says quietly. “It would only hollow you out. It would change you in ways you might never recover from. It would leave a hole in your heart so big that nothing else could ever fill it.”

Jocelyn shifts beside us, but Felicia keeps going heart-first and unashamed.

“And he needs you right now. Just as much as you need him. You were there. You saw what we saw. He’s trapped. Stuck in a situation he doesn’t want.” Her grip tightens. “Abandoning him now won’t make this any easier. If anything, it’ll just leave you both hurting and bleeding alone.”

Another sob breaks free from my chest as she squeezes my hand.

“This kind of love…” Felicia says softly. “It’s a gift. One most people never find. But you did. And it’s already yours.” Her eyes search mine. “Don’t you think that’s worth defending?”

“I agree.” Jocelyn’s voice cuts in so suddenly it startles us both.

She steps closer, meeting my gaze head-on. There’s no softness in her tone—but there is compassion in her eyes.

“You need to fight,” she says. “But not just for love.”

I swallow hard, caught off guard by the intensity in her voice.

“This is about principle,” Jocelyn continues. “About standing up for what’s right. This isn’t just about Amanda. It’s about power. Money. Control.” Her jaw tightens. “An institution that values status over people—over love, over family. A system that decided you and Shane don’t belong together because you don’t fit their narrative.”

My chest tightens at the reminder of what we’re really up against.

“They’re stealing his autonomy,” she says bluntly. “His right to choose his own life.” Her gaze sharpens. “ And they’re stealing your right to choose him .“

She doesn’t let me look away.

“And they think you’re too weak to fight back.”

Anger sparks inside me—sharp and unexpected.

“They think you’re the problem,” Jocelyn goes on. “That you’re not good enough for their golden boy. When the truth is, you’re so much more than any of them will ever be.”

Her jaw tightens.

“We’ve known you our whole lives. We know how strong you are. How determined. How fierce and resilient.” Her voice drops, furious with conviction. “So stop shrinking. Stop letting them make you feel small. Stop becoming what they expect you to be—and fight back.”

Her eyes lock onto mine, daring me to act.

“Be you , Becca. Show them you’re not someone who will just fade into the background to appease them. That you’re not someone who will bend to their will, either.” Her voice hardens. “Show them—and Shane—that you won’t surrender. Not to his parents. Not to their money or agenda. Not to their rules.”

Her words sink deep. Heavy. Dangerous.

And something inside me stirs.

That fire.

That spark.

The inner rebel who’s protected me my whole life—the part of me that refuses to ever be anyone’s pawn again.

But even she falters beneath the fear that sweeps in next, smothering the flames before they can fully take hold.

I shake my head.

“You don’t get it,” I whisper, my voice trembling despite my effort to steady it. “This isn’t something I can just… fight through. His parents aren’t just disapproving. They’ve already mapped out his entire future.”

The words feel so heavy, I almost can’t get them out.

“They have money. Influence. People willing to do whatever they say simply because of who they are.” I swallow hard. “And Charles Kline—he’s not just some overbearing father protecting his daughter’s position in the world. He’s dangerous.”

I hesitate, then add, barely above a whisper, “And together… they control everything.”

I drag in another breath, but it barely reaches my lungs.

“And Amanda…” I shake my head again. “She won’t stop. She doesn’t lose. Just like her father, she doesn’t care who she hurts as long as she gets what she wants.”

The words spill faster now, raw and unguarded—fear clawing its way out of me.

“I’m not saying I don’t want to fight. I’m saying I don’t know how we c ould possibly win. No matter how this ends, the cost feels unbearable. The price too steep.”

My throat tightens, forcing me to pause.

“If we stay together,” I continue quietly, “we could lose vital pieces of ourselves—piece by painful piece. The parts that make this worth it. The parts that make us us .”

My chest aches as the truth sharpens.

“But if we end it—if we make the choice to walk away…” I swallow hard, fighting the lump rising in my throat. “I lose him. We lose each other. Along with the possibility of what could be.”

My voice drops to a whisper.

“Either way… we both end up destroyed.”

Silence settles around us, heavy and suffocating.

Felicia’s grip on my hand tightens.

Then, softly, she asks, “Shane calls you his Andromeda, right?”

I blink, caught off guard.

She gives me a small, tentative smile. “That’s what he calls you, isn’t it? When it’s just the two of you.”

My chest aches. “Yeah,” I whisper.

Felicia nods, like something has quietly fallen into place.

“Then be her,” she says. Her smile is gentle, but the words land like a challenge.

“You told us Shane’s version of the story,” she continues. “How Andromeda was chained to a rock. Left there by her parents as a sacrifice.” Her gaze holds mine. “But she didn’t surrender to despair. Or to fear. She didn’t beg for her life.”

Jocelyn steps closer, her voice low and fierce. “She stood her ground. Faced her fate. The monster. With dignity. With her head held high.”

Felicia nods. “She endured. Not because she wasn’t afraid—but because she refused to give in.”

My breath catches.

“If Shane calls you his Andromeda,” Felicia says quietly, “it’s because he doesn’t see you as fragile. He sees you as fierce. As someone strong enough to stand beside him—not behind him—when it’s time to face the monsters.”

Something warm shifts inside my chest.

“Being Andromeda doesn’t mean you won’t be afraid,” Jocelyn adds. “It means fear doesn’t get to decide what you do next.”

I press a palm to my sternum, feeling my heartbeat—still fast, still uneven, but there.

Alive.

Unbroken.

And for the first time since the hallway—since the kiss, the cameras, the cheers, the lie that swallowed us whole—I don’t feel like helpless prey.

I feel like someone who can endure.

Someone who can take a hit and stay standing.

I straighten slowly, pushing myself up from the stall wall. My legs wobble, but they don’t give out. Felicia and Jocelyn don’t rush me. They don’t crowd me. They stay close—steady as anchors—letting me find my footing on my own.

At the sink, I splash cold water on my face. When I lift my head, I meet my own eyes in the mirror.

I look a mess. Red-eyed. Bruised in places no one can see.

But I don’t look broken beyond repair.

I don’t look like someone ready to give in.

I square my shoulders. Draw in a breath. Then another.

Whatever waits for me outside this bathroom—Amanda, the cameras, the machine built to crush us—I’ll face it standing tall, head held high.

Not because I’m fearless.

But because I refuse to let fear—or anyone else—dictate what happens between Shane and me. And because I refuse to abandon the man I love to face the monsters alone.

So when I finally open that door and step back into the world, I do it the way Shane has always seen me.

I do it as his Andromeda.

❤️

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# Chapter 30

Shane

By the time I reach Becca's place, my lungs are burning. 

Not from my run through the woods. Not from taking the garage steps two at a time.

From the day.

From having to hold everything in. The looks. The whispers. Every staged move Amanda made—each one another weight stacked on my chest until the final bell rang and I realized I was seconds away from losing it in front of everyone.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, I still had to drop Amanda off at her house. 
To keep up appearances,
 as she put it.

Then there was the stop at my place to ditch my car—keys tossed into my wall safe like a quiet surrender while I texted Cedric on the burner for instructions on how I was getting back to Becca's tonight.

After all that, I'm officially fucking done.

With this day.

With this charade.

With my parents' demands.

With the weight of responsibility that was dumped on my shoulders the moment I was born into the Montgomery name.

And then there's Amanda.

Conniving in a way I never imagined.

She barely left my side. Sitting next to me in every class we share. Close enough that our arms brushed when she shifted. Close enough for the cameras to catch her laughter at things I didn't even say.

All while pawing at me like she had the right.

It made me sick.

Every time I tried to look across a room or down a hallway—to find Becca—Amanda would move. Deliberately stepping into my line of sight with that fake, taunting smile that told me she knew 
exactly
 what she was doing.

It took everything in me not to snap. To keep my anger locked down. To wear that stupid, indifferent expression as I played the role of a man who didn't hate the woman he was supposedly engaged to marry.

And let's be honest—indifferent asshole was the best I could manage.

The only thing that got me through the day was knowing Becca and I shared two classes. I clung to that. Told myself I'd finally get to see her. Maybe sneak a touch. A look. A silent 
I love you.

But even that was taken from me.

She slipped into her seat right as the bell rang both times. Wouldn't look anywhere but straight ahead. And the second the classes ended, she was gone—backpack slung over her shoulder, disappearing through the door before I could do anything to stop her.

She was avoiding me.

No—she was running.

And there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.

By the end of the day, the panic had settled deep in my bones. Heavy. Relentless. My mind stuck replaying the same moment on a vicious loop.

Amanda's mouth on mine.

Becca's face.

Her eyes.

The way they shattered when she saw what happened.

The way she ran.

I tell myself to breathe. Tell myself I'll find a way to fix this.

None of it helps.

Nothing touches the dread curdling in my gut.

Without hesitation, I unlock Becca's door with my key and step inside, already bracing for impact. For tears. Maybe anger. For the quiet, broken tone she'll use when she tells me she can't do this anymore.

I'm already rehearsing what I'll say. 

How I'll remind her that whatever's between Amanda and me isn't real. That I never wanted this. That I only want her. 

How I'll anchor her again—back to me—like I always do. Like I've done since the very beginning, when she didn't trust me yet. Something I'd do gladly for the rest of my life, as long as she'll let me.

The apartment is dim, lit only by the small Christmas tree we put up together for the holiday. Soft lights. Familiar shadows. The quiet hum of a space that feels like ours.

"Becca?" I call out as I drop the key into the bowl by the door.

My voice sounds all wrong in the stillness. Too tight. Too rough. Too damn desperate.

And then I see her.

She's standing a few feet away—hair pulled back in a ponytail, face bare and freshly washed. Those curves that haunt my every dream hidden beneath leggings and one of my hoodies.

Her favorite.

Her eyes are red. Tired. Worried. Sad, too—bruised in a way I recognize instantly.

But beneath all of that, there's relief.

And when she offers me a small, tentative smile, something inside me gives way.

I don't even have time to process it.

In the next breath, she crosses the distance and she's there—right here—arms wrapping around me, face pressing into my neck like she's been holding her breath all day and is finally letting herself breathe.

For half a second, I freeze.

Emotion crashes into me so hard my hands hover uselessly at my sides, my vision blurring, like my body can't quite believe this is real. Like if I move too fast, it might all disappear.

Then something inside me breaks open.

I fold into her like I've been silently dying for this all day—because I have.

I breathe her in like oxygen. Soaking in her warmth. The familiarity of holding her in my arms.

My pretty girl.

My Becca.

My home.

My everything.

Her breathing is slow and steady against my skin, and without thinking, my own lungs follow suit, dragged into rhythm with hers. My heart begins to settle, like it finally remembers how.

My forehead drops to the top of her head, nose buried in her hair as I breathe in the faint, fruity scent of her shampoo.

The weight of the day crashes down all at once, my grip tightening on instinct alone.

Hold her tight. Don't let go.

But even as my body softens, my mind stutters to a stop.

She came to me.

She ran straight into my arms.

She's the one holding me.

And that realization nearly brings me to my knees.

I don't know how long we stand there like that. Seconds. Maybe more. Long enough for the worst of the panic to loosen its grip. Long enough for my body to remember how to hold instead of brace.

But the fear doesn't let go so easily.

I pull back just enough to see her face, my hands still clamped around her arms as if I let go, she'll vanish. Her eyes search mine—steady in a way that makes my chest ache.

"I'm sorry," I say, already shaking my head. "For everything."

Her brow creases, but she lets me keep going.

"I didn't think she'd do it," I rush out. "That kiss—I swear, I didn't want it. She cornered me and I—" I drag a hand through my hair, shame flaring hot beneath my skin. "I tried to turn away. I didn't react fast enough. I know how it looked. I know what it must've felt like for you to see that, and I just—"

My throat tightens, refusing to let the words past the ache in my chest.

"I wanted to find you. Right after. I swear I did." My voice cracks. "But everyone was watching. Cameras everywhere. I couldn't move. I felt trapped. Helpless. So damn scared that I was losing you and I thought—"

"Shane."

Her voice is gentle, but it barely registers, sliding right past the noise inside my head.

"I hate this," I keep going, the words tearing free now. "I hate what they're doing to us. I hate that you're paying the price for something I can't fix yet." My breath comes short, uneven. "And if you need to walk away after all this—if you have to—I'll understand. But I'm begging you not to. I'm begging you not to give up on us because—God, Becca." My voice breaks. "I love you. You're it for me. You always have been. You always will be."

Her hands rise, cupping my face.

Warm thumbs brush beneath my eyes, steady and deliberate, holding me still even as everything inside me keeps shaking.

"Shane," she says again, firmer this time.

My lungs finally give up the fight. I sag into the sound of her saying my name, like my body recognizes it as an anchor even if my mind doesn't yet.

"I was there, remember," she tells me softly. "I saw it. I know what happened."

My chest seizes.

"You don't have to explain. You don't have to justify it or apologize. Not to me."

I shake my head, panic clawing back in hard. "Becca, please—you have to understand—"

"I do." Her voice doesn't waver. "I know you don't want this. I know you're trapped. And I know you're hurting just as badly as I am."

It should help.

It doesn't.

My hands slide up to her jaw, fingers curling into the soft hair at the nape of her neck as desperation spills over. "Please, pretty girl," I breathe. "Don't give up yet. Please—"

She doesn't answer.

Instead, she rises onto her toes and presses her mouth to mine.

The kiss isn't rushed. It isn't desperate. It's slow. Certain. Grounded—like she's pouring calm straight into my bloodstream. As if she's reaching past the panic and anchoring me back into myself.

My knees go weak.

The world narrows to her hands, the quiet press of her lips, the way she kisses me like she's telling me—without words—I'm still here. We're still here.

Together.

When she finally pulls back, our foreheads rest together, our breaths tangled and uneven, both of us relearning how to breathe.

"I'm okay, Shane," she whispers. "I promise. We're okay."

I close my eyes as the relief crashes through me—so fast, so fierce it almost hurts. My chest tightens, then loosens, like something that's been clenched all day is finally allowed to let go.

"I thought..." My voice comes out rough. "I thought I'd lost you."

The words surprise me, but I don't take them back. I don't try to soften them or hide the desperation threaded through them.

"I walked in here expecting..." I trail off, my throat constricting. "I don't know. Tears. Anger. You telling me you couldn't do this anymore."

Her thumbs brush gently beneath my eyes, wiping away the moisture I didn't realize was there.

"I thought today was the day they finally broke us," I admit. "That I'd lost you for good."

Her gaze doesn't waver.

"You didn't lose me, Shane." Her voice is quiet but sure. "After the kiss... I didn't run because I was done." She swallows. "I ran because I was overwhelmed. Because it hurt."

I nod, the ache of her pain pressing heavily against my chest.

"I just needed a minute," she continues. "To process. To think. To figure out if I was strong enough for this—for you. For us." She inhales, then meets my eyes again. "And I know now that I am."

My breath stutters.

She leans in just enough to make sure I'm listening. Really listening.

"Because I love you, Shane," she says softly, "and because you love me. For now, that's all that matters. It's everything I need."

The emotion swells fast, lodging in my throat. My chin trembles, but I don't look away. 

"I can't lose you," I confess, my voice rough. "I don't know how I'd do any of this without you."

She exhales, a quiet steel settling over her features. "You won't. I promise."

Her hands slide from my face to my chest, resting over my heart like she can feel how hard it's pounding—like she's anchoring herself right there.

"They can't break us unless we let them," she says, calm and certain. "And we won't let them. Whatever comes next. Whatever they throw at us—we won't let it come between us."

I pull her back into my arms, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head and breathing her in as the weight of everything she's given me today settles over us. And it's then, in the quiet that follows, that I finally understand.

This is my Becca—strong, fierce, no longer standing behind me out of fear.

This is my Andromeda, ready to fight alongside me.

❤️

 
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👇🏼

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And the best part? Following me there is totally 
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.

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"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
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NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Fridays!!!

Chapter 31

Becca

“And right before the semester starts, I’ll introduce you to a few people,” Nick is saying. “Nothing formal. Just coffee and conversation. So you won’t be walking into Columbia not knowing anyone.”

“Wow, Nick—that’s really nice,” I tell him softly, watching the diner’s neon sign shrink in the side-view mirror as Felicia pulls onto the main road. “I really appreciate it.”

“It’s nothing. Least I could do,” he says. “You still sound worried, though.”

“I’m not,” I answer honestly. “Not really. It’s just… a lot, you know? Now that I’ve decided.” I hesitate, then add, “I guess I’m still getting used to the idea.”

It feels strange to say that out loud. Stranger still, to realize that everything I’ve wanted—everything I never let myself hope for too loudly—is finally starting to fall into place.

Nick exhales on the other end of the line. “Good. Because you shouldn’t be nervous. This is a good thing. You’ve earned it.”

“I know.” A faint smile tugs at my mouth. “I’m excited. Just… trying not to make a big deal out of it yet. I still need to see how the finances shake out.”

“We’ll find a way,” he says, his voice firm in that quiet, unyielding way of his. “Tuition, housing, books—I’ve got people looking into grants and campus positions. Internships, too. Paid ones. We’ll make it work.”

We’ll.

The word settles warmly in my chest, unfamiliar and steady all at once.

Never in a million years did I think I’d have this many people in my corner. Felicia and Jocelyn, sure—we’ve been friends forever. But Shane? And Nick? That kind of support still feels new. And a little unreal.

Jocelyn glances at me from the driver’s seat, eyebrows lifting in silent question. I nod once, letting her know everything’s fine. Felicia sits in the back scrolling through her phone, but I can tell she’s listening too.

“And you’re okay tonight?” Nick asks. “I know Shane’s stuck at that stupid fundraiser with Amanda and his parents.”

“Yeah, I’m good,” I say—and realize I mean it. “The girls are with me, and they’re staying over. Shane’ll be back tomorrow night after my closing shift, so it’s all good.”

“And Cedric?”

“His guys are always nearby,” I tell him, calm and sure. “I’m actually getting used to it. Getting pretty good at spotting them now.”

A small smile curves my lips, equal parts pride and disbelief. There was a time when my spatial awareness was questionable at best. Turns out being suddenly thrust into danger sharpens things fast.

There’s a pause on Nick’s end. I can practically hear his mind spinning through worst-case scenarios.

“All right,” he says finally. “Still—call me if anything feels off.”

“I will.”

“I mean it, Becca. Call me. I may be a few states away, but I have people. Friends who can be there for you if you need anything until Shane and I can get there.”

“I know,” I say, warmth threading through the words. “Thank you. For everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” he replies. “It’s my job to take care of you, remember? My personal mission as your half-brother and self-appointed Pegasus.”

I laugh quietly, my fingers drifting to the pendant he gave me—the Pegasus and Andromeda constellations etched into silver.

“You should really watch yourself there, Nick,” I tease. “Your reputation as a rich, self-serving asshole could be compromised if it gets out how sweet you really are.”

His laugh follows instantly. “Don’t worry. I’m still a rich, self-serving asshole. Just not to you.”

The car slows as Jocelyn turns into the driveway, the familiar garage apartment coming into view.

Home.

“We’re here,” I say. “I’ll let you go. Talk in a few days?”

“Of course,” Nick agrees. Then, softer, “I’m proud of you, Becca. And congratulations. I can’t wait for the new school year to start. It’ll be nice having you close.”

My throat tightens just a little. “Me too. Goodnight, Nick.”

“Goodnight.”

The call ends as Jocelyn turns off the engine, and the sudden quiet feels gentle instead of heavy.

“Columbia,” Jocelyn says as she hops out, grinning. “You’re really doing this.”

“I guess I am,” I reply, slipping my phone into my pocket as I grab my things, including the bag of takeout on my lap, and climb out of the car.

“How exciting,” Felicia squeals, looping her arm through mine as we walk up the steps and then inside.

The apartment greets us with soft light and familiar stillness. Shoes get kicked off by the door. Food bags land on the counter. Jocelyn locks up behind us while Felicia immediately starts unpacking like she owns the place.

It feels easy.

Safe.

And I let myself breathe it in.

The only thing missing is Shane. And where just a couple of weeks ago the thought of him with Amanda would’ve sent me spiraling, now it doesn’t. I still miss him—but the sense of impending doom is gone. Because I know, with a certainty I’m still learning to trust, that he’ll always come back to me.

Felicia hums happily as she pulls containers from the bag, lining them up across the counter like she’s staging a buffet instead of unpacking diner leftovers.

“Okay,” she says decisively, popping the lid off a carton of fries. “You officially win the Bestest Friend in the Whole Wide World award.”

“I had inside access,” I point out, shrugging as I set my things down. “Seemed silly not to use my connections to woo the judges.”

Jocelyn leans forward against the counter, arms folded as she surveys the spread. “I’m not complaining, but maybe next time you could bring home something green? Something leafy?”

Felicia fake gags. “Gross. We’re not rabbits, Joss. Now grab yourself a cheesy fry and be happy for that.”

I smile, warmth spreading through my chest as I listen to them banter.

“I’m going to shower real quick,” I tell them, grabbing clean clothes from my dresser—thinking of Shane, who usually does this for me on the nights he’s here. “I’ll be right back.”

Felicia waves a fry in my direction. “Take your time. We’ll be here enjoying your contributions to our friendship.”

I smile again.

I feel happy.

For the first time in a long time—maybe ever—I feel more than just content. The feeling is unfamiliar, almost unsettling in its steadiness, but I’m determined to hold on to it for as long as I can.

In the bathroom, I splash cool water on my face and stare at my reflection a second longer than necessary. My eyes look tired. And my body… there’s a heaviness there, a dull ache I didn’t notice until now.

Probably just the hours I’ve been putting in.

The late nights at the diner. The early mornings spent trying to stay ahead of schoolwork before the day even begins. And then there are the nights Shane is here—when it’s impossible to remember that sleep is something normal people need.

Being with him is like gravity, a quiet pull that draws us closer until the rest of the world fades and it’s just us, tangled together, unguarded, forgetting everything else.

My cheeks warm at the memory of last night. The way he always starts with something small and unassuming—a brush of his fingers, a murmur against my skin—and somehow turns it into so much more.

Those are always the hardest nights, the ones right before we have to be apart again. But I wouldn’t trade the exhaustion for anything. As long as he’s here with me, sleep can wait.

By the time I step back into the living room, Felicia’s already curled up on the couch, feet tucked beneath her, while Jocelyn scrolls through something on her phone.

“You okay?” Felicia asks, glancing up.

“Yeah,” I say easily. “Just wiped. Might be catching a bug or something.”

She studies me for half a second longer, then nods. “Well, you’ve earned the right to be tired. There’s plenty of food left.”

I grab a drink from the fridge but don’t bother with a plate, easing into the armchair instead. Jocelyn notices—of course she does. The unofficial mom of our little group, her gaze flicks to the still-open containers, then back to me.

“You sure you don’t want anything?” she asks. “With how busy you were, I doubt you’ve eaten much since lunch.”

“In a minute,” I promise. “I’m just really tired. Feels like I could sleep for hours.”

She lets it go, and I’m grateful. It’s been so long since the three of us have had a night like this—simple, quiet, unhurried. No pressure. Nowhere to be.

Felicia, however, grins like she’s finally found her opening.

“So,” she says brightly, “are we allowed to talk about how disgustingly in love you and Shane are now, or is that subject still off-limits?”

I laugh. “When has anything being off-limits ever stopped you?”

“Never,” she says proudly, “but I like to pretend I have restraint.”

She launches into a dramatic recap of everything she’s noticed over the last two weeks—how different I look, how I’m smiling more, even at school during the times Shane is busy playing his part as doting fiancé to Amanda. How I don’t jump every time my phone buzzes with yet another viral update about the school’s favorite happy couple.

“You’re lighter,” she says simply. “Like you finally stopped bracing for the worst to happen.”

Her words land deeper than she probably realizes. Because if she’s noticed, it means Shane has too. And with everything he’s carrying right now, the last thing I want is to be another weight on his shoulders.

“I think I finally started seeing it for what it is,” I admit. “Just noise. A performance—like Shane calls it. Doesn’t mean I like it. But I know that at the end of the day, all he wants is to be with me.”

Jocelyn finally looks up. “Speaking of…” she says carefully, “it’s been awfully quiet on the Amanda front.”

I nod. I’ve noticed too.

“No random run-ins. No public scenes. No Amanda-sized tantrums,” she continues. “It all feels a little off.”

Felicia wrinkles her nose. “For God’s sake, don’t jinx it, Joss.”

“I’m not,” Jocelyn defends. “I’m just saying—people like her don’t usually go quiet for no reason.”

I take a slow breath, grounding myself in the familiar sounds of the apartment—the hum of the fridge, the rattle of the baseboard heater fighting the winter air sneaking through my drafty windows.

“I know,” I say. “I’m not pretending everything’s fine. I’m just not letting it control every second of my life anymore. Amanda, her father, Shane’s parents—they’re going to do what they do. I can’t stop them. But as long as Shane and I stay connected, I think we can handle whatever comes.”

Jocelyn studies me for a beat, then nods. “It’s good you’re not letting it get to you. Just… be careful, okay?”

“I will. You know I always am.”

Especially now .

I’m well aware that the hits will keep coming. But with Shane by my side, my friends, Nick, and Cedric’s team, I feel okay. Not safe, exactly. But prepared.

Silence settles—easy and unforced. Felicia stretches her legs across Jocelyn’s lap without asking. Jocelyn sighs in annoyance but lets her.

I watch them, warmth curling in my chest.

This —God, how I’ve missed it.

The TV murmurs softly in the background, the glow washing over the room. Felicia’s legs are still draped over Jocelyn’s lap, the two of them half-watching, half trying not to fall asleep.

I sink deeper into the chair, letting the quiet settle around us.

My phone buzzes beside me.

I glance down, a spark of hope flaring before I can stop it.

Shane?

But when I look, my stomach drops.

Cedric.

I answer immediately, keeping my voice low and even. “Hello?”

“Becca,” he says in a clipped tone. “Listen up.”

I straighten without thinking.

“There’s a car out front,” he continues. “Dark sedan. Engine running.”

My gaze lifts instinctively, tracking toward the window—but I stop myself from moving.

“Do not react,” Cedric says. “Don’t look outside. Don’t let on that anything’s wrong.”

Felicia laughs at something on-screen. Jocelyn shifts, adjusting her legs beneath Felicia’s weight.

“Get the earbud,” Cedric instructs. “Put it in now.”

I rise and move toward the kitchen, keeping my steps casual as I reach into my bag on the counter.

“If they knock, the girls are to stay where they are,” he adds. “For their safety.”

My fingers close around the small device. I slip it onto my ear, just like Shane taught me.

A soft ping confirms the connection.

“It’s in,” I murmur, turning my back to the girls as I pretend to grab a plate from the cabinet.

“We have eyes and ears on you,” Cedric says calmly. “You’re not alone. I’ll walk you through what to say and what to do. Just listen for my voice.”

“Okay,” I reply quietly. “Thank you.”

There’s a brief pause.

“And Becca,” he says, measured. “So you’re not caught off guard—it’s Charles Kline.”

My chest stills.

“He’s walking up to your door now.”

❤️

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# Chapter 32

Becca

I don't move.

I don't think I could, even if I wanted to.

Instead, I stare at the door, my heart racing, my breath lodged somewhere high in my chest. I can't bring myself to look at my friends as the worst thing imaginable becomes my reality.

Charles Kline is at my door.

My mother's torturer.

The man who raped her and got her pregnant with me.

The man who then went out of his way to destroy our lives—to erase any chance I ever had at something resembling a normal childhood.

"Becca," Cedric says quietly through the earbud snug in my right ear. "Take a deep breath for me. I promise—you're going to be okay."

The word 
okay
 feels like a lie, but I swallow anyway and do as he says, forcing air back into my lungs one shallow breath at a time.

On the couch, Felicia laughs softly at something on the TV. Jocelyn shifts beside her, adjusting the blanket, her movements easy. Relaxed. Unaware. Both of them are blissfully ignorant of the monster creeping up my steps—and for that, I'm suddenly grateful.

I keep my hands loose at my sides, determined to ignore the way my fingers tremble. My heartbeat roars in my ears until I'm hyperaware of every sensation at once—the scratch of fabric against my arms, the faint buzz of the refrigerator, the cold seeping through the soles of my socks and crawling up my spine.

"What—what should I do?" I whisper, careful to keep my voice low so the girls don't hear me.

"You wait for his knock," Cedric says. "When it comes, you take three deep breaths. Only then do you move. I want you calm. Relaxed. Neutral posture. Pretend it's Nick or one of your friends on the other side of the door. Do not let on that you know who it is—or that you're worried."

Calm.

Neutral posture.

Pretend this is normal.

"Okay," I whisper. "I can do that."

I think.

I hope.

It feels like a ridiculous promise to make when I'm about to come face-to-face with the man responsible for destroying my mother's life.

Jocelyn is the first to notice something's off. I don't know what gives me away—maybe my stillness, maybe the way I haven't blinked—but her gaze sharpens as it locks onto me.

"Becca," she says quietly. "What's wrong?"

I don't answer right away. My throat feels locked, like if I open my mouth, something loud and terrified might come out instead of words.

Cedric fills the silence in my ear. "You can tell her. Keep it simple. Someone's here. They stay put. Everything's under control."

"There's someone outside," I finally say, my voice steady enough to pass for calm.

Jocelyn straightens immediately. "Who?"

Felicia's smile fades. She sits up, the blanket sliding into her lap, eyes darting between us. "Becca?" she whispers.

I draw in a breath. Slow. Controlled.

"Charles Kline."

The name changes the temperature of the room.

Jocelyn freezes.

Felicia's face drains of color so fast it's almost frightening. Her hand curls into the blanket, knuckles whitening as fear registers in a way she doesn't even try to hide.

"Oh my God," she breathes.

"Becca, put me on speaker," Cedric says—firm now.

I don't hesitate. I tap the screen.

"Jocelyn. Felicia," Cedric says sharply. "You're both to stay out of sight. Do not approach the door. Becca will handle this."

Jocelyn's jaw tightens. "Like hell she will," she mutters—then louder, "Why is he even here?"

My thoughts scatter, spiraling through every possibility.

Because he's Amanda's father.

Because he wants to end whatever Shane and I have.

Because men like him believe they're entitled to destroy anything they don't control.

Because he—

"Joss, stay put," Cedric cuts in on an exhale. Then, softer, his attention shifts back to me. "Becca, take me off speaker. Let's get me back on the earbud."

I do it immediately.

"I'm here," I say when the chime confirms the connection.

"Good. Now, eyes forward. Listen for the sound of my voice."

I force my focus back into the room. To my friends. To the TV murmuring softly in the background.

"Okay," Cedric says. "Here it comes. Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

The knock lands sharp and controlled—three firm raps that slice straight through me.

I count my breaths like Cedric told me to.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then I move.

Each step toward the door is slow and cautious, like I'm walking across thin ice on a frozen lake, terrified that one wrong move will send me plunging into frigid water. I keep my shoulders loose, my hands as relaxed as I can manage, my expression carefully neutral—even though under the circumstances, that feels almost impossible.

It's okay, Becca. It's just a door. Just a visitor. Probably one of your friends...

I cling to the lie, repeating it one last time as I reach for the handle and open it.

Charles Kline stands on my doorstep, smug and self-assured, like he has every right to be there.

Tailored suit. Impeccable lines. Not a wrinkle out of place. His hair is perfectly groomed, his smile pleasant in that practiced, artificial way that belongs to men who've never been told no.

For a split second, my heart stops.

This is him.

The man whose name haunted my childhood. The man my mother never spoke of without shaking hands. The man who destroyed her—who destroyed my family—and walked away untouched.

My father. The monster.

His gaze locks onto mine for a few long breaths. Then it drags—slow, deliberate—down my body in a way that feels invasive. Demeaning. Like he's taking inventory. Measuring. Deciding whether I'm worth the effort.

Something cold coils low in my stomach.

"Well, hello there," he says mildly, as if we're neighbors meeting by chance. "It's Becca, isn't it? Becca Franks?"

"Yes," I answer, forcing the word out evenly. "Can I help you?"

Cedric murmurs approval in my ear. 
"Good girl. Keep it short. Don't give anything away."

Charles's smile deepens, just a fraction. "I was hoping we could talk."

He doesn't step forward. Doesn't ask to come inside. He just waits.

As the silence stretches, I recognize what he's doing. Testing me. Seeing whether I'll invite him in. Offer him something. Watching my posture, my face, my breathing. Reading for tells.

The inner rebel in me recognizes the game.

And because of her, instead of curling inward the way my nervous system demands, I relax. My shoulders. My expression. Sliding into the blank, practiced indifference I learned after years of being treated like the unfortunate offspring of the town's pariah.

"Not to be rude," I say carefully, "but I'm actually in the middle of something. Is there something you need?"

"Do you know who I am?" he asks.

"Yes," I reply calmly. "Doesn't everyone?"

He chuckles, clearly amused, never breaking eye contact.

Every instinct in me wants to look away. To retreat. But I won't. After what he did to my mother—to me—I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing fear on my face.

"Well," he says, as if conceding a point. "I suppose that's true."

"Mr. Kline," I cut in. "If you're looking for Amanda, she isn't here."

His brow lifts, faintly impressed. "Straight to business. I like that."

Another slow look. Another quiet assessment.

"May I?" he asks, gesturing toward the open doorway like he expects me to step aside.

"No," I say before I can second-guess myself. "If you have something to say, you can say it from there."

For the first time, something flickers across his face.

Not anger.

Something like interest.

"Well," he says lightly, tucking his hands into the pockets of his designer slacks. "I'll be brief, then."

He studies me again. Enjoying this.

"I'm here, Ms. Franks, because I've heard some... rumors," he continues. "Things that could be damaging to my daughter. To her reputation." A pause. "And to you."

My pulse jumps, but I keep my expression smooth.

"What kind of rumors?" I ask.

His head tilts, eyes sharp, probing. "That you and her fiancé have grown close. Inappropriately close."

Cedric's voice cuts in. 
"Deny it. Deflect. Minimize your relationship."

"Shane's my peer advisor," I say evenly. "That's all it is. We're barely even friends."

Charles hums, unconvinced—and entertained. "But boys will be boys," he says, almost kindly. "They don't need friendship. Or connection. Just a pretty girl with a warm, willing body to get lost in."

The words hit like a slap. My breath hitches. Cedric starts talking in my ear, but for a moment, I can't hear him over the rush of blood in my head.

"Not that I'm saying you're one of those girls," Charles continues smoothly. "But Shane's young. Rich. Under a lot of pressure. I understand the temptation. At that age, it's hard to turn down an easy distraction."

The implication is unmistakable.

You don't matter.

You're temporary.

A body. Nothing more.

"I just wouldn't want you getting hurt," he adds. "Thinking there's something real there, when there never could be."

Humiliation burns hot—then hardens into anger.

"I appreciate your concern," I say coolly. "But as I said, we barely know each other."

He studies me, eyes sharp and calculating, searching for cracks. When he doesn't find any, his smile widens.

"Good," he says. "Let's keep it that way. Beautiful, innocent girls like yourself deserve better than the young, entitled men from our world."

I nod once, hoping—praying—the conversation is over.

But just as he shifts like he's about to leave, he turns back.

"How's your mother, by the way?" he asks casually.

My lungs seize.

Cedric swears softly in my ear.

"She's fine," I manage.

"I'm glad," Charles says, his voice silky smooth. "I've never stopped thinking about her, you know? Such a shame she had a habit of making things... complicated." His eyes never leave mine. "Overemotional. Always reading into things that weren't there. I imagine she's told you stories about me. Painted herself as the victim."

Something dark glints in his gaze.

My body goes numb. My thoughts scatter. Fight or flight crashes through me all at once.

"You should ask her what can happen when people misunderstand a situation. What happens when they try to cross someone like me."

The silence afterward is absolute. Broken only by a sharp inhale behind me.

Jocelyn.

Charles hears it too. His attention slides past me, into my home—and his smile turns satisfied.

That's when it clicks.

He isn't pleased because they heard him. He's pleased because they reacted. Because it tells him what he wanted to know all along.

That I understand who he is. 

What he did to my mother. 

And what that makes me.

His daughter—conceived through violence. Unwanted. Unclaimed. A mistake he tried to erase.

"You should talk to your mother," he continues lightly. "I'm sure she wouldn't want you walking that same hard path. I'm sure she wouldn't want you to suffer the same fate."

Jocelyn moves before I can stop her.

"That's enough," she says, stepping beside me, her voice edged with steel. "You're on private property. My mother's property. And you're not welcome here."

Charles's eyes flick to her—brief, dismissive—then slide past her to Felicia standing behind us.

Felicia hasn't said a word. Her face is pale, lips pressed together, fear written openly across her features. Yet she doesn't look away.

His mouth curves.

Not in irritation.

In pleasure.

That's when Cedric's voice snaps in my ear. 
"Becca. De-escalate this. Now. Get the girls back inside."

But I barely hear him.

Because Charles is still smiling at Felicia. At her fear. At the fact that he's accomplished exactly what he came here to do.

Something cold and furious settles in my chest.

I step forward, placing myself squarely in front of my friends, blocking his view.

My voice is calm when I speak. Too calm. Smooth enough that his brow lifts, interest flickering across his expression.

"You're going to leave," I say. "And you're going to stay away—from me, from my friends, from my mother, from anyone I care about."

Anger flashes behind his eyes, sharp and predatory.

I don't retreat.

"And if you don't," I continue evenly, "if you even think about coming for me or the people I love, then everything you've worked so hard to keep buried will come back into the light."

A beat.

"Starting with my DNA."

Silence.

"This is the only warning you're going to get."

For the first time, something in him falters. Not fear—but calculation.

He straightens, smooth as ever, and steps back.

"I'll be seeing you, Rebecca," he says lightly, that terrifying smile stretching wider. "I'll be seeing you again real soon."

❤️

 
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And the best part? Following me there is totally 
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.

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"Follow"
 on 
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Chapter 33

Becca

Not trusting him for a second, I stand there. Head held high. Brow narrowed in warning as I watch him walk back to his car.

The bastard doesn’t rush. Doesn’t glance back. He adjusts the cuff of his jacket, checks his phone, then opens the door with the same calm precision he carried as he issued his veiled threats, like this was nothing more than a brief stop. A polite interruption to his day.

The engine turns over.

The car disappears down the drive.

Only then do I shut the door.

And that’s when my body gives out.

The strength drains out of me all at once, like someone pulled a plug I didn’t know was there. My knees nearly buckle. The room tilts sharply to the left, my balance slipping as a wave of nausea crashes through me so fast I barely have time to react.

I turn, stumbling, one hand scraping uselessly along the furniture as I move.

Bathroom.

I almost don’t make it.

My body folds in on itself, and I drop to my knees. In the next split second, I’m retching violently into the toilet, my stomach convulsing, emptying itself in sharp, painful waves. My hands grip the porcelain. My shoulders shake. My throat burns as acid rises again and again, even when there’s nothing left to give.

Footsteps rush up behind me.

Felicia is there in an instant—no hesitation. She drops beside me, gathers my hair back, and presses a steady hand between my shoulder blades, grounding me as I struggle to pull myself back together.

“Okay,” she murmurs, even though her voice isn’t steady. “It’s okay, Becca. I’ve got you.”

I try to nod.

I don’t think my head moves.

Another heave tears through me, my body trembling uncontrollably now. Sweat slicks my spine. My fingers tingle, then go numb, probably from how hard I’m holding on.

My stomach spasms again and again until eventually nothing comes up—just dry, painful heaves that leave me shaking and hollowed out.

I can’t breathe.

God, I can’t breathe.

Every time I try, the air gets caught high in my chest, my lungs panicked, refusing to expand as my heart pounds so hard my vision blurs at the edges.

This isn’t over.

The thought lands fully formed, terrifying in its certainty.

He’s not done with me.

“It’s okay, Becks. It’s going to be okay,” Felicia says, trying to reassure me, but the tremor in her voice gives her away.

“It’s not…” I try to pull in a breath and fail. “He’s going to come back. I made him angry, and now he’s going to come back and do something.” The words scrape out of me, raw and desperate.

Felicia rubs slow circles into my back, trying her damnedest to soothe me. “You stood up to him. Put him in his place. He won’t want that secret getting out. That’s enough reason for him to leave you alone.”

“He smiled,” I whisper, my chest tightening painfully at the memory. “After I threatened him. Like I handed him a reason to come back and finish what he started.”

Felicia stills.

It’s only for half a second, but it’s all it takes for the fear to surge again because it confirms what I already know.

I provoked him.

Escalated it.

Made things worse.

My thoughts fracture, racing ahead before I can stop them, my mind landing hard on my mom.

What if he goes after her first? What if this is the excuse he’s been waiting for—to finish her, to destroy her once and for all?

Or Shane.

That thought hits even harder. What if he decides to punish Shane for choosing me? For defying him?

Or Nick.

Jocelyn.

Felicia.

Everyone I love suddenly lined up in my head like targets.

“I shouldn’t have said it,” I choke out. “I shouldn’t have threatened him.”

Felicia shakes her head immediately. “No. You had to stand up to him. To show him you’re not scared.”

“Except I am…” The words barely make it out before a sob rips free from my chest, the fear finally winning as I fold in on myself.

From the living room, Jocelyn’s voice cuts through the haze.

“Cedric—listen to me.” Her tone is clipped. All no-nonsense. All command.

And I hate it.

Hate that she’s being forced to step in and clean up my mess.

Felicia presses her hand more firmly into my back, like she knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “She’s handling things. Joss always knows what to do.”

I shake my head weakly, my body still trembling, my heart refusing to slow.

From the living room, I can hear Jocelyn pacing, hear the sharp edge in her voice as she talks over someone on the other end.

Then, a minute later, she hangs up.

There’s barely a pause before she’s making another call.

“Nick,” she says. “Your dad was just here. He threatened her.”

The words slice straight through me.

Threatened her.

My stomach drops, hollowing out completely.

I curl forward instinctively, forehead resting against my forearm, my hands shaking as reality settles in.

It wasn’t just his threat.

It was that I threatened him back.

And in doing so, I may have set something more dangerous into motion—something I can only pray we’ll somehow survive.

From the living room, Jocelyn’s voice sharpens.

“No—he didn’t come inside,” she says, firm, like she’s already anticipating the question. “He stayed outside. On the front stoop.”

A pause.

“No. She’s not hurt.”

Another beat. Shorter this time.

“He didn’t touch her,” Jocelyn adds, and I can hear the effort it takes to keep her voice even. “But yes—he threatened her.”

My stomach twists painfully.

Felicia’s hand reaches for mine, anchoring me as the room tilts.

Jocelyn starts pacing again. I can hear it in the rhythm of her steps, back and forth across the living room floor.

“Yes,” she continues. “He didn’t know we were there at first. He mentioned her mom. Told her to ask what happens when you cross someone like him.” Her voice hardens. “He knew exactly what buttons to push. He was trying to scare her.”

Silence stretches. Whatever Nick is saying on the other end, it’s fast. Heated. Furious.

Jocelyn exhales slowly through her nose.

“Becca threatened him back,” she says. “Warned him off. But I swear—it’s like this is all a game to him.”

My chest tightens.

I squeeze my eyes shut, my forehead dipping closer to the toilet seat as shame coils hot and heavy in my chest.

“Yes,” Jocelyn says reluctantly. “Cedric’s already on it. He’s trying to reach Shane now.”

The name hits me like a punch to the chest.

Shane.

My breath catches sharply, panic flaring hot. My fingers curl tighter against the porcelain as guilt floods in, fast and suffocating.

No.

No, no, no.

I don’t want him pulled into this. Don’t want him worrying. Don’t want him dragged deeper into something I made worse by opening my mouth—not when he’s stuck with Amanda and can’t even be here to do anything about it.

He already has enough on his plate.

Enough pressure.

Enough people watching his every move.

And now this.

From the living room, Jocelyn keeps talking, her voice softer now.

“I know,” she says. “I know you’re angry. But right now we need to be smart.”

Another pause.

“Yes. I promise. We’re not letting her out of our sight.”

Felicia shifts closer, her shoulder pressing gently into mine, like she can feel the spiral tightening and is trying to keep me tethered.

“I’ll call you if anything changes,” Jocelyn says. “Anything at all.”

The call ends.

The silence that follows is heavy. It settles into the room, thick and unyielding.

I stay curled forward, shaking faintly, my heart still racing, my stomach hollow and sore.

Footsteps approach.

Jocelyn appears in the doorway a second later, phone still clutched in her hand, her expression tight with something that looks dangerously close to anger.

She takes one look at me, and her face softens.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I’m here.”

She crouches down on the other side of me.

“We’re going to handle this,” Jocelyn continues, her voice steady even as the situation feels anything but. “Cedric’s coordinating things on his end. Nick’s reaching out to him to offer his help. And we— we —are here for you. We’re not letting you face this alone.”

I shake my head weakly, guilt still clawing at my chest, but Jocelyn doesn’t let me speak.

“Not a freaking word, Becca,” she says firmly. “We are not doing this. You are not spiraling, and you sure as hell aren’t taking the blame for this.”

I want to stop.

I really do.

But as I sit there shaking on the bathroom floor, the echo of Charles Kline’s smile burned into my mind, all I feel is the terrifying certainty that whatever’s coming next has already been set into motion.

And the worst part—

It’s all because of me.

❤️

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# Chapter 34

Shane

The ballroom glitters.

Crystal chandeliers scatter light across polished marble and champagne flutes, across pressed suits and sequined gowns. Everything is immaculate. Controlled. Designed to impress.

And I hate every second of it.

Amanda's hand is looped through my arm, her fingers resting possessively against my sleeve like a quiet claim. She hasn't left my side all night. Not during the speeches, not during the endless handshakes and introductions, not during the parade of donors eager to congratulate my mother on another wildly successful fundraiser for whatever charity she's chosen this time to bolster her standing in high society.

And she certainly hasn't let go as one fake smile after another turns toward us, congratulating us on our engagement.

"Engaged life suits you, Shane," someone says for the tenth, maybe the hundredth time tonight. At this point, I've lost count.

Amanda laughs softly, leaning closer. "Doesn't it? I feel so blessed."

I force a smile and nod, avoiding her eyes as she bats them at me adoringly.

"Thank you," I manage through clenched teeth.

On the outside, I play my part, saying the right things, doing exactly what's expected. On the inside, I'm wound so tight I feel like I might snap. One hollow conversation blurs into the next, the weight of being watched pressing in from every direction.

My mother floats through the room like she owns it, which, in many ways, she does. Power hums beneath her charm, beneath the polished speeches and curated gratitude that accompany a carefully selected guest list. This night is hers. No matter what cause is printed on the invitations, these people are here for the opportunity that comes from being seen at one of her events.

It's sickening.

And somehow, I never realized how much it bothered me until now.

Amanda's grip tightens when Connor appears. He slides in beside us with his usual ease, grin crooked, tux jacket unbuttoned like he's already bored with all of this.

"Shane," he says easily, clapping a heavy arm over my shoulder. "There you are. I've been looking everywhere for you."

Amanda stiffens.

Connor doesn't wait. He pats my back and grins. "Need to borrow you for a minute. Senator Matthews wants a word."

Amanda hesitates, her fingers holding even tighter.

Connor turns on the charm. "Come on, woman. Give the man a break. I promise to return him in one piece and unmolested. Scout's honor."

Her expression flickers—calculation, reluctance—before smoothing out. "Fine," she says. "Just don't be long. These people came a long way to see us."

Came to see us?

Us?

I shouldn't be surprised that's how she sees things.

I nod, pressing a brief kiss to her forehead before turning away, just as it's expected of me—the doting fiancé.

A title I'm long past resenting.

Which is probably why, with every step I take away from her—from the glittering ballroom, the false smiles, the suffocating expectations—the vice coiled tight around my chest slowly begins to loosen.

It isn't until the door shuts behind us, sealing off the music, the laughter, the performance, and we're standing alone in an empty conference room that I can finally breathe again.

I turn to him, half-smiling, ready with a comment about his impeccable timing, about owing him for coming to my rescue, but the look on his face stops me cold.

The charm is gone.

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and studies the screen like a man on a mission.

"You're on speaker," he says quietly. "Shane, it's Cedric and Nick. They asked me to come find you."

My stomach drops.

"What's going on?" I ask, the words sharper than I mean them to be.

Connor sets the phone down on the conference table between us and waits.

Cedric's voice fills the room.

"Shane." Something in his tone sets every nerve in my body on edge.

In the next breath, he tells me what happened. Not in graphic detail. Probably sparing me from the worst of it, so I don't bolt out of this room before he finishes. But what he does say is devastating. Terrifying. Inconceivable.

Charles Kline showed up at Becca's door tonight.

Close enough to her that anything could have happened.

Close enough that I could have lost her.

Threats were made.

Threats my strong girl stood up to. Threats she fought back against.

My chest tightens painfully as the weight of it lands, each word striking hard enough to hollow me out.

He was there. At her door. While she was alone without me. Because I was here. Stuck. Pretending. Playing my part beside Amanda.

I see it instantly. Becca standing there, holding herself together, refusing to let him see her fear while that bastard looked at her like she was nothing. Like she was insignificant. Like someone he could bend to his will.

My hands curl into fists at my sides.

I want to move. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to leave this building, this city, this ridiculous gala behind and get to her. To hold her. To touch her. To see for myself that she's still standing. But instead, I'm frozen in place, standing in a hotel conference room in a tailored tux, pulse roaring in my ears, my body locked down by restraint.

Cedric keeps talking. Focused. Efficient.

No one was harmed.

Everyone's okay.

He left soon afterward.

The girls are still with her, refusing to leave her side.

Becca is strong. She's going to be just fine.

But none of that is enough.

My jaw ticks as anger surges hot and fast, chased immediately by something colder. Fear. The kind that doesn't burn out. The kind that settles into your bones and leaves you rigid and locked down.

"You're sure she's safe?" I ask, even though I already know the answer won't be enough. It never will be. Not until I can get back to her. Not until I can see her with my own eyes.

"Yes," Cedric says. "For now. But this changes things."

Connor watches me closely, his posture deceptively relaxed. Given the circumstances—and how completely my world is imploding—it only feeds the fury simmering under my skin.

I draw in a breath, forcing my shoulders back. Forcing my face into something neutral. Something that hides how close I am to tearing this room apart.

"She can't stay there," I say. "The apartment isn't safe anymore. We need to move her."

Nick doesn't hesitate. "She's not going to agree to that."

"She doesn't get a say," I snap. "Not if it keeps her alive."

"That's not how this works," Nick fires back. "If you push her, she'll dig in. You know that."

Cedric steps in before I can respond. "Shane, listen to me. We're not dragging her somewhere against her will. That would break her trust in us. It would make her more vulnerable, not less."

"Then what's your solution?" I demand. "Because Charles Kline doesn't issue threats for fun. He warns once, and then he destroys. No hesitation. No regard for consequences. Do I need to remind you what happened to Miranda?"

Bringing her up like that is a low blow. I know it the second the words leave my mouth. But I'm too damn angry, too damn terrified of what's coming to regret it.

The silence that follows is sharp.

Nick exhales slowly. "None of us forgot what he did. Least of all me," he says quietly. "But Becca won't abandon her life. School. Work. The plans for her future. You force this on her, and mark my words, she's bound to walk away. From all of us."

"None of that matters," I snap. "Don't you see what's at stake? If he gets to her, that future she wants becomes irrelevant. The only thing that matters right now is getting her somewhere safe. Somewhere Charles can't touch her."

There's a beat of silence.

Then Cedric says, "Shane, she's covered for tonight. Go ahead and get back to the party. We'll regroup tomorrow to discuss next steps."

I rake a hand through my hair, the need to act clawing at my chest. "No. We deal with this now."

"I know my father," Nick says. "He's done for tonight. He won't make another move. Not yet."

"Not yet?" I repeat, my voice going flat. "That's not reassurance, Nick. That's a warning. You're telling me he's coming. Eventually." I brace my hands against the table, the wood biting into my palms. "And that while we wait for him to make his move, I'm supposed to go back out there and play nice for cameras? Pretend what we've feared hasn't already been set into motion?"

"Shane," Cedric says firmly. "I need you thinking right now. Not reacting."

"Thinking doesn't stop him," I say, low and controlled. "It doesn't make her safer. It just buys him time. And I refuse to sit on my hands while he decides when to finish what he started. We need to act. Now."

Connor straightens.

Not casually. Not lazily. The easy slouch disappears, replaced by something alert and precise.

"Action that strips her of control won't protect her either," he says, his voice calm but cutting.

I look at him sharply.

Really?

Now
 he decides to speak. Not as the rich playboy insulated by his father's money and influence, but like someone who's been paying attention all along. Like someone who actually understands what's at stake.

Fucking typical.

"She's not some possession you can stash away," he continues. "She's a person. And from what little I know, she's spent most of her life fighting to get free from other people's control. Now that she has—now that she's so close—are you sure you want to be the one who takes that from her?"

The words hit hard.

Because he's right.

And I hate that it doesn't ease the fear. Doesn't dull the danger Charles Kline poses to the woman I love. Doesn't offer a way out that doesn't cost something vital.

Worst of all, it leaves me here—knowing that no fortress I build will matter if she doesn't choose it.

And having no idea what the hell to do about it.

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Chapter 35

Shane

“The Matthews estate,” Connor says, like he’s offering a location on a map and not his family home. “It’s the safest place for her if she wants to stay in Ruby Creek.”

Nick and Cedric don’t react, but I can feel their attention sharpen through the phone.

My stomach twists.

Images rise uninvited. Cameras everywhere. Uniformed guards posted at iron gates. Live-in staff moving quietly through halls of polished marble. Expansive manicured grounds the likes of which most people have only seen in magazines. A world that looks nothing like the life Becca is accustomed to. Nothing like the life she’s fought to build for herself with calloused hands and stubborn pride.

Connor looks at me, and there’s something in his expression I’ve never seen before. Not irritation. Not challenge.

Awareness.

Like he understands exactly why I’m standing here, torn between instinct and doubt—between wanting her safe at any cost and knowing that safety like that might demand more from her than she’s willing to give.

“I know it sounds far-fetched,” he says evenly. “But hear me out. It’s secure. Heavily guarded by men Cedric knows and trusts. No one goes in or out without clearance from my father or me.”

Cedric doesn’t contradict him.

That alone should be reassuring.

For some reason, it isn’t.

Connor continues, tone stripped of his usual theatrics. “The perimeter is layered—cameras, sensors, overlapping patrol routes that rotate without pattern. If Kline so much as sets foot near the property, we’ll know before he reaches the gate. Long before he reaches her.” He scoffs lightly, one shoulder lifting. “Not that he’d try. The man wouldn’t dare cross my father.”

My jaw tightens.

As much as I hate to admit it, he’s right.

It’s a good plan.

And everyone in this town knows about the animosity between Charles Kline and Governor Richard Matthews—two men who would rather burn the town to the ground than give the other even an inch.

Cedric confirms it quietly. “Coverage is solid, Shane. She’d be safe there.”

Safe.

The word should bring relief.

Instead, my chest stays tight.

Because the estate isn’t just a location. It’s a world Becca has never belonged to. A world that has always excluded and looked down on people like her—people who had to scrape and fight for every inch of ground they stood on. A world she openly despises after everything Charles Kline did to her mother.

“She won’t want this,” I say. “She’ll never feel comfortable there.”

Connor’s mouth curves faintly, a silent acknowledgment that he knows exactly what I’m not saying.

“If the main house is too rich for her working-class taste, there’s the pool house. Separate entrance. Private.” He pauses, head tilting slightly. “And if even that doesn’t meet her standards, she can stay in the staff apartments on the east side of the estate. They’re fully furnished. Still secure. And quite quaint, from what I hear.”

The condescending smirk flickers back into place, subtle but unmistakable, and not for the first time tonight, I consider decking him.

I glare. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

A corner of his mouth lifts. “So I’ve been told.”

He shrugs it off, then shifts gears.

“If she wants, she could even work on the property. Claire could use the help. Estate operations, scheduling, vendor and supply management. Nothing glamorous. Just legitimate work that likely pays in a week what she makes in a month at the diner.”

His gaze sharpens.

“And it keeps her off Main Street. Out of the public. Fewer variables. Fewer people with access to hurt her.”

Nick exhales slowly. “She’d hate the idea of being managed.”

“She wouldn’t be,” Connor replies with casual certainty. “Not if you present it for what it is—an option. A job. A safe place to live. Security that protects her without taking away her choice. Her independence.” A brief pause. “And if she’s serious about Columbia, the extra pay wouldn’t hurt. That school isn’t exactly affordable. Especially for someone like her.”

At first, it lands like another condescending remark. But the unexpected softness in his eyes says otherwise.

When he says someone like her , he isn’t minimizing her.

He means someone who’s alone. Someone without a family writing checks behind the scenes. Someone building a future without a safety net beneath it.

That isn’t dismissal.

It’s respect.

The realization settles heavy in my chest because I don’t think I’ve ever seen this side of him before. This quiet acknowledgement of the resilience it takes to claw a path forward through obstacles that don’t exist in our world.

I straighten, forcing myself to do what Cedric said.

Breathe.

Take a second.

Think.

“And your dad?” I ask. “You really think Governor Matthews is going to open his doors to Becca? Just because? No questions asked?”

Connor doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll handle my father. Whether we tell him some version of the truth or explain she’s a constituent in our very own hometown who needs his help, he’ll go with whatever I say.”

A smirk curves his mouth, mischief flickering in his eyes.

“Especially if it’s to spite Charles. He’d jump at the chance to get under that sick bastard’s skin.”

On the line, Nick is quiet. So is Cedric. Because they both know Connor’s right. Governor Matthews has never passed up an opportunity to undermine Charles Kline—or what he likes to call Kline’s uncultured, questionable principles.

I study Connor carefully, watching for the familiar recklessness that usually comes with everything he does. That impulse to push boundaries. To test how much he can get away with.

It’s as much a part of him as his last name.

But this time, it isn’t there.

This isn’t him agreeing just to provoke his old man. It isn’t a choice made on a drunken whim fueled by a need to flex his inherited power.

No.

He’s thought this through.

Hope flickers low in my chest, which immediately complicates everything.

Because even if he’s right—even if his father agrees, even if the estate is secure, even if a legitimate, good-paying job is waiting for her—it still isn’t my decision to make.

Nick is the first to speak. “From a security standpoint, it’s the best option we’ve got.”

Cedric doesn’t hesitate. “Agreed.”

And to my surprise, I don’t argue.

The plan is solid. The logistics check out. The alliance with the Matthews makes strategic sense.

On paper, it’s airtight.

But Becca doesn’t live on paper.

“She’s going to see this as running,” I say quietly. “As giving in to Charles. Letting him scare her out of her own life.”

For the first time tonight, Nick doesn’t contradict me.

“He’s already destroyed so much,” I continue. “Her mom. Her childhood. Any sense of stability she might’ve had. She’ll see tonight as just another one of his attempts to dismantle her life. Him pushing her out of her apartment. Out of her job. Away from her friends.”

Connor watches me carefully but doesn’t interrupt.

“She’s spent her whole life rebuilding what he broke. Refusing to let it define her. Refusing to be controlled. Doing it all on her own.” I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion creeping in beneath the helplessness. “And now we’re talking about moving her onto Matthews’ property. Guarded by Montgomery security. All to protect her from a Kline.”

The irony hangs thick in the air.

The three most powerful families in this town closing ranks around her. Her fate tied—again—to a world she grew up despising.

My world.

A world that doesn’t deserve her.

If I were her, I’d question this plan too.

“She’ll resist it,” I admit. “Not because she doesn’t understand the danger. But because she won’t let that man dictate her choices.”

Through the phone, I hear Nick scrub a hand over his face. “I hate myself for even saying this, but what about Joss’s family? She cares about them. If staying in that apartment puts them at risk—”

He trails off, but the implication is clear.

And he isn’t wrong.

If Becca believes her presence endangers them, it might be enough to convince her to leave.

“I’m not comfortable using her friend’s family as leverage,” I say firmly.

Because that’s emotional blackmail.

And it would make us no better than that bastard.

Connor exhales sharply. “Do any of you ever listen?” He rolls his eyes, jaw ticking with impatience. “Just tell her the damn truth. All of it. The risk. The options. She’s a smart girl. Lay it all out, then let her decide for herself.”

Tell her the truth.

Such a simple concept.

But will it be enough?

And if it isn’t—if she looks me in the eye and says no—

Will I have the strength to step back…

And respect her choice?

❤️

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# Chapter 36

Becca

I sit curled up on the couch, one knee tucked beneath me, my fingers wrapped around a mug of tea that went cold twenty minutes ago. Jocelyn sits on my left. Felicia on my right. Neither of them is touching me, but they're close enough that I can feel their presence like a brace on either side of my spine. Their quiet, unspoken support helping to keep me upright.

No one's talking. After everything, I think we're all just stunned. Shaken. Still trying to process what happened—evidenced by the way our shoulders tighten at the sound of each passing car outside.

I hate it.

Hate that something as simple as the heater kicking on or a passing headlight sweeping across the blinds can make my pulse spike and my fingers tremble.

Just like my mom. 

The realization hits hard, awakening that stubborn part of me that refuses to cower to bullies.

No.

I won't let him do this to me. I won't let him steal one more second of my peace... not if I can help it.

I stare at the door across the room, glaring at it like it's an enemy I have to conquer.

It's just a freaking door. The paint is still chipped near the bottom, the original lock is still slightly crooked beneath the reinforced deadbolts Shane had Cedric install. It's the same exact door that has always felt safe.

Only now... 

I resent that since Victor's visit, it no longer does.

My phone buzzes in my hand, the sudden vibration making me jump harder than I care to acknowledge. Beside me, Felicia startles too, while Jocelyn mutters something under her breath.

I glance down.

Cedric:
 
"You have a visitor. It's safe to open the door."

My stomach drops.

Before I can process what that means, there's a knock. 

Not frantic. Not aggressive. Just three measured raps. 

Felicia's eyes widen. "Are you expecting someone?"

"No."

Jocelyn leans forward slightly toward my phone, her gaze alert even as she tries to look relaxed. "If Cedric texted, then it's fine. Want me to get it?"

I push to my feet before either of them can. 

Pride? 

Stubbornness? 

I don't know. Maybe I just need to prove to myself that I'm not afraid of my own front door.

"No. I got it," I say.

But Felicia rushes past me. 

"Like hell you will. Sit back down." She barks it over her shoulder. 

I guess it's her turn to play mother hen.

One hand braced against the door, she peers through the peephole.

There's a pause.

Then another.

And then—

"You have got to be kidding me." Something in her voice is off. Not frightened. Not bubbly or excitable like we're used to, but annoyed. Furious, actually.

I exchange a look with Jocelyn. Part confusion. Part disbelief.

Felicia unlocks the door and yanks it open, her movements rough and exaggerated, like she's preparing for war.

And in that instant, I understand why. 

Because standing on my front stoop, looking like he owns the place, is Connor Matthews. He leans one shoulder against the doorframe like it was put there specifically for his convenience in this exact moment.

He's in a dark tux tailored within an inch of its life. The crisp white shirt beneath it hangs open at the collar, the black bowtie undone and draped loosely around his neck in a way only a man like him could somehow pull off as stylish instead of sloppy. The patent leather oxfords on his feet are so unnaturally glossy they reflect even the dim light from the lone, cheap lamp in my apartment.

Those shoes alone probably cost more than all my monthly living expenses combined, which is irritating enough. Until I catch the lazy, self-assured smirk resting on his mouth. The kind that suggests he genuinely believes the world exists purely for his amusement.

Everything about him is a stark contradiction to how the three of us feel right now. While we're shaken, worried, looking a little worse for wear, he looks like a man who hasn't got a care in the world.

"Well, well, well," he drawls, his gaze sweeping over Felicia in a way that is far too deliberate to be accidental. "If it isn't my favorite little bird."

Felicia goes rigid beside the door, her spine straightening inch by inch like someone just tightened invisible strings along her back.

"Do. Not," she says slowly, dangerously. "Call me that."

Connor's smile widens, entirely unbothered. "Why not? It's affectionate."

"It's patronizing."

"And accurate. I mean, look at you. What are you—like five foot one?"

She sputters. Actually sputters. Which would be hilarious if she didn't look two seconds away from launching herself at him.

"I am not a bird."

He tilts his head, studying her with exaggerated consideration, like she's a particularly fascinating equation he's trying to solve. 

"High-strung. Vocal. Surprisingly territorial." A beat. "And tiny." He shrugs. "The shoe fits."

Beside me, Jocelyn makes a small choking sound, and I press my lips together to keep from laughing. Because the thing is... he's not entirely wrong about our vertically challenged friend.

And Felicia—normally sunshine and sugar and boundless joy—suddenly looks like she's genuinely seconds away from committing a felony.

"Why are you here?" she demands, stepping forward in a way that makes both Joss and me stare in open shock.

On one hand, it looks like she's squaring off to deck him.

On the other... 

It looks like she might fling herself into his arms.

It's wildly confusing. And, against my better judgment, a little amusing.

His smirk widens, which only seems to irritate her more.

Almost like he, too, is surprised by the strange tension crackling between them, he breaks their stare-down first. He clears his throat, shifts his stance, and lets his attention slide past her until it lands on me.

For just a fraction of a second—so quick I wonder if I imagined it—the arrogance dims. Softens. Turns into something that looks suspiciously like concern.

Then, just as quickly, it's gone.

Replaced by the same polished ease he walked in wearing.

"I was in the neighborhood," he says lightly, pushing off the frame and stepping inside as though he's been invited. "Thought I'd drop by and elevate your evening."

Felicia lets out a sharp, incredulous laugh. "Elevate—"

He takes another step, moving into her space. Close enough that she has to either move or let him collide with her.

She moves.

Like he's on fire and she's afraid to get burned.

He smirks.

"That's what I said. And you're welcome," he adds, as if we should all be grateful he's gracing us with his presence.

"You're insufferable," she shoots back.

"And yet," he replies smoothly, glancing around the apartment as he takes in the old, ratty couch, the narrow kitchen, the mismatched furniture, "you opened the door and let me inside."

There's something assessing in his expression as he surveys the space—not quite judgment, but not indifference either. Which somehow makes his sudden intrusion feel even more deliberate.

Clearly unimpressed, Jocelyn folds her arms across her chest. "You've made your grand entrance. Now, what do you want?"

Connor clasps his hands loosely behind his back, his posture shifting subtly from playful to poised.

"I," he says with the faintest hint of theatrical flourish, "am here to extend a very exclusive invitation."

Felicia groans audibly, which is odd. It's almost like she can read him—like she already knows exactly what he's about to say.

Connor lets the silence stretch after Felicia's groan, a mischievous smile spreading slowly across his face. 

He's clearly enjoying himself.

"A very exclusive invitation," he repeats, as if we somehow missed the prestige embedded in the phrase. "One that people of this town would absolutely kill for."

Jocelyn's expression doesn't change. "No thanks. We're good."

He waves her off like she's declined a refill of water instead of what he clearly considers a rare honor.

"A party at the Matthews' estate," he continues smoothly. "Tonight. The three of you, the guests of honor."

Felicia blinks. "Excuse me?"

"There's a limo parked outside," he says, gesturing vaguely toward the window like a game show host presenting the grand prize. "A luxurious ride to the most renowned estate in all of Ruby Creek. An architectural, one-of-a-kind mansion the likes of which I'm sure none of you have ever seen—and which I assure you is far more impressive than this charming... structure you call home."

His gaze sweeps the apartment again, slower this time, his brow furrowed like he's genuinely trying to understand how anyone could live here.

Heat crawls up my neck.

"The pool house is the perfect home away from home," he goes on. "A fantastical escape. Think of it as the vacation getaway you always wanted but never quite had the funds for. Indoor pool. Outdoor heated jacuzzi. Full-service indoor and outdoor bar. Nonalcoholic options available for the responsible among you." His eyes flick briefly to Jocelyn. 

"Fresh linens. Private security. Zero chance of uninvited guests. Gourmet food options tailored to any palate."

He pauses, letting it settle. 

A smile tugs at his lip. "You really don't want to miss this."

Felicia folds her arms tighter. "And why, exactly, would we want any of that?"

Connor looks genuinely confused.

"For the experience," he says. "So you can see what's on the other side of... this." 

He spreads his arms slightly, that faint look of distaste flickering back into his eyes.

"Come on, ladies. Let me show you everything you're missing. The grounds are immaculate this time of year. The east terrace overlooks half the valley—a sea of pines dusted with fresh snow, mountain peaks stretching as far as the eye can see."

A small smile touches his mouth.

"It's impressive. You'll thank me."

His gaze drifts back to Felicia. When he winks, her cheeks go crimson. 

Hard to say if she's blushing or furious. 

Either way, Joss and I bite our lips to keep from laughing. Felicia's reaction to this man is just so odd. Completely out of character for her.

"Tell you what. I'll even sweeten the deal," he adds. "Champagne. Music. A tour of the governor's private quarters. A momentary reprieve from the mundane." 

A small shrug. 

"As I said, I'm here to show you how the one percenters live."

The implication hangs thick in the air. That sense that his world is bigger. Better. That we're just disadvantaged, small-town girls secretly pining away for access.

My stomach tightens. 

But as much as I want to be angry—as much as I want to tell him to get lost—the truth is painfully obvious. 

He isn't trying to insult us. 

He genuinely believes he's offering us something extraordinary. Something we couldn't possibly want to pass up.

It's almost... sad.

Because based on this performance alone, it's clear there are people in his life who cling to him for proximity to the lifestyle, and not because they actually want to know him.

To my surprise, it's Felicia who reacts first. 

She lets out a loud, sharp laugh. 

"Let me get this straight, you pompous, entitled a-hole. You show up here uninvited, after midnight, to offer us a limo ride and a sleepover at your mansion?"

Connor's mouth curves completely unashamed. "When you phrase it like that, it sounds so pedestrian."

"It sounds insane."

"It sounds generous," he corrects smoothly.

Jocelyn shifts slightly closer to me, her brow furrowed. "In all the years we've known you, you've never bothered with us before. So why now? What's the catch?" 

Connor arches a brow. "Must there be one?"

"With you?" Felicia fires back. "Absolutely."

For the first time since he arrived, the indulgent amusement begins to thin.

His jaw tightens. "You wound me, little bird."

When her glare hardens instead of softening, his shoulders slump slightly, and he exhales through his nose.

"Fine," he says. "You got me. I'm here for Shane. He sent me."

❤️

 
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Chapter 37

Becca

The air in the apartment shifts.

Felicia’s arms lower slightly. Jocelyn’s shoulders stiffen. And something tightens deep in my chest—not relief exactly, but something dangerously close to it.

“He’s tied up at the gala,” Connor continues, his eyes fixed on me like he’s measuring how I’ll take the news. “With Nick in New York and Cedric coordinating from offsite, I was the only one who could step away without raising suspicion.”

“Okay. But why?” Jocelyn asks, her eyes narrowing. “Cedric said we’re fine here. That we’ll be safe.”

Connor exhales slowly, some of the polish draining from his posture. “It’s a precaution. We know how Kline works. And they’d all feel better if you didn’t stay here tonight.”

An uncomfortable silence settles over the room.

My thoughts start to spin, each one colliding with the next as I try to process what he’s saying. Staying here might not be safe… but going with Connor—a man I barely know—doesn’t exactly feel like a good idea either.

“I don’t understand.” I shake my head, glancing down at my phone.

If that’s the case, why hasn’t Shane called to tell me?

Or Cedric?

“Go ahead,” Connor says, almost bored, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

“What?”

He huffs out a breath, rolls his eyes, and pulls a phone from his pocket. A second later it’s ringing—and then Nick’s voice fills the room through the speaker.

“Con? You with her?”

“I’m here. Could you please tell the girl Shane sent me?”

“Becca? It’s okay,” Nick says gently. “He’s telling the truth.”

“But Cedric… he said—”

“I know,” Nick cuts in with a quiet exhale that sounds more tired than irritated. “But Shane is beside himself. To get him to stay put and not draw suspicion, he made Connor promise to come get you. At least for tonight, Shane would feel better if you went with him to the Matthews estate.”

“But—” I try again, shaking my head as my thoughts continue to spiral.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Nick rushes on. “It’s just one night. The girls can go with you. And Shane will be there as soon as the gala ends. You won’t have to wait until morning to see him.”

My stomach flips at the thought of seeing Shane again. Of feeling the steady warmth of his arms around me. Of letting him tell me everything is going to be okay—even if, somewhere deep down, I’ll know it probably isn’t.

Jocelyn studies my face like she’s trying to read the thoughts I’m not saying out loud.

Felicia’s gaze flicks toward me, then back to Connor—almost like she’s waiting for him to soften this somehow.

He notices.

After holding her gaze for a beat that feels strangely loaded, he finally turns back to me.

“Look,” he says, his voice lighter than his expression. “I don’t particularly care what you decide. But if something happens tonight that could’ve been prevented by you coming with me…”

His jaw tightens slightly.

“I don’t think that’s something Shane—or your friends—would easily get over.”

And there it is.

The guilt.

Suddenly the apartment feels different.

Not smaller. Not dangerous, exactly. Just… exposed. Like the walls that once felt sturdy and familiar have thinned to paper, and whatever waits beyond them is a little closer than it should be.

My gaze drifts around the space I fought for. The old couch Joss’s mom gave me the day I moved in. The thrift-store decorations I bought with my first paycheck. The chipped coffee table Aunt Rosie gave me. The narrow galley kitchen I taught myself to cook in because takeout on my limited budget simply wasn’t an option.

This is mine.

I built this.

Not with inheritance or connections or family estates passed down through generations, but with sweat equity. With exhausting waitressing shifts. With budgeting worksheets and a stubborn refusal to be swallowed whole by the barriers of who I am and where I came from.

And now they want me to leave it all behind?

They say it’s just for a night.

But what if it isn’t?

Everything in me bristles at the idea, because leaving feels too much like running. After spending so much of my childhood doing exactly that, I refuse to run anymore.

Especially from Charles Kline.

The way he moves people like chess pieces. The number of times my mother packed up our lives because staying felt unsafe. Because he made it unsafe.

If I go with Connor tonight…

Am I proving he still has that kind of power over my life?

Or—

Am I proving I’m smart enough not to pretend the danger doesn’t exist?

My thoughts spiral, pride tangling with logic until I can’t separate one from the other.

Neither answer feels entirely right.

And then I think of Shane.

The tension in his jaw as he hesitated before leaving. The way he looked at me like he was memorizing every detail of my face… just in case.

The last thing I want is him distracted. I don’t want to be the reason he makes a mistake.

But I also don’t want to be absorbed into his world.

Guarded golden gates. Pristine marble floors. Ornate archways stretching toward domed ceilings—the kind I’ve only ever seen in magazines.

Borrowed protection.

A gilded cage.

A world where I’ll never belong.

“Becca,” Jocelyn says softly.

I glance at her.

“It’s one night,” she adds, her voice steady. “And we’ll go with you.”

Felicia nods, her jaw still tight. “Your safety is what matters.”

My gaze shifts to Connor.

“Whatever you decide,” he says quietly now, the arrogance stripped clean away, “decide it because it’s what you want. Not because it’s what they—Shane, Nick, your friends—want. And not because you’re trying to prove something.”

My eyes lock on his, my lips parting slightly because that…

That, I didn’t expect.

For a second it feels like he sees straight through me. The fight. The fear. The stubborn refusal to bend. That defiant streak that’s carried me this far—whether it served me or not.

I look back at the door.

Then around the only place that’s ever truly felt like mine.

Connor’s voice slips into the quiet.

“So,” he asks, one brow lifting slightly, “what’ll it be, Becca?”

A pause.

“Stay here and make your stand.” His gaze sharpens just enough to feel deliberate. “Or come with me. Regroup. Decide what happens next, on your terms.”

❤️

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# Chapter 38

Shane

I don't remember falling asleep.

If I did, it couldn't have been for more than a few minutes at a time. Not enough to lose awareness. Not enough to let go. Because even now, with the early morning light spilling through the tall windows of the pool house—soft, golden—I'm still wide awake. Still alert.

Still... watching her.

Becca lies curled against me, half tucked into my side. One of her legs draped over mine. Her arm folded loosely across my chest, her face pressed just beneath my collarbone. Her hair spills across the pillow and over my shoulder, strands catching the light.

I don't move.

Not when my arm starts to go numb. Not when my shoulder aches from holding the same position for so long. 

Because shifting would mean disturbing her. 

And right now, making sure she feels safe and secure is the only thing that matters.

I swallow hard, my throat tightening. 

For a moment, all I can see is last night. 

The glare of the ballroom lights. The suffocating pressure. The expectations. Cameras flashing. My parents watching. Amanda glued to my side, smiling like everything was exactly as it should be. 

Like I wasn't hating every second of it. 

Like I wasn't already halfway out the door in my head.

I stayed as long as I could. Longer than I should have. Long enough to keep up appearances. 

But every minute that dragged by felt like needles clawing under my skin.

The moment I saw a chance to escape, I was done.

I don't even remember what I said to Amanda. Just that it was enough to get her to agree. 

I had her back at her place in record time, careful not to let it slip that I knew her father had just paid Becca a visit. Even with every instinct in me screaming to tear this whole thing apart. To make her and Charles Kline pay for forcing this engagement on me. For turning everything into a performance I can't escape. A performance that hurts the woman I love.

It took everything I had to hold it together.

Counting my breaths. Locking it down. Watching her step out of my car like none of it touched her—like she was completely unfazed by the damage her family leaves in their wake.

That same effortless entitlement on full display. A reminder of everything I hate about the world I was born into.

The second she was inside, I was gone.

My hand tightens against Becca's back without thinking, pulling her closer as the memory surges up again.

The drive out here—

Every red light felt like a personal attack. Every slow-moving car an obstacle I had to fight the urge to push out of the way.

I kept checking my phone. Over and over again. 

Nothing.

No messages. No updates. Not from Connor. Not from anyone. 

Just silence. 

It gave my mind plenty of time to fill in the rest.

Did Kline come back? 

Did Connor get to her in time?

Is something wrong? Is that why no one has called?

My chest tightens, breath going shallow as the memory shifts again— 

My arrival.

The pool house.

The door.

That split second before I pushed it open—everything in me going still, bracing for what I might find.

I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, cutting the thoughts off before they can finish.

She's here. She's okay. Everything's fine now.

I drag in a slow breath, grounding myself in the present. Remembering the moment I opened the door to the guest room, and there she was.

Sound asleep.

Curled up in the bed like exhaustion had finally taken over. Like whatever had been holding her together had finally given out the second she knew she was safe.

My chest had nearly caved in on itself. Relief so sharp it bordered on pain. 

I didn't turn on the lights. Didn't make a sound. Just crossed the room, quieter than I've ever moved in my life. Stripped off my clothes, my shoes—anything that might be too rough against her soft skin—and got into bed beside her. Sliding under the covers like my life depended on it.

Because it did.

Pulling her into my arms—it was the first time all night I could finally breathe.

I press my lips to the top of her head, my eyes closing briefly as I let myself feel it.

This. Her. Us.

She stirs against me. A small shift of her weight. A soft inhale that catches slightly before evening out again.

I go still. Every muscle locking in place, afraid the smallest movement might shatter the fragile peace wrapped around us.

But then her fingers curl faintly against me. Her brow pulls together, like she's trying to place something just out of reach. 

Slowly, her eyes open. 

For a second, there's nothing there but that soft, unfocused haze of someone waking somewhere unfamiliar. 

I catch the exact moment it all comes rushing back. 

Her gaze sharpens—locks onto mine.

And everything shifts.

"Shane..." My name leaves her like a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.

I don't think. Don't hesitate.

My hand slides up to her face, fingers brushing over her skin as I pull her in, closing the space between us and pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her lips.

When I pull back, her breath catches—a quiet, fragile sound that hits somewhere deep inside me.

"I'm here, pretty girl," I murmur, my voice low, rougher than I intend. "I'm right here."

Her hand comes up between us, fingers curling lightly into my shirt like she needs to anchor herself the same way I do.

"You didn't wake me," she whispers, something soft and hurt threading through her voice.

My chest tightens.

"You looked peaceful," I tell her gently. "After everything you went through... I didn't want to take that from you."

My thumb traces along her jaw, following the line of it like I need to reassure myself she's really here. That she's safe.

"You okay?" I ask.

Her gaze searches mine, like she's deciding how much to tell me.

"I think so," she says finally.

It's not a 
yes.
 But not a 
no
 either. 

An honest answer.

It eases some of the pressure in my chest.

"I'm really sorry I wasn't there," I start, the words coming before I can stop them. "The minute I heard, I wanted to—"

Her hand slides over mine, stopping me.

"Don't, Shane." Her voice is soft but firm. "You don't owe me an apology. Because of you, Cedric was there to walk me through it. Because of you, Connor came for me. Because of you, I have Nick in my life." Her fingers tighten slightly over mine. "You may not have known it, but you took care of me—even when you couldn't be there."

She swallows, her gaze steady on mine.

"I need you to know that. That I'm grateful. For you. For everything you do for me."

The words hit harder than they should. A rush of emotion burns through me, sharp and sudden. I swallow it down, forcing it back before it can show.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, Becca. Nothing. I hope you know that."

"I do." This time it's her who leans in, pressing her lips softly to mine. "I really, really do."

She exhales as she settles back against me, her head returning to my chest, her body easing like she's finally letting go of some of the weight she's been carrying.

I close my eyes briefly, breathing her in as my arm tightens around her. Holding her there. Keeping her close.

My hand moves lightly along her back—slow, absent strokes that have more to do with grounding myself than soothing her. Because for the first time since last night, I'm starting to feel it. 

Not the panic. Not the urgency. 

But something heavier. 

My gaze drifts toward the arched windows, where morning light spills across the room in soft, golden lines. It glints off polished stone floors, catches on carefully curated pieces—furniture, art, objects meant to signal status more than comfort.

The Matthews Estate.

Beautiful. Impressive.

But in all the ways that matter...

Empty.

A world away from the small efficiency apartment above the garage she's been fighting so hard to hold on to. The place she loves. A place that feels more real and welcoming than any part of this grand estate.

The problem is, that place isn't safe anymore.

Not like this.

Here, every square inch of the grounds is controlled. Locked down. Protected.

Here, she's guaranteed to be safe.

But she doesn't belong here.

The thought comes out of nowhere, completely uninvited, and my hand stills against her back.

It's not that she doesn't deserve the luxury and comfort. Or the opportunities a life like this has to offer. 

It's that someone like Becca... 

She deserves more. 

More than being asked to give up the life she loves just to survive in mine.

More than having her world reduced to whatever 
we
 decide is "safe", whether it's right for her or not.

More than being trapped in a gilded cage surrounded by the kind of people who've hurt her. Who've dismissed her.

My jaw tightens, teeth grinding painfully as I come to terms with the unfairness of it all. 

With the fact that's exactly what I'm about to ask her to do.

"Hey..." she murmurs softly, her voice still thick with sleep.

I glance down and realize too late that she's been watching me. 

"You okay?" Her tone is gentle but searching. 

I force my expression to ease, letting my thumb brush lightly along her arm.

"Yeah," I say evenly. "Just thinking." 

It's not a lie. Just not the whole truth.

Her gaze lingers on mine a beat too long, like she's weighing it. Then her eyes flick briefly to the window, to the room around us, before returning to me.

"This place is..." she trails off, like she's searching for the right words.

"A lot?" I offer.

Her lips twitch. "That's one way to put it."

A quiet breath leaves me, somewhere between a huff and a laugh, as my hand resumes its slow path along her body.

"You're not wrong," I admit. "It's... a little much."

Understatement of the century.

She shifts, propping herself up on her elbow to look down at me.

"This place... is it anything like where you live?"

I hesitate, cringing inwardly at the unexpected question. 

In all the time we've spent together, I've kept that part of my life... contained. Allowed her to form her own assumptions based on the version of my world everyone else sees. Beyond that, we've never truly discussed it. 

And it's awkward. 

Because, unlike most people, Becca isn't impressed by any of it anyway. Not the money. Not the material things that make up the illusion of success in high society. Which is why I don't answer the question directly.  Because after spending so much time in her world—living and revelling in its simplicity—I'm honestly embarrassed by the way mine looks in comparison.

"Yeah," I say instead. "Somewhat." I hold her gaze, setting it up so my words land carefully. "But don't let all this intimidate you. What matters is that it's safe. That's why I had Connor bring you here."

Her brows pull together slightly as she processes.

"It feels like a different world."

"Yeah," I say quietly. "It does."

For a second, it feels like we're standing on opposite sides of something that's just starting to split open. It's unsettling in a way I don't know how to fix.

Her eyes search mine again, sharp as ever. 

"What aren't you telling me?" 

The question is soft, but it lands like a direct hit to the center of my chest.

I go still.

Long enough for her to notice.

Long enough for me to feel it—that pull between wanting to tell her everything... but also wanting to hold on to this moment for just a little longer.

My hand lifts, brushing her hair back from her face, tucking it gently behind her ear.

There are a hundred ways I could answer that question. A hundred ways I could open the door to what comes next. 

I don't take any of them.

"Nothing you need to worry about right now, pretty girl," I tell her gently. Then I force that familiar smile—the one she usually can't resist. "Right now, the only thing that matters is that we're here. Together."

It's not dismissal. It's protection.

At least that's the lie I tell myself. 

That I'm just being careful with her, making sure I don't get this wrong. 

That this is me trying to ease her into things so she can make the best decision for herself. A decision I pray we both can live with.

Her expression doesn't fully soften, but I'm grateful she doesn't push. Instead, she lets out a slow breath and settles back against me.

But even as her body relaxes, I feel it.

The rift.

Small.

Subtle.

But there. 

And growing wider with every breath we take.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally 
FREE
.

Just hit 
"Follow"
 on 
REAM
 to get early access without needing to subscribe. 
You'll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Fridays!!!

Chapter 39

Shane

I close my eyes and try to ignore it, focusing instead on the feel of her body against mine, the softness of her skin, that sweet scent that calls to me even in my dreams.

Still, the rift doesn’t go away.

It just sits there. Quiet. Ominously present.

I feel it even in the way I hold her, her body still soft, still trusting. In the way her fingers loosen over my chest like she has no reason to doubt me. No reason to question what comes next.

And that’s the problem.

My chest tightens, something sharper than before cutting through the calm.

Because this, right here…

I can already feel it slipping away.

And the second we walk out of this room, everything is going to change.

My thoughts turn to what’s waiting for us downstairs, and my jaw clenches.

Her friends. Connor. Even Nick, who insisted on driving all the way down from New York to be here. Then there’s Cedric. And probably Mitch, head of security for the Matthews estate.

They’re all waiting to talk to us.

Or more specifically, to talk to her.

The thought of that conversation, of seeing the look on her face when she realizes what we’re asking of her… what I’m asking of her…

I feel sick just thinking about it.

I should tell her now. When it’s just us, so it doesn’t feel like an ambush.

It’s the right thing to do. The best thing for her.

I know it. I feel it.

And yet, when my hand flexes against her back, when I part my lips to force the words out…

I can’t.

My gaze drops to her face.

My thumb brushes along her arm, slow at first. Absent. Then more deliberate, using what I know about her body to rouse those goosebumps. That small, telltale shiver that signals she’s starting to feel it.

That pull.

That quiet, building need.

As expected, her breath catches softly, her body pressing closer on instinct, like she’s seeking more of my touch without even realizing it.

I shouldn’t do this.

I know I shouldn’t.

But the thought doesn’t stop my hand from moving. From sliding up her arm, over her shoulder, to her neck. My fingers thread into her hair as I tilt her face toward mine.

Her eyes open slowly.

Find me.

And for a second, everything in me goes quiet.

Because she’s looking at me the same way she always does.

Like she’s mine.

Like she trusts me.

My heart squeezes painfully, but I don’t give myself time to think.

My mouth finds hers in a kiss that starts soft but doesn’t stay that way. Not because I’m rushing this, but because I can’t kiss her any other way.

Because I need to feel her. To anchor myself in something real. In her. In us, exactly as we are right now, before the rest of the world has a chance to tarnish what we are.

Her fingers tighten in my shirt, her body responding instantly, like she feels it too. That shift beneath the surface. That inkling that something isn’t right.

But she doesn’t pull away.

If anything, she leans into it.

And that only makes it worse.

My hand slides to her jaw, holding her there as I deepen the kiss just enough to feel her breath hitch.

Just enough to prove to myself she’s still here.

Still mine.

When I pull back, it’s barely a fraction, my forehead resting against hers, my grip just a little tighter than it should be.

My breathing’s heavier now. Controlled, but not steady.

Her eyes search mine.

Too perceptive.

Too aware.

“Shane…” she murmurs, her voice softer now, but no longer sleepy. Her hand lifts, brushing along my jaw, slower this time. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

I should tell her.

This is the moment.

The one where I open that door and give her the truth.

But I can’t.

Instead, I hold her gaze and give her the only thing I know how to give her right now.

The truth that feels safer than the one I’m avoiding

“I need you, pretty girl,” I murmur, my voice rougher than I intend. “I need to feel you. To feel us.”

Her breath catches, her eyes softening as she studies my face.

I don’t need her to say it.

I feel her permission anyway.

In the way her body melts into mine. In the way her fingers brush along my jaw, gentle, steadying, like she can feel what’s happening inside me and is trying to hold me together.

“I’m here, Shane,” she whispers. “I’m right here.”

That’s all it takes.

My mouth finds hers again. Slower this time. Like I’m learning her all over again.

Because this matters.

Every second of it.

My hand slides from her jaw, down the line of her neck, tracing the path of her pulse as it flutters beneath my fingertips. I feel the shift in her breathing, the subtle way her body responds before she’s even aware of it, and something in my chest pulls tighter.

So I pay attention.

To everything.

The soft sound she makes when I deepen the kiss as I climb over her.

The quiet whimper that slips past her lips when I pull away just long enough to drag my shirt over my head.

The way her back arches, seeking my touch without uttering a single word.

Kneeling between her legs, I still.

I can’t help it.

She’s lying beneath me, cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling in short, uneven breaths. The soft fabric of her camisole does nothing to hide the way her body reacts, the tight peaks pressing faintly against it.

God.

She’s everything.

“You’re so beautiful, Becca,” I murmur, the words slipping free like a breath I can’t hold back.

Her breath hitches when my fingers find the hem of her camisole, and every reason I had to slow down stops mattering.

I draw it over her head, and my mouth finds her throat, her collarbone, the soft curve of her breast, drawing a pert nipple between my lips before she’s even caught her breath. She arches into me with a soft gasp, her fingers sliding into my hair, gripping hard, and that sound, that small, helpless sound, unravels what little restraint I had left.

My hands move like they’re trying to cover every inch of her at once. Her waist. Her hips. The warm skin of her inner thigh as I push her underwear down and off and finally, finally touch her where she’s already warm and wanting.

“Shane—” My name breaks on a breath.

“I know,” I murmur against her throat. “I’ve got you, pretty girl. I’ve got you.”

I stroke her slowly, deliberately, watching her face as her lips part and her hips roll against my hand. God, she’s beautiful like this, her whole body responding to me like I’m the only thing she’s ever wanted. I press my fingers deeper, and she moans, low and unguarded, her back lifting off the mattress.

I could stay here all morning just taking her apart.

But I need more.

I need to feel her around me. Need to bury myself so deep inside her there’s no room left for anything but us.

I reach for a condom, deal with it quickly, and then I’m back over her, settling between her thighs, pressing against her entrance. When she wraps her legs around me and pulls me closer, the heat of her nearly undoes me before we’ve even started.

“Please,” she breathes.

I push inside her slowly, all the way, inch by inch, my jaw tight with the effort of not losing myself completely in that first long moment.

Her breath leaves her in a shaking exhale, her fingers digging into my back.

“Look at me, Becca.”

Her eyes find mine.

And I begin to move.

Deep, deliberate strokes, watching every flicker of expression that crosses her face. Finding the rhythm that makes her gasp, that makes her hips rise to meet mine, that pulls those small, broken sounds from her lips that I want to swallow whole.

I adjust to every reaction. Chase every catch of breath. Give her more of what makes her eyes go hazy.

Because if I can’t give her everything she deserves, if what waits downstairs strips away what little I have to offer her, then I will give her this. Every last piece of me that still knows how to be good to her.

I drop my forehead to hers, feeling her breath warm against my face.

She’s moving with me now, her hips rising to meet mine, her breath coming faster.

“Don’t stop,” she breathes. Her nails rake down my back. “Shane… don’t stop…”

I have no intention of stopping.

Never. For the rest of my life, she is all I want. All I have ever wanted.

My mouth finds hers, and the kiss turns urgent, almost rough, my hips driving harder as the desperation I’ve been trying to hold back finally breaks through the surface. She takes all of it, meets every thrust, arches into every stroke, her whole body flush against mine, her soft sounds swallowed between our mouths.

My hand slides between us, stroking that sensitive bundle of nerves at her center just the way I know she likes, and she tears her mouth from mine with a sharp cry.

“Oh God—” Her head falls back. Her thighs tighten around me.

Fuck, Shane.

You can’t lose this. You can’t lose her.

The thought roars through me at the worst possible moment, when she’s trembling, when she’s saying my name like a prayer, when she clenches tight around me and her whole body shudders.

Something in my chest cracks open.

Because even now, even buried inside her, even with her completely undone beneath me, that voice won’t go quiet.

If you really loved her, you wouldn’t ask this of her.

You wouldn’t even consider it.

I push the thought down and pull her closer, driving in deeper, feeling her come apart around me again, the hard shudder, the breathless cry, the way she grips me like she’s trying to hold on through a storm.

I can’t stop.

I can’t hold back any longer.

I follow right behind her, her name tearing from my lips on a rough exhale as pleasure crashes through me, blinding and relentless. My grip on her hips tightens past the point of gentle.

I don’t let go.

I hold us both through all of it.

Every twitch. Every shudder.

My breathing is a wreck. Every nerve ending in my body still lit up like a live wire from the feel of her. The feel of us.

But underneath it all, that voice is still there. Still chastising. Relentless.

The man who raised you would be proud.

The very man you’re trying to protect her from would recognize what you’re about to do. And he’d approve.

Because doing whatever it takes to keep her where I want her is a page taken straight from Charles Kline’s playbook. A playbook written by the powerful to manipulate, to control those they deem beneath them. To take what they want, even from the people who trust them most.

The thought hits me like a bucket of ice water.

I love her.

Truly. Deeply. In a way I’ve never loved anything.

But what started as something selfless, something pure, has quietly turned into something darker. Something I’m trying my damndest to justify, even as I know it’s wrong.

Because if I truly loved her without condition, the answer would be simple.

Let her go.

Keep her safe by removing myself from her world entirely.

But I can’t.

I won’t.

Because I can no longer see a future without her. Can no longer see a version of the man I want to be without this woman by my side.

And so here I am, holding her so tight my knuckles might as well be white, trying to convince myself this is love.

And not possession dressed up as protection.

I take a slow breath and roll to my side, pulling her against me.

Her cheek rests on my chest, one leg tangled with mine, her fingers tracing idle patterns across my skin like we have all the time in the world.

She feels soft. Settled. Safe.

While I feel like I’m standing on the edge of a cliff, about to make a choice I can’t take back.

“Hey.” Her voice is quiet. Warm. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?”

“Holding me like you’re trying to keep me from floating away.” I feel the smile on her lips as she presses a kiss to my chest.

My jaw tightens.

If she only knew.

I loosen my hold, press my lips to the crown of her head, and say nothing.

She lifts her head after a moment, resting her chin on my chest to look at me. Her expression is open. Gentle. A little too perceptive for my comfort.

“Shane.” Just my name. But she says it the way she always does when she wants me to stop disappearing inside my own head and come back to her.

I look at her.

God, do I look at her, the flush still in her cheeks, her hair loose around her shoulders, her eyes searching mine with so much quiet trust it makes my chest ache.

“We need to talk,” I say finally. “About yesterday. About what comes next.”

“I know,” she says softly.

The ease goes out of her face the moment I say it. What’s left behind is something I recognize, something Kline put there long before I ever knew her name. Fear worn so long it’s learned to look like calm.

It makes me want to burn his world to the ground.

I brush her hair back, let my hand rest against her cheek, and she leans into it the way she always does. Easy. Instinctive. Like I’m something safe.

“Downstairs,” I murmur. “When you’re ready.”

She studies me a moment longer. Then she nods and tucks herself back against my chest.

Her hand resumes its slow path over my heart, and I close my eyes, memorizing the warmth of her. The weight of her. The soothing rhythm of her breathing when she feels safe.

She’s still mine.

At least for this moment, we’re still us.

Shane and Becca.

Perseus the warrior and his princess Andromeda.

For just a few more minutes, I get to lie here and pretend I’m not capable of doing just about anything to keep her.

And then I’m going to walk her downstairs and pretend the choices I’m about to make aren’t reflective of the man I was raised to become.

Ruthless.

Calculating.

A Montgomery.

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE .

Just hit “Follow” on REAM to get early access without needing to subscribe. You’ll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Tuesdays & Thursdays!!!

# Chapter 40

Shane

The second we step into the sitting room, I feel the shift.

Like walking straight from the warmth of summer into the dead cold of winter.

Becca is still tucked close to my side, her fingers intertwined with mine as we cross the threshold, but the softness we had upstairs—the quiet illusion that for a few more minutes it was just us—dies instantly.

Everyone is here.

Nick stands near the windows, arms crossed, his expression unreadable in that way that usually means he's thinking too much and liking none of it. Cedric leans against the far wall, calm and still, but I know him well enough to catch the tension buried in the set of his shoulders. Connor is at the bar pouring himself a coffee like this is just another ordinary morning, not one where we're moments away from everything in my world changing. Possibly for the worse.

Jocelyn and Felicia sit together on the couch, both of them looking up the second we walk in. It's Felicia who moves first, crossing the room and pulling Becca from my side into a tight hug before taking her hand and guiding her back toward the couch to sit between them.

That she's been pulled away from me should bother me.

It doesn't.

If anything, maybe it's better this way. Better that she not be too close while I prepare myself for what I may have to do.

I watch, oddly relieved, as the girls smile and murmur quietly among themselves. It tells me that Becca, at least for right now, isn't feeling the tension wrapped so tightly around my chest I can hardly breathe through it.

As for the rest of us, no one says anything. We trade brief looks before glancing away again, like we're all silently trying to decide who gets to be the one to start the conversation none of us wants to have.

Not surprisingly, it's Connor who finally breaks.

He sets his coffee down with a quiet finality that immediately commands the room's attention.

"Well," he says smoothly, "nothing says good morning quite like collective dread."

Jocelyn snorts softly while Felicia shoots him a look.

"Con," Nick warns.

At the sound of his voice, Becca's eyes snap toward him, her brow furrowing as she fully registers he's here and not back at Columbia, where he's supposed to be.

"What?" Connor lifts a shoulder. "I'm trying to get things moving while keeping it light. Apparently I'm the only one committed to getting us past the awkward silence and into the reason we're all gathered here."

Under any other circumstances, Becca would roll her eyes. Maybe even smile. Now she just looks around the room. And I see the exact moment something shifts inside her.

Her shoulders tense. Faint lines appear along her forehead, worry settling into her expression in a way that feels painfully familiar. Her fingers slip from Felicia's, her hands clasping tightly together in her lap.

"What is this? Why 
is
 everyone here?"

Her voice is calm, but I know her well enough to hear what's underneath it.

That old fear.

Quiet. Controlled.

The kind Charles built into her long before I ever had the chance to love her.

Something sharp twists deep in my chest.

I should say it. I should be the one to do this. But for one useless second, I just stand there looking at her, not knowing how to say the words that will upend her entire life.

Thankfully, Nick moves first.

Pushing off the window, he steps forward and lowers himself into one of the high-back chairs across from her.

"We're here to talk about what happened last night," he says carefully. "And to figure out a plan to keep you safe going forward."

Becca folds her arms across her chest, and somehow that hits harder than if she'd panicked.

"Okay... but what's with all this?" She gestures around the room, confusion threading through her voice. "This whole—" she searches for the word, "—cloak-and-dagger setup. You leaving school in New York just to be here?" Her gaze settles on Nick. "None of this feels very reassuring."

No one argues.

Because she's right.

And standing there watching it unfold, I can already feel the distance forming between us, even before we've said the worst of it out loud.

Something cold settles low in my chest.

It hasn't even happened yet... and I already miss her.

Miss us. 

The way we were ten minutes ago upstairs, when she was tangled in my arms, relaxed and looking at me like we had all the time in the world.

Even now, with her sitting less than twenty feet away, it feels like she's slipping further and further out of reach.

Connor exhales sharply, looking irritated with how slowly we're handling this. Then he straightens, the polish and confidence bred into him sliding back into place like armor.

"Stop handling her like she's some fragile flower," he says. "She can handle it. So stop stalling and get on with it."

The comment is directed at me.

And I feel it.

Because he's right.

But I still can't move. Can't speak. I feel frozen there beneath the weight of what this conversation is about to become. 

When I glance toward Cedric, he seems to understand immediately.

He gives a slight nod before stepping forward and taking the other high-back chair across from Becca.

"After careful consideration, we've identified a location that gives us the highest level of control over your safety," Cedric says evenly. "The one place Charles Kline can't reach."

Becca's gaze flicks toward Cedric... then back to me.

I see the subtle tightening in her posture with every word.

"The Matthews estate," Connor cuts in, a bright, almost performative smile settling across his face. "Fully secured. Fully staffed. Private, with complete surveillance. No one gets in or out without clearance, and the security detail is vetted. We only work with people we trust."

I don't miss the shift in her expression.

Not fear.

Something sharper than that.

Connor notices too, but in that arrogant way of his, he ignores it completely and keeps going.

"This is it. Your new home. The pool house. Fully furnished with only the finest. Private entrance. Full-service staff support—housekeeping, chef, anything you need." He gestures lightly around the room. "Everything a woman in your position could possibly want."

She gives him absolutely nothing.

No reaction. No interest. Nothing.

Connor falters for the first time since this conversation started.

Just for a second.

Then pivots.

"If you'd prefer an upgrade, we could instead put you in one of the luxurious suites in the Main House." Connor's smile sharpens slightly, slipping back into effortless charm. "You'd have full access to me, not to mention the occasional breakfast with Governor Matthews whenever he's in town."

He pauses, clearly expecting some kind of reaction as he searches her face.

He gets nothing.

His brow furrows.

"And if that's not to your liking, there are also the staff residences on the east side. Smaller. More..." He hesitates delicately. "Quaint. Still secure."

Becca just sits there staring at him, her eyes narrowing more with every word out of his mouth.

For the first time since this conversation started, Connor looks uncertain. Like he genuinely doesn't understand why this isn't landing the way he expected it to.

He glances at me, probably looking for help.

I have nothing to give him.

Thankfully, Nick steps in before the silence stretches any further.

"There's also a job opportunity," he says, pulling Becca's attention toward him. "Estate operations. It pays well—a lot more than what you're making now at the diner. It would help with tuition, housing... everything you'll need when you go to Columbia in six months."

Becca lets out a quiet breath, but there's no relief in it.

"And my life?" she asks softly.

The question lands in the center of my chest like a boulder.

Connor doesn't hesitate.

"You'd still have autonomy. Control of your own schedule. You'd continue school—Cedric's team would handle security there. But outside of that, you'd be here. On the estate. Where it's safe."

He shifts, looking more at ease now that he's back on familiar ground.

"And you'd be gaining real-world experience while working alongside our Estate Manager. Scheduling. Vendor and employee management. Even contracts, if you want exposure to the legal side of things." He lifts a shoulder casually. "It's a solid opportunity."

"And it keeps you off Kline's radar," Cedric adds evenly. "It removes predictable patterns—your apartment, the diner. Places he can anticipate and where we have less control."

"All we'd really need to manage is transportation to and from school," Connor says easily. "Which is already covered. You can ride in with me in the limo. No reason my security detail can't handle us both."

There it is.

All laid out in front of her.

The gilded cage.

Polished. Justified. Wrapped neatly in opportunity and security until it almost sounds reasonable.

A prison disguised as freedom.

The weight of it settles over the room, thick and suffocating.

Becca's arms tighten more firmly across her chest.

"So your solution," she says slowly, "is to move me out of my home... away from my job... and put me on someone else's property where I'm watched twenty-four seven."

Connor's jaw ticks, but he keeps his tone carefully even.

"Our solution is to give you an option that keeps you safe while helping you reach your goals. Columbia isn't cheap, Becca. This opportunity gets you there."

"Opportunity?" she repeats softly.

Her voice doesn't rise.

If anything, it drops lower.

"That's not what this sounds like." She shakes her head once. "It sounds like me giving up. My freedom. My life. My choice." Her gaze sharpens. "It feels like I'm the one being punished for what that man has done."

Silence follows immediately after.

Heavy. Uncomfortable.

Because none of us can tell her she's wrong.

She looks at each of us in turn.

But when her gaze lands on me, it stays.

Steady.

Searching.

"Are you asking me to run?" she asks quietly. "To hide?"

And like a coward, I can't answer.

She shakes her head slowly, disbelief and hurt flickering across her face in ways I don't think she even realizes.

"I've spent years refusing to let that man dictate anything about me," she says. "Where I live. Where I work. Who I am." Her chin lifts slightly, stubborn and proud in a way that makes something ache deep in my chest. "And now you want me to hand all of that over again... because of him?"

Connor steps out from behind the bar, his tone sharpening just enough to push back.

"No. We're asking you to choose 
yourself.
 To take the safer path—for now. And while you do, you build something. You earn what you need to get out of this town. To go to your dream school."

Becca's expression hardens immediately.

"By giving up everything that is me?" she asks. "Taking the easy way out? Walking away from everything I've worked so hard for?"

Nick shifts slightly in his chair, but he still doesn't speak.

I can see it on him, though.

The shame.

The guilt.

The anger at his father for everything he's stolen from her before she ever even had the chance to fight for herself.

As for me...

I just stand there listening, feeling every word like it's carving straight through my chest.

This—

This is exactly how I knew this would go.

And the worst part?

This is the moment I've been dreading from the start.

The moment that strips away every excuse I've been hiding behind and forces me to confront the truth of who I am... what I'm capable of.

I feel it then.

Cold and slow, like something dark slithering beneath my skin.

My blood.

The ruthless, merciless parts of my DNA.

The parts that make me a Montgomery.

And suddenly the question I've spent all morning trying to outrun doesn't feel avoidable anymore.

Am I really capable of crossing that line? 

The answer settles heavily in my chest.

Absolute.

Unavoidable.

Yes
.

And though I hate myself for it... I know it's what I have to do.

❤️

 
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Chapter 41

Shane

“No.”

The word lands softly, but there’s nothing uncertain about it.

Becca doesn’t raise her voice. She doesn’t hesitate. She just sits there, shoulders squared, arms crossed tightly over her chest, and shakes her head.

“I’m not doing that.”

The room goes quiet.

Not the careful kind from before. Not the awkward silence we were all trying to move past.

This is different.

I feel it immediately, that fragile, narrowing window beginning to close.

This is it.

The moment where I either do the right thing—step back and let this be her choice—or I give in to my baser instincts. To my fear. My selfishness. The need to control the outcome before Charles takes it out of my hands.

My chest tightens, urgency rising fast, cutting straight through the part of me that knows better. The part that remembers every promise I made. To her. To myself. Every line I swore I would never cross, especially with her.

Like I’m searching for justification, I let myself imagine it.

Her going back to that apartment. Returning to work at the diner. Slipping back into her routine like nothing has changed.

All while Charles is never far. Always watching. Waiting for his chance to strike. Looking for the opening he needs, even if it means going through the people she loves.

Aunt Rosie.

Felicia.

Jocelyn… her mom… her little brother and sister.

Becca’s mother.

All of them vulnerable. All of them potential leverage he would shamelessly use against her.

And that realization right there is exactly what I needed.

“Pretty girl,” I say, my voice carefully controlled.

She looks at me, and for a second, I almost stop. Because she’s looking at me the same way she always does.

Like I’m safe.

Like I would never be the one to hurt her.

The trust shining in her eyes hits me hard enough to steal the air from my lungs, my hand dragging across my chest like I can somehow ease the pressure building there.

I hesitate for a heartbeat.

But then I do it anyway.

“If you go back,” I say, forcing the words out before I can rethink them, “if you keep living your life like last night didn’t happen, it’s not just you you’re putting at risk.”

The shift is immediate.

I see it in her eyes—that flicker, that tightening—and I know I should stop.

Still, I don’t.

“Jocelyn’s family,” I continue, steadier now because I’ve already committed. “Felicia. Aunt Rosie. Anyone connected to you becomes a target if Kline decides he wants leverage over you.”

Jocelyn’s eyes go wide.

Felicia lets out a soft, startled breath.

Nick, Connor, and Cedric, on the other hand, don’t move. Not even to breathe.

Still, something in the room changes.

The temperature drops. The air grows heavier, charged with a tension that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with them.

Connor.

Nick.

Cedric.

Because they know exactly what I just did.

Becca doesn’t look at any of them. Her gaze stays locked on me, like she’s trying to understand something that doesn’t quite make sense yet.

And then I watch it happen.

The guilt.

The realization, not of what I’ve done, but that she doesn’t have a choice. That she never really did.

Because she would never, ever put the people she loves at risk.

“How is this happening again?” she murmurs, the words slipping free like she doesn’t even realize she’s said them out loud. “How does he always do this?”

The pain in her voice hits me like a fist straight to the chest.

I move before I can think better of it, crossing the room and lowering myself onto the coffee table in front of her. I take her arms gently, easing them away from her chest so I can hold her hands.

“I’m sorry, pretty girl.” I search her eyes, needing her to see how much I mean it.

Because I do.

With everything in me, I wish it didn’t have to be this way.

“We’ve seen what he’s capable of,” I continue, quieter now. “I’m not willing to risk it. Not with you. Not with the people you care about.”

My thumb brushes slowly over her knuckles.

“Right now, protecting you, protecting them, that’s the priority. Everything else… we’ll figure it out as we go.”

I lift her hands and press a soft kiss against her skin before meeting her eyes again.

“It won’t be forever,” I murmur. “Just until we find a way to neutralize him.”

Across the room, Connor shifts, the ease gone completely now, something colder settling into its place.

“Hey, Montgomery,” he says, his voice carefully controlled. “Can I speak to you for a second? Privately.”

I don’t look away from Becca.

“In a minute, Con.” My tone stays even. “Like you said, we need to stop stalling. This decision needs to be made now.”

I already know what he wants to say anyway, and I don’t want to hear it.

Nothing he or anyone else says is going to change what needs to happen.

Behind me, Nick pushes to his feet, abrupt and restless, pacing once before dragging a hand through his hair. When he turns back toward me, the look in his eyes is one I’ve seen before.

Just never directed at me.

Even with the anger rolling off him, there’s no outburst. No confrontation. Just a quiet, simmering disappointment that hits harder than anything he could say.

Cedric doesn’t speak, but the silence around him deepens, heavy with something that feels a lot like judgment.

I feel all of it. I do.

But I force it aside.

I can’t think about them. About what this looks like. What they see when they look at me now.

I can’t think about the guilt turning sour in my gut.

Not now.

Not when Becca’s safety is the only thing that matters.

For a long moment, no one says anything.

Becca just sits there, her gaze fixed on our hands as I hold hers, like she’s trying to come to terms with what she has to do… and what it’s going to cost her.

I don’t rush her.

At this point, it feels like I’ve lost the right.

So I stay quiet.

Because I already know that whatever she says next, it won’t be for her. Or for me.

It’ll be for them.

For the people she can’t risk.

The people she loves.

Her fingers tighten slightly against mine before loosening again, like she’s steadying herself.

When she finally looks at me, her expression is resigned.

“Okay,” she says quietly. “I’ll do it.”

Jocelyn exhales sharply beside her, relief flooding her face as she immediately leans in and wraps an arm around Becca’s shoulders.

“Hey, it’s okay,” she murmurs. “We’ll come see you all the time. You’re not going to be stuck out here alone. Nothing really has to change, okay?”

Felicia nods quickly, hooking her arm through Becca’s.

“Exactly. We’ll rotate. Take turns if we have to.”

They both laugh softly, trying to lighten the mood, but it doesn’t seem to work.

Becca tries, though.

She gives them a small smile. Forced. Faint. One that never quite reaches her eyes.

Across the room, Nick turns away, dragging a hand down his face before pacing off and leaving without another word.

Connor lets out a quiet breath, tipping his head back slightly before muttering, “Great. Glad that’s settled.”

He shakes his head and reaches for a glass, setting it down harder than necessary before grabbing the bottle of bourbon. He pours generously and downs it in one swallow.

He’s pissed.

And I get it.

So is Cedric. I see it in the way his gaze flicks between Connor and the girls before settling back on Becca, clearly avoiding looking at me.

I do my best to tune it all out.

Their anger. Their disappointment. The tension threading through the room.

Instead, I focus on Becca.

On the way she’s sitting there, shoulders slumped slightly now, like something inside her has quietly given way.

She looks defeated.

Like she’s given up.

And suddenly, I can’t take it.

I move, sliding my hands from hers to her arms before drawing her gently toward me and pulling her into my lap.

She comes without resistance.

But it’s different.

She doesn’t relax. Doesn’t sink into me the way she normally does.

I pull her closer against my chest, pressing a kiss to the side of her head as I breathe her in, like I can somehow hold us together. Like by doing so, I can ensure we’re still intact.

Still us.

“Hey,” I murmur softly against her hair.

She doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t move closer.

Doesn’t melt into me.

She just stays where she is. Held, but not reaching back.

Not physically.

Not emotionally.

Like she’s lost somewhere deep inside her own thoughts, still trying to process how all of this came to pass.

And even with her in my arms, with her body tucked tightly against mine, she feels farther away than she ever has before.

The realization settles slowly, heavy and unavoidable.

I got what I wanted.

She’s safe.

She’s staying.

But sitting here holding her like this, I can’t shake the feeling that I didn’t win anything at all.

That if I’m not careful…

This—

This might have been the first step toward losing her.

❤️

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# Chapter 42

Shane

By the time I carry the last box into her new apartment, the sun has already started to dip behind the trees, painting everything inside a muted shade of gold.

The box in my arms isn't heavy, but still, my grip tightens around it as I step inside, letting the door swing shut quietly behind me.

For a second, I just stand there, looking around.

The apartment is smaller than what most people would expect from an estate like this. Simple. Functional.

The private entrance stairs open into a compact kitchen overlooking a sunken living room, with a small dining area tucked off to the side. The furniture and décor feel somewhat dated, but everything is spotless and well maintained.

Beyond the open living space, a short hallway leads to a full bathroom and two furnished bedrooms.

The place is a far cry from the lavishness of the pool house and even more so from the ostentatiousness of the main house. And yet, despite its modesty, it still feels worlds away from Becca's tiny garage apartment.

Because as cramped and drafty as that place was—and in Connor's opinion, borderline uninhabitable—it had the one thing this apartment never will.

It was hers.

Every inch of it. 

Every worn, mismatched piece of furniture earned through double shifts at the diner and pure stubborn determination.

"Is that the last of it?" Felicia asks brightly from the kitchen counter, where she's busy putting away a set of clean dishes.

My gaze shifts instinctively to Becca.

She's kneeling beside an open box, pulling out stacks of books, magazines, and framed photographs while Jocelyn sits nearby on the couch, folding clothes into neat piles across the coffee table.

"Yeah," I answer quietly. "That's the last box."

For a moment, nobody says anything.

Then Felicia claps her hands together once and forces a smile that feels just a little too loud for the room.

"See? You're officially moved in. Totally painless."

It hasn't been painless. Not even close.

We all know it.

But I don't think any of us have the heart to say that out loud. At least not in front of Becca.

The second I step down into the living room, she rises from the floor with the stack of books gathered tightly against her chest and moves away from me toward the small dining table.

It's subtle, but I still feel it instantly.

Like putting space between us is something she needs right now, even if she doesn't fully realize she's doing it.

She immediately starts reorganizing the books again in some order known only to her, her shoulders tense beneath one of my hoodies, the sleeves pulled down over her hands despite the warmth inside the apartment.

She still hasn't looked at me.

"Okay, well," Jocelyn says, pushing to her feet and brushing off her jeans, "we should probably head out. It's getting late. I'll go put these in your dresser, then we'll get out of your hair."

Felicia groans dramatically. "Don't remind me. I still have that chem assignment to finish."

That finally earns the smallest reaction from Becca.

Not quite a smile. But close.

"I told you," she murmurs softly, "you should've finished it Friday instead of coming over to spend the weekend with me."

"I have no regrets," Felicia says immediately. "I work best under pressure anyway. Something about staring at an incomplete assignment in full panic mode always unlocks my hidden genius."

Jocelyn snorts as she reenters the room and grabs her bag from the loveseat.

On any other day, their exchange would feel normal.

Today, though, there's something strained lingering beneath it. Like we're all trying a little too hard to pretend this arrangement hasn't changed everything.

Felicia moves first, crossing the room to wrap her arms tightly around Becca.

"Text us if you need anything. Literally anything," she says firmly. "I mean it."

"I will."

"And we'll see you at school tomorrow."

"Tomorrow," Jocelyn echoes gently as she steps in to hug her too.

Becca hugs them back, but even from across the room, I can feel the heaviness settled inside her.

"We'll text you later so you know we made it home," Felicia says softly.

"Alright."

Then the two of them finally head for the door.

The soft click when it shuts behind them echoes through the apartment, and the silence that follows catches me completely off guard.

It isn't angry. Or hostile.

It's just... different.

Unfamiliar.

With the girls gone, Becca immediately drifts back toward the dining table, where she starts sorting through another stack of books, rearranging them with restless precision.

I watch her work through the stack once. Only to then see her start over and do it again.

Something tightens painfully in my chest.

Because I recognize this version of her.

The nervous girl who, in moments of uncertainty or stress, gives herself over to the restless energy vibrating beneath her skin. The one who uses movement like armor. Productivity like distraction.

Who keeps herself in constant motion so she never has to sit still long enough to feel what's really happening around her.

Yeah... I remember this well from those first few days we spent together.

Always cleaning.

Always rearranging.

Shifting endlessly from one task to another like she physically couldn't make herself stop.

Back then, getting close to her had felt like trying to approach a frightened animal. Every step forward carefully earned. Every ounce of trust hard won and savored.

Until that first night I took her stargazing.

That was the night she stopped bracing around me.

The night she finally started reaching back. Curling into my side while I held her beneath the stars. Relaxing. Laughing freely.

After that, she'd let me steady her whenever the world became too loud. She'd step aside and let me lead, even when she was scared or uncertain, trusting I'd never let anything happen to her.

Now, standing here watching her rearrange things that don't need rearranging while carefully avoiding me altogether, I can practically see those walls going back up brick by brick right in front of me.

And the worst part is...

She's retreating back into herself because of me. 

For a minute, I just stand there.

Without acknowledging me, she keeps moving around the apartment while I retreat toward the kitchen, lingering there and pretending I'm not watching her unravel in slow motion.

She empties another box. Carries a stack of folded clothes into the bedroom, only to come back out less than a minute later with an armful of hangers she immediately reorganizes by size before shoving them into yet another box.

Then she moves to the shelves along the far wall, grabbing a blue rag and wiping them down, even though I can clearly see it's already been done.

It doesn't deter her.

Every movement is quick. Efficient. Precise.

But beneath all of it, there's something almost frantic in the way she moves. Like she isn't trying to wipe away dust so much as the reality of being here at all.

"Need help?" I ask carefully, finally unable to stand here watching her bounce endlessly from one task to another, looking completely undone.

"No, I'm good."

The answer comes too fast. Almost automatic.

She doesn't even look up from where she's wiping down the television mounted on the wall.

I push away from the counter anyway and make my way down into the living room.

"You sure? I thought Connor said housekeeping already came through this morning."

"Housekeeping isn't the same as me doing it."

She says it softly, but I still catch the edge beneath the words.

She's frustrated.

And honestly? I get it.

What I don't know how to handle is the distance growing between us.

"Pretty girl," I say gently, "can we sit down for a minute and talk?"

"After. I just want to finish this first."

She moves toward another box before I can say anything else, never once looking in my direction.

Thinking back, I honestly can't remember the last time she looked at me at all. Maybe the sitting room. Right before I crossed the line I shouldn't have crossed and forced her into this arrangement.

I swallow hard at the realization.

Fuck.

My hand drags slowly over the back of my neck before I try again.

"Did Connor talk to you about the ride to and from school tomorrow?"

"Yeah." She folds another sweater with meticulous attention. "I'm supposed to meet him at the main house. Front drive at six forty-five in the morning."

"That's... a long walk from here. I'm sure his driver could pick you up at the staff apartments instead."

"Not necessary. I don't mind the walk." 

The thought of her outside alone that early in the morning, walking through the estate while it's still dark, knots something tight in my chest.

"You sure? I could drive you there."

"I said no, Shane. I'll be fine."

I shake my head without meaning to, grateful for once that her back is turned so she can't see it.

Even with the security covering every inch of the grounds, the thought of her out there alone in the freezing darkness still doesn't sit right with me.

But with how detached she sounds right now, I know better than to push.

If anything, I'll just make the time to walk with her myself.

Because the truth is, it should be me driving her to school in the mornings. Me walking beside her openly every day, holding her hand, sitting next to her in class without having to think twice about who might see us.

Instead, it'll be Connor she rides to school with while I leave the estate to go collect Amanda so we can keep pretending she's the woman I actually want beside me.

When she's not.

Not even fucking close.

Something bitter twists hard in my chest at the thought.

But the decision to at least get her to Connor in the mornings settles something into place almost instantly, and I make a mental note to start parking my car at the main house instead of near the staff apartments to make it easier.

Either way, the conversation dies almost immediately after that.

And somehow things only grow more awkward from there.

I try everything.

Talking about school. Her schedule. Upcoming assignments.

At one point I even slip into my peer advisor voice—the one I know she secretly loves even while pretending to hate—but even that isn't enough to break through whatever wall she's retreating behind.

So I shift gears again, asking whether Connor gave her a proper tour of the estate grounds yet, or if he explained where she's supposed to report tomorrow afternoon to meet her new boss.

She answers every question.

But every response feels impersonal. Like I'm talking to a colleague instead of the girl who, less than ten hours ago, lay curled up against me, naked and vulnerable, like we were the only two people left in the world.

And the entire time, she never stops moving.

One task to another.

One room to the next.

Never still long enough to settle.

Never close enough for me to reach her.

Eventually, she disappears into the bedroom again, carrying another armful of clothes.

I exhale slowly and glance around the apartment.

Most of the boxes scattered around the living room earlier are already gone, broken down and hauled out to the recycling dumpster behind the building, courtesy of the girls before they left.

The few things remaining barely even need attention anymore.

And that's exactly the problem.

Because with every task she finishes, she grows a little more scattered. A little more frantic. Like she knows it's only a matter of time before there's nothing left to distract her from the reality she doesn't want to face.

Maybe that's exactly what she needs.

It's why I quietly step in to help finish.

Before she can stop me, I put away the last few items sitting on the kitchen counters. Then I move the stack of books from the dining room onto the shelves beside the television, careful to keep them in the same order she had them arranged in.

After that, I carry the remaining empty boxes toward the back kitchen entrance so I can take them out later tonight before we get ready for bed.

I take care of almost everything that's left. 

Anything to help her feel more settled. Anything so she can finally stop long enough to breathe.

A few minutes later, she reappears carrying another empty box toward the pile she's noticed by the door.

"Here, I can take that," I say immediately, moving to get it from her.

"No. I've got it."

"Becca—"

"I said I've got it, Shane."

The sharpness in her voice stops us both cold.

Her eyes widen the second the words leave her mouth, like she didn't mean for them to come out sounding quite so harsh.

Guilt flashes across her face almost instantly.

"I'm sorry. I just..." She exhales shakily, tightening her grip on the box. "I'm trying to keep busy right now, okay? I just... I need to do this."

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Chapter 43

Shane

The crack in her voice hits me hard because there it is. The truth beneath all of this.

What’s driving her isn’t anger. Or resentment.

At least not yet.

This is about her need for control. Or maybe the desperate need to hold on to some small piece of it.

My chest aches as I watch her standing there, clutching that stupid empty box to her chest like it’s the only thing keeping her from coming apart, those hazel eyes that haunt every part of me suddenly looking unbearably sad.

Slowly, I nod.

“Okay,” I say softly. “Okay, pretty girl.”

Something flickers across her expression at the nickname.

Pain maybe.

Or relief that I’m trying to understand instead of pushing.

“How about I help you?” I ask quietly. “We can take everything out together. Would that be okay?”

The second the words leave my mouth, I see the shift in her.

Tension.

Her shoulders tighten beneath the oversized hoodie. Her fingers curl harder around the box, and suddenly I understand exactly what I’ve done wrong.

Right now, any offer to help her, especially from me, feels like another reminder that her life is no longer fully hers to control.

Before I can figure out how to fix that without making things worse, her gaze finally lifts to mine for the first time since I walked through the door.

And I see the exact moment she notices my eye.

She goes completely still.

And for one stupid, reckless heartbeat, relief surges through me because there she is.

My girl.

The love of my life.

Actually looking at me instead of through me.

Her brows pull together slightly.

“What happened to your eye?”

Though I knew the question was coming, I still freeze.

As I scramble for an answer, my tongue instinctively drags across the inside of my lip where one of Nick’s punches split the skin there.

Right.

That.

The moment everything finally came to a head.

Honestly, after what I did, even I can admit I deserved it.

Unfortunately, it’s also not something I’m eager to tell her. So I cross yet another line.

And I lie.

“It’s nothing,” I say easily. “While we were packing up your place, Connor threw one of your books for me to catch. Unlucky for me, my face decided to intercept it.”

I try to make it light. Casually throwing in a football joke. I even give her the smile that usually gets me out of trouble.

But it doesn’t work.

When her expression only hardens, panic starts creeping beneath my ribs, and I immediately keep talking.

“Pretty sure he did it on purpose, honestly. I mean, you’ve met the guy, right? He just kept throwing things at me trying to catch me off guard. I think he genuinely gets off on that sort of thing.”

Normally, my rambling would’ve earned at least a small smile. Maybe a quiet laugh and one of those looks she gives me when she knows I’m being ridiculous but secretly enjoys it anyway.

Instead, she just keeps watching me.

Quietly.

Her eyes search mine, and the longer she looks at me, the colder my chest starts to feel.

Because she’s trying to decide whether to trust me.

That realization lands hard enough to hollow something out inside me.

Before today, trust between us had always felt effortless. Instinctive. Somewhere along the line, after weeks of trying to prove I’d always put her first, Becca decided I was safe enough to trust without question.

But now, standing here in this apartment, I see it for the first time.

Hesitation.

Uncertainty.

A tiny sliver of doubt sitting between us where there never used to be before.

And fuck, maybe she has every reason for it now.

Nick’s face flashes through my mind again. The anger in his eyes after we left the sitting room. The way he shoved me back against the SUV before his fist cracked across my jaw and then my eye hard enough to leave me seeing stars.

I hadn’t even tried to stop him.

Because deep down, I understood why he did it.

Not because I tried to protect her.

But because of the way I did it.

Because I used her fear against her. Because I watched the panic close around her and pushed anyway, convincing myself that keeping her safe mattered more than her right to choose what was best for herself.

They all saw it.

Connor. Nick. Cedric.

Every single one of them looked at me differently afterward.

Like for one brief second, they caught a glimpse of something darker in me. Something colder. Something that looked a little too much like the men from our world.

The very men we’ve spent our entire lives trying not to become.

And now here we are.

Turns out maybe I have more in common with those men than I ever wanted to believe.

And as Becca stands there looking at me with that same tiny hesitation in her eyes, I can’t help wondering if maybe she sees it too.

I swallow hard and finally glance away.

“So, uh…” My voice comes out rougher than before. “The boxes. Should we…?”

Like she’s exhausted by the tension thrumming between us too, she gives a small nod and turns away.

In silence, we gather the remaining boxes together, me taking most of them so she only has to carry a few smaller things.

I hold every door open for her whenever she lets me. And somehow even that hurts. Because before today, she would’ve walked through them smiling at me.

Now she barely looks up.

Once we step back inside the apartment, the silence somehow feels heavier than before, especially when I watch her immediately start searching for something else to straighten. Something else to fix.

She doesn’t just look unsettled here.

She looks unhappy.

Stressed.

Like she’s trying to force herself to accept this place as home.

And the more I look around the apartment, trying to see it through her eyes, the more wrong it suddenly feels.

Not because the apartment itself is bad.

It isn’t.

Most people would probably think this place was more than nice. Comfortable even.

But Becca doesn’t look comfortable here.

She looks trapped.

“Pretty girl…”

She stills slightly at the sound of my voice but doesn’t turn to face me.

I take a cautious step closer.

“Are you sure you want to stay here?”

That finally gets her attention. Her brows pull together faintly as she glances back at me over her shoulder.

“In the staff apartments,” I clarify carefully, not wanting her to misunderstand. “You could stay at the pool house instead.”

Immediately, I see the tension slide back into her body.

Fuck.

Still, I keep going, desperate to somehow fix this before the distance between us stretches any wider.

“It’d be easier on you,” I explain gently. “You wouldn’t have to worry about cooking or cleaning or unpacking all over again while you’re trying to adjust to everything here. The chef could prepare meals for you, housekeeping would handle the rest…”

I gesture vaguely around the apartment.

“After everything you’ve been through, Becca, I just think taking some of the pressure off you right now wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

Her expression closes off even further.

“That’s not the point.”

I frown slightly. “Then what is?”

She turns fully toward me now, arms folding tightly over her chest, eyes burning with something that looks dangerously close to anger, but she says nothing.

“It would mean less stress,” I continue carefully before she can retreat again. “More downtime so you could focus on getting settled. And nobody’s going to judge you for wanting to make things a little easier on yourself right now. Hell, it would make sense.”

The second the words leave my mouth, I know I’ve made a mistake.

Becca lets out a disbelieving breath and shakes her head.

“You really don’t get it.”

She stares at me for a long moment, her eyes searching mine with an unfamiliar kind of disappointment.

Somehow that feels worse.

When I don’t immediately know what to say, she gives another small shake of her head.

“No,” she says quietly. “Of course you don’t.”

“I’m trying to, pretty girl. I swear to God, I want to understand.”

“No, Shane.” Her voice stays soft, but exhaustion drags through every word now. “You’re trying to fix it.”

And she’s right.

I am.

I’m trying to smooth this over. Trying to make this easier for her somehow, hoping if I can just take enough pressure off her shoulders, things between us will stop feeling like they’re slowly splintering apart.

“I just want you to be happy here,” I say quietly, unable to keep the sadness from bleeding into the words.

“Well, I’m sorry.” She sighs, lowering her gaze, though not before I catch the shine building in her eyes. “That’s just not possible right now.”

The honesty in the words slices straight through me.

For a second, neither of us says anything, like we’re both standing here drowning beneath the same helplessness but not knowing how to help ourselves, let alone each other.

Then she gestures subtly around the apartment.

“The staff already know I’m here because of you, because of Connor,” she says. “If I move into the pool house too, force them to wait on me hand and foot like they do the two of you, what do you think they’re going to say?”

“They’re not going to say anything. It’s their job. It’s what they do.”

Her expression softens slightly then, but not with relief.

Sadness.

Maybe even pity.

Like she feels sorry for me for not understanding something the rest of the world already does.

“Shane…” she exhales shakily. “If I’m going to work here, I don’t want people thinking I’m getting special treatment because I’m sleeping with the owner’s son.”

The words hit me like a punch straight to the chest.

Because Jesus Christ.

That’s what she thinks this looks like.

“No one’s going to think you’re sleeping with Connor. They know he’s not just going to move some girl in like this. Plus, anyway, he and I can shut that down before it even becomes a thing. We’ll make sure everyone knows you’re just a family friend—”

“Urgh…”

The sound that leaves her is somewhere between a growl and a frustrated huff, and under different circumstances, I’d probably find it adorable.

Right now, it just leaves me staring at her in stunned silence.

“You still don’t get it.”

“I do.”

“Stop.” Her voice cracks softly around the word before she looks away again. “Just… stop, Shane.” She swallows hard. “You don’t get it. And you never will because you’re… you.”

The sentence isn’t meant to be cruel.

Still, it burns.

Badly.

She gestures again, broader this time. Toward the apartment. The estate outside. The obscene level of wealth and excess woven through every part of this world.

“All of this?” she says quietly. “The money. The houses. The staff. Drivers. Security. Chefs. People doing everything for you all the time…” Her throat works as she struggles to find the words. “How could you possibly understand what any of this feels like for someone like me?”

And standing here looking at her, I suddenly realize something terrifying.

While I do understand the pressure. The entrapment. The weight of expectations you never asked for. What it feels like to have your life controlled by people with too much power and too little regard for how badly it breaks you…

That part, I understand better than most.

But the rest of it…

She’s absolutely right.

I don’t know what it feels like to fight tooth and nail for every single thing you have, only to suddenly be dropped into a world where you’re told none of it matters anymore.

Where the things that once made you capable and independent are treated like inconveniences because there’s always someone else paid to do them for you.

For the first time since all of this started, I feel completely powerless standing in front of her.

Because no amount of reassurance can change the fact that she’s right.

Or the fact that my world has already started costing her pieces of herself.

Pieces that are as essential to her as she is to me.

❤️

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# Chapter 44

Shane

For a long moment, we just stand there in silence, neither of us saying anything.

She stays by the dining table with her arms wrapped tightly around herself like she's physically trying to hold all the pieces together, while I remain across the room where she left me, the reality of everything that's happened over the last hour settling over me with sickening clarity.

Nothing I've been trying to do is helping.

Not the solutions. Not the reassurances. Not even the quiet ways I usually know how to steady her whenever the world becomes too loud.

If anything, every attempt I've made to bridge this gap between us has only pushed her farther away.

And somehow, that hurts worse than anything else.

Because she won't even let me close enough to touch her right now. Won't let me ground her the way I normally would, with my hands on her skin and my arms around her, reminding her she doesn't have to carry all of this alone.

My gaze drifts over her again, taking in the exhaustion written across her face, the sadness she's trying so hard to hide beneath all that restless movement, and suddenly I understand what she's been trying to tell me this entire time.

I've been so focused on fixing this for her that I never stopped long enough to just sit inside it with her.

Her words from earlier echo quietly in my head.

"I'm trying, pretty girl. I swear to God, I want to understand."

"No, Shane... you're trying to fix it."

She was right.

Maybe she doesn't need solutions right now. Maybe she doesn't need me trying to make everything lighter or easier or more comfortable. Maybe she just needs someone willing to stand beside her while she grieves the life she's left behind instead of trying to push her through it before she's ready.

Because nothing about this is easy.

Everything about this situation is unfair to her. An impossible choice she never should've been forced to make in the first place.

A good man, a man who truly loved her the way she deserves to be loved, would probably take this realization and let her go back to the life she actually wants. The life that belongs to her.

But Charles Kline is still out there.

And as much as I hate what this place is already doing to her, the thought of sending her back without protection still twists something ugly inside me because, right or wrong, her safety outweighs everything else in my mind.

Even this.

And maybe that says something about me I don't want to examine too closely.

Slowly, I exhale and lower my gaze briefly to the floor before lifting it back to her again, my decision finally made.

"Becca, will you come to me?" I ask softly. "If not... please let me come to you."

I have to ask.

For the last hour, she's done everything possible to keep space between us, every movement carefully pulling her farther out of my reach whenever I try to get close.

Immediately, hesitation flickers across her face.

It's not outright rejection, but it still hurts.

After a second, she finally takes a small step toward me. Then another.

Relief eases through me as I carefully close the remaining distance between us, moving slowly enough to give her every opportunity to pull away if she wants to. By the time I stop in front of her, we're close enough that I can hear the uneven rhythm of her breathing in the quiet apartment.

Even this feels fragile now.

Carefully, I reach for her hand, and the second her fingers slide against mine, I realize how cold they are.

She's freezing.

"Hey," I murmur softly.

Her eyes lift briefly to mine before dropping again, the uncertainty in that tiny movement enough to hollow something out inside me.

Slowly, I slide my free hand to her waist, not pulling her closer yet. Just touching her. Trying to ground us in the reality that despite everything that's happened today, despite all the damage I caused trying to protect her, we're still here.

Still us.

For a second, she stays stiff beneath my hand, like she's still deciding whether it's safe to let herself lean on me again.

Then, little by little, some of the tension starts to ease beneath my touch. Not completely. But enough that I feel her stop holding herself together quite so tightly.

Relief moves through me so suddenly I almost don't know what to do with it.

Taking my time, I lift my other hand and brush my knuckles softly along her cheek.

"You know what the worst part about all this is?" I ask quietly.

A faint crease forms between her brows. "What?"

"That I scared you." The words come out rougher than I intend. 

My thumb drifts lightly beneath her cheekbone as I force myself to keep going. Force myself to finally say out loud the part I've been avoiding ever since we left the sitting room.

"When I was trying to convince you this was the best choice, the safest choice..." I swallow hard. "I knew bringing up your friends, your family, the people Charles could hurt if he wanted to get to you... I knew that would scare you."

Her expression falters almost imperceptibly.

"And I did it anyway."  

The admission hangs between us for a second before I lower my head briefly, shame settling heavily over me.

"And I swore to myself I'd never do that to you." My voice lowers further. "Never make you feel cornered or manipulated or trapped." I shake my head faintly before forcing myself to meet her eyes again. "But I did. And I'm sorry for that."

Because I meant that promise.

Every second since she walked into my life, all I've wanted was for her to feel safe with me. Protected. Loved. Like she finally had someone standing between her and the rest of the world, instead of another person trying to push their will on her. And somewhere along the way, I blurred those lines badly enough that now she's standing there looking at me like she doesn't fully know what to do with me anymore. Like suddenly we don't fit together the way we used to.

The thought leaves me feeling strangely hollow.

"I know you're overwhelmed," I continue quietly. "And I know this place probably feels like another reminder that your whole life got ripped out from under you overnight."

My thumb brushes gently across her cheekbone, and this time, instead of pulling away, her eyes close briefly as she leans into the touch like she's too emotionally exhausted to fight it anymore.

The tiny movement almost undoes me.

"But none of that changes what you are to me."

Finally, her eyes lift fully to mine. And this time, she doesn't look away.

"You're still my princess," I whisper softly. "The love of my life."

My fingers drift carefully along her jaw, reacquainting myself with the feel of her like some part of me still needs the reassurance that she's really here.

"My beautiful Andromeda."

The nickname hits her instantly. I see it in the way her lips part slightly. In the way something raw and unguarded flickers across her face before she can hide it again.

"The only star I've seen since that night we laid together beneath the sky," I murmur softly. "The night you became my Andromeda... and I became your Perseus."

A shaky breath leaves her then, and I know she's remembering it too.

That night beneath the stars was the first time she let those walls fall long enough to just... be with me. And God, thinking back to that moment now, it's still one of the best nights of my life.

Needing her closer, I take another step until there's barely any space left between us, close enough now that I can feel the warmth radiating from her.

"I know things between us feel messy right now," I murmur. "I know I screwed up today. Probably worse than I even realized."

I swallow hard, forcing myself not to look away from her this time.

"And I swear to God I'll spend every day proving to you that I can do better than this. Better than what I was today."

My fingers tighten gently around hers.

"But there's something else I need you to know."

The words leave me rougher now. Less polished. More honest.

"No matter how dark things get, or what the world does to try to come between us..." My voice lowers further. "My place is with you, pretty girl. It always will be."

I have to stop for a second just to steady my breathing.

"Because I don't care about the money or the houses or my family's legacy or any of the other pretentious fake-ass bullshit if it costs me you." I shake my head faintly. "None of it is worth losing you over."

Her eyes search mine quietly, emotion flickering across her face like she wasn't expecting the words. And God, I mean every single one of them.

"And if I have to walk away from all of it one day just to be with you..." My thumb brushes softly beneath her cheek again. "Then I will."

A shaky breath leaves me.

"Gladly. Because I'll always choose you." My voice roughens further around the truth of it. "None of this means anything to me without you."

For a second longer, she just looks at me quietly, like she's trying to decide whether it's finally safe to believe me again.

Then finally, she leans in.

It's slight at first. Careful. Like she's still afraid of giving too much of herself back too quickly.

But the second I feel it, my eyes close briefly in relief.

Carefully, I pull her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her slowly, cautiously, like I'm afraid too much pressure might break whatever fragile thing we're managing to find our way back to right now.

For a few quiet seconds, she doesn't say anything. 

Then her fingers curl weakly into the front of my shirt, her forehead pressing softly against my chest.

I lower my face into her hair, breathing her in while one of my hands moves slowly up and down her back, trying to soothe her without asking for anything more than this.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, Becca," I whisper against her hair, my voice rough with emotion. "Nothing."

This time when she exhales, most of the tension leaves with it.

Not all of it.

But enough that she finally lets herself rest against me. Enough that her breathing begins to slow, her body gradually softening beneath my hands, like she's finally allowing herself to relax.

And when she whispers my name softly against my chest a few moments later, something inside me eases for the first time all day. Like maybe we haven't completely lost each other after all.

My vision blurs suddenly, and a few stray tears manage to slip free before I can stop them. Because this, right here, is the first moment in hours that feels remotely like us again.

At the same time, I can still feel how delicate it is.

How careful she's being with me now.

How careful I need to be with her.

As I hold her there in the quiet apartment, surrounded by the Matthews Estate in a space that feels suspended somewhere between our two worlds, one terrifying truth settles quietly over me.

Love alone doesn't make us indestructible.

And if I keep letting fear dictate my choices instead of trust...

I could become the very thing that finally breaks us.

❤️

 
Can't wait for more? I've got you... 
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REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

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Chapter 45

Shane

The soft hum of the engine fills the silence stretching between Amanda and me as I guide my G-Class along the winding roads leading away from the Kline estate. Early morning light filters through the trees, catching against the snowbanks lining the road and turning them almost painfully bright.

Beside me, Amanda scrolls through her phone with clipped, irritated movements, the sharp tap of her nails against the screen making it obvious she’s quickly running out of patience.

Not that I care enough to acknowledge her in any way.

Mostly because I already know exactly where this conversation is headed.

But also because part of me is still back at the estate.

Still back with Becca.

Back in that quiet kitchen where neither of us really knew what to say after everything that happened yesterday, so instead we settled for simply existing beside each other in a kind of quiet domestic peace. Eating breakfast together. Touching. Holding hands.

It was exactly what we needed after the weekend we’d had.

The memories from last night pull at me immediately.

The way she melted into me after we climbed into bed. The way her fingers stayed curled in my shirt even after she fell asleep, like some part of her still needed the reassurance I was there.

Like maybe she was afraid that if she let go, I might disappear.

Or maybe I’m projecting, considering I spent most of the night barely sleeping, terrified to loosen my hold on her while my mind raced with everything that happened… and everything that could still go wrong.

When morning came, things between us still felt fragile.

Not broken, thank God.

But delicate enough that every glance felt careful, every touch slightly hesitant in a way I’d never experienced with her before.

Still, standing together in the kitchen this morning, drinking coffee in near silence, there’d been something quietly intimate about it too.

No hiding.

No walls.

No pretending yesterday hadn’t happened.

Just two exhausted people trying to find our footing again after realizing love alone doesn’t magically protect you from hurting each other.

My grip tightens slightly on the steering wheel as another memory surfaces.

Walking her across the estate grounds toward Connor’s waiting limo.

Her hand tucked inside mine.

The massive black armored vehicle sitting at the front entrance beneath the towering white stone facade of the Matthews mansion.

And Becca standing there in front of it all, looking beautiful enough to steal my fucking breath while somehow still seeming completely out of place.

Because everything surrounding her felt fake.

Manufactured.

Cold.

And seeing someone with her warmth, her softness, her realness standing in the middle of all that polished emptiness made something dark twist inside me.

I hated seeing her swallowed by the place. Hated knowing my world had touched her at all.

Then there was the kiss we shared before I helped her into the limo. It still lingers at the front of my mind now, quiet and aching.

Soft.

Careful.

Different from the desperate, hidden kisses we used to steal beneath the old garage below her apartment before I’d leave in the mornings.

Back at her place, everything about us felt strong. Secure. Like it really was just the two of us and our love against the world.

But there…

Standing in front of the Matthews estate with Connor waiting beside that limo, everything suddenly felt more uncertain.

Like this world was finally starting to find ways to wedge itself between us.

“You ignored me for two days and still have nothing to say to me?” Amanda’s voice slices cleanly through the silence inside the SUV, sharp enough to drag me out of my thoughts.

I don’t look at her.

Outside, snow blurs past the tinted windows while my hands remain steady on the wheel.

“I was busy.”

The clipped response clearly isn’t enough for her because a second later, she lets out an irritated breath.

“Busy?” she repeats incredulously. “Shane, you disappeared all freaking weekend. You ignored my calls. My texts. And that’s after dragging me out of the fundraiser Saturday night without any explanation. You didn’t even let me say goodbye to the guests.” Her voice sharpens further. “Do you have any idea how humiliating that was for me?”

I almost laugh at the word humiliating.

Not because it’s funny.

But because hearing Amanda Kline talk about embarrassment after everything she’s helped orchestrate feels fucking absurd.

Still, I keep my expression blank.

“If there’s a public event where we’re expected to smile for the cameras,” I say coolly, “then I’ll show up and play my part.”

Finally, I glance at her.

“But outside of that?” My attention shifts back to the road. “I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

The silence that follows turns noticeably colder.

Beside me, Amanda slowly lowers her phone into her lap, her posture stiffening almost imperceptibly.

“That’s not how this works.”

A bitter laugh leaves me before I can stop it.

“No?” I ask flatly.

“No,” her voice sharpens. “We’re going to be married, Shane.”

This time I do laugh.

Loud.

Cold.

Humorless.

The sound visibly catches her off guard.

“You’re delusional.” I shake my head faintly. “I already told you I’m not marrying you.”

Amanda blinks at me like she genuinely can’t believe what she just heard.

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” My jaw tightens. “This time and every other time I’ve said it. At some point, you’re going to have to accept reality.”

“It’s what our parents want,” she snaps. “Or did you suddenly forget that? Our entire future hinges on this marriage.”

I take the next curve a little harder than necessary, snow crunching beneath the tires.

“I’m going to find another way,” I say flatly. “That’s all you need to know.”

Silence stretches between us for half a second before I continue.

“And even if somehow I got forced into going through with it…” I shake my head faintly. “That still wouldn’t make you my wife in any way that actually matters.”

Amanda goes very still beside me.

“It would be in name only. A public arrangement. Nothing more.” My grip tightens slightly on the wheel. “What I do in private and who I choose to spend my time with would be none of your business.”

The tension inside the SUV thickens instantly.

Amanda stares at me for a long second, like she’s trying to reconcile the man sitting beside her now with the version of me she thought she knew.

The version that used to tolerate her. Maybe even pity her.

“What the hell happened to you?” she asks finally, her voice quieter now. Less angry. More unsettled. “You were never this cruel to me before.”

A humorless breath leaves me as I keep my eyes on the road ahead.

“No,” I agree flatly. “I wasn’t.”

Because before, I thought she was just another victim trapped beneath Victor Kline’s thumb. A helpless girl raised by a man who twists people into whatever version is most useful to him and his image.

I understood that.

Hell, I even felt sorry for her once.

But now?

Now I know better.

❤️

Can’t wait for more? I’ve got you… 👇🏼

REAM followers are already two chapters ahead!

And the best part? Following me there is totally FREE .

Just hit “Follow” on REAM to get early access without needing to subscribe. You’ll find the link at the top of my Wattpad profile!

NEW CHAPTERS post at 3:00 PM EST on Fridays!!!

# Chapter 46

Shane

"That was before I realized what you really are." My grip shifts slightly on the wheel. "Back when I thought somewhere beneath all..." I gesture vaguely toward her. "That... there was still a decent person left in there."

Amanda goes very still beside me.

"But there isn't," I continue coldly. "Maybe there never was."

Her jaw tightens.

"That's not fair."

"No?" I glance at her briefly. "Then tell me, Amanda. Why do you sound so much like your father these days?" My voice hardens further. "All the threats. The manipulation. The need to control everyone and everything around you."

The insult lands exactly the way I expect it to. I see it in the sharp flicker of anger that breaks through her composure before she forces it back down again.

Because that's the thing about Amanda.

For as much as she hates her father, she's become frighteningly good at imitating him.

And just like Charles, she rarely loses control completely.

No.

Amanda prefers precision.

The kind of cruelty dressed up in pearls, couture, and perfectly polished smiles.

"You should be careful how you speak to me," she says calmly after a moment, smoothing an invisible wrinkle from the sleeve of her cashmere coat. "Especially considering how much is currently riding on your cooperation."

There it is.

Exactly what I expected.

I smile faintly.

"Well, now I'm terrified."

Amanda lets out a slow breath through her nose, like I'm exhausting what little patience she has left.

"You really aren't getting it. You're in quite a precarious position here." Her gaze slides toward me again. "And obviously, neither is your little girlfriend."

The way she says girlfriend instantly makes something dark shift inside me.

"Amanda—"

"No." Her tone stays perfectly composed. "You need to hear this, Shane." She tilts her head slightly. "Your father and mine are already barely tolerating the situation as it is. So if I were you, I'd seriously reconsider whether some trailer-trash charity case is really worth destroying your entire future over."

The temperature inside the SUV seems to drop ten degrees.

For a second, all I hear is the low growl of the engine beneath us and the hiss of snow beneath the tires, both eventually drowned out by the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.

Then I jerk the wheel sharply toward the shoulder.

Amanda gasps as the G-Class slides hard across the snow-covered edge of the road, tires fishtailing slightly before I slam on the brakes.

The SUV jolts violently to a stop.

Silence crashes down inside the car.

Slowly, very slowly, I turn my head toward her. And the second Amanda sees the look on my face, some small part of her composure finally cracks.

"If I so much as hear you call her another name," I say quietly, "if you so much as threaten her or go after her in any way, I swear to God, Amanda..." My jaw tightens. "I will bring all of this to an explosive end."

For the first time all morning, real uncertainty flickers across her face.

"Publicly," I continue coldly. "With a kind of finality that'll blow up your life completely." I lean back slightly in my seat, never taking my eyes off her. "You think you were embarrassed after Friday?" A humorless laugh leaves me. "Trust me. That will pale in comparison to what I'll do to you. To your father."

My voice lowers further.

"Hell, even to my own parents, because they deserve it too."

Amanda just stares at me.

"Test me," I say softly. "I dare you. And you'll see exactly how much of a bastard I can be."

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then Amanda finally looks away.

Only then do I turn back toward the windshield.

I throw the SUV back into drive and pull hard onto the road again, snow spraying behind us as we accelerate forward.

Amanda doesn't say another word after that.

By the time the school finally comes into view, the tension inside the SUV has turned suffocating.

Amanda sits rigidly beside me, her expression composed again, but I can still feel the remnants of fury and humiliation radiating off her after my threat.

Honestly?

I couldn't care less.

My attention is already shifting toward the line of vehicles crowding the circular parking area outside the school. 

Students flood the front steps in clusters while tabloid photographers linger near the gates, hoping to catch glimpses of Ruby Creek's elite pretending to be normal students for the day.

Fucking vultures.

I ease the G-Class forward behind a familiar black armored limo, my attention barely registering it at first.

Then I see the Matthews crest stamped subtly onto the rear plate.

Connor.

Beside me, Amanda notices it too.

"What's Connor doing?" she asks immediately, irritation threading through her voice.

I don't answer because at that exact moment, Connor steps out of the limo.

And Christ.

Even from here, he looks exactly like what he was born to be.

Effortless.

Confident.

Perfectly at ease in a world built for men like him.

Snow falls lightly around him as he buttons his dark wool coat, casually scanning the crowded front entrance like he owns the damn place.

Then he turns back toward the open limo door and extends his hand inside.

Amanda goes still beside me.

"What the hell..."

My entire body locks up.

Because I already know who's about to step out before I even see her.

And then a delicate hand reaches out, landing softly in Connor's.

The sight hits me like a fucking punch to the chest.

Slowly, Becca steps from the limo, winter sunlight catching against the dark waves of her hair as Connor steadies her onto the snow-covered pavement like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Like she belongs beside him.

Jealousy detonates inside me so fast and violently it almost makes my vision blur.

Because Connor looks completely comfortable standing there with her.

And I hate him for it.

Even though I shouldn't.

Beside me, Amanda's composure fractures completely for the first time all morning.

"What the hell is she doing with him?" she demands sharply.

But I barely hear her.

Because all I can see is Becca standing beside Connor outside the front steps of our school while he occupies the space I've spent months wishing I could claim openly myself.

And the worst part?

Everyone's watching them.

Watching her.

Watching him touch her like he has every right to stand there beside her while I sit trapped behind tinted windows beside a woman I can barely stand to look at.

And in that moment, a sick realization settles heavily into my gut.

This changes everything.

And judging by the expression on Amanda's face...

She realizes it too.

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Chapter 47

Shane

“What the hell is she doing with him?” Amanda’s voice cracks sharply through the silence inside the SUV.

Before I can answer, before I can even think of something to say, she’s already moving.

The passenger door flies open.

“Amanda, wait—”

She ignores me completely.

One second she’s beside me. The next she’s striding across the parking lot in her ridiculous fur-lined boots, heading straight toward Connor and Becca.

“Jesus Christ.” The curse leaves me under my breath as I shove open my door and climb out after her.

Immediately, I understand how bad this is.

Not because Amanda might hurt Becca. She wouldn’t. Not here. Not in front of this many witnesses.

No.

The danger is everything else.

The students crowding the front entrance. The teachers lingering near the doors. Cell phones already rising into the air while cameras flash from the photographers hovering near the gates like vultures scenting blood.

Everyone is watching.

Everyone recording.

Everyone waiting to capture what they sense is a train wreck waiting to happen.

And right now, Becca is standing directly in the center of it all.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut.

Because Becca hates attention.

Hates being looked at.

Hates being seen.

Yet somehow, in the blink of an eye, she’s become the most watched person in the entire parking lot.

My gaze finds her instantly.

Even from here, I can see the discomfort written across her face. The uncertainty. The way her shoulders have pulled inward slightly, like she’s trying to make herself smaller while the entire world stares.

Then her eyes sweep over the crowd.

Searching.

And when they find me, the relief that briefly flashes across her face damn near guts me. Because every instinct inside me is screaming to go to her. To pull her out of this. To make her feel safe.

But I can’t.

Not with everyone watching.

Not without making everything worse.

And fucking Connor, the smug prick, just stands there like this is all perfectly reasonable. Like he doesn’t see what this little stunt is costing her.

Anger surges through me so fast it almost makes my hands shake.

At Amanda.

At Connor.

At the cameras.

At this entire goddamn situation.

All the while, Amanda keeps marching forward, completely unaware of how close I am to my breaking point.

Lucky for her, as much as I want to put an end to this entire charade right now, my only priority is protecting Becca.

Because if I don’t find a way to stop this, the whole thing is about to explode in our faces. And when it does, it’ll be Becca who suffers the worst of the fallout.

I refuse to let that happen.

Still several steps behind Amanda, my gaze narrows as I take in just how close Connor is standing to Becca. And the closer I get, the harder it becomes to ignore the feeling crawling beneath my skin.

Because nothing about this feels right.

Connor stands beside her with one hand resting lightly against the small of her back, guiding her through the crowd toward the school while cameras flash from every direction like they’re walking a red carpet instead of heading to first period.

And Becca…

Jesus.

Even from here I can see how uncomfortable she is.

The tightness in her shoulders. The uncertainty in her eyes as they dart from face to face. The way she keeps glancing towards the entrance of the school, like she’d give anything to already be inside.

A fresh wave of anger rolls through me.

My attention shifts back to Connor, and suddenly it clicks.

Choosing the limo this morning instead of driving himself like he normally does.

The photographers.

The perfectly timed arrival.

The hand extended for her to take, as if the entire thing had been carefully choreographed.

The deliberate optics of escorting her through the crowd for everyone to see.

All the pieces slam into place so fast I nearly stumble.

“You son of a bitch,” I mutter under my breath, my jaw clenching hard as my hands curl into fists at my sides.

Because none of this was accidental.

Like almost everything else in our world, Connor staged every second of it for maximum impact.

And I know exactly why.

For Charles.

For Amanda.

For me.

For anyone paying attention.

A public declaration he knew would spread through Ruby Creek like wildfire. An entrance designed to make headlines, dominate social media, and ensure that before the day is over, everyone who matters will know the same thing.

Becca isn’t alone anymore.

She’s under the protection of one of the most powerful families in the state.

Charles Kline’s biggest obstacle.

His oldest enemy.

The Matthews family.

It’s a smart move.

Brilliant, in fact.

If not for the unnecessary closeness.

If not for the way Connor keeps positioning himself beside her like it’s his place.

If not for the fact that every time I look up, his eyes seem to find mine, like he’s waiting to catch the moment I realize that this isn’t just a warning to Charles.

It’s a warning to me, too.

For manipulating her.

For using emotional blackmail to get what I wanted.

For becoming the very thing Nick, Connor, and I swore we’d never be.

Like our parents.

The realization settles heavily in my stomach.

Because beneath all the anger, jealousy, and resentment clawing through me, there’s another truth I don’t want to look at too closely.

Connor thinks Becca needs protection from me now.

And the worst part?

I’m not entirely sure he’s wrong.

Not that I have much time to dwell on it, because in the next breath, Amanda reaches them while I’m still several steps behind.

The entire walk across the parking lot, I kept expecting her to regain control of herself. To remember where she is. Who’s watching.

Instead, she barreled straight toward them like she’s forgotten every lesson her father practically beat into her about appearances.

For the first time since I’ve known her, Amanda’s public mask is cracking.

Not completely.

But enough that every eye in the parking lot seems frozen in place, waiting for the confrontation they can feel coming.

Connor and Becca immediately stiffen the second Amanda stops in front of them.

And Christ.

Watching Becca’s reaction nearly sends me into a sprint.

Because she doesn’t belong in the middle of this.

Not with the cameras. The attention. The politics of my world and all the bullshit that comes with it.

None of it.

Yet somehow she’s standing right at the center of the storm while the whole damn school watches.

For the briefest second, her eyes flick toward me again.

Hope.

Relief.

A silent plea she would never be brave enough to voice aloud.

The look slices straight through me because I know exactly what she wants.

She wants me to fix this.

She wants me to save her.

And it breaks my goddamn heart that I can’t.

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# Chapter 48

Shane

"Well, well, well," Amanda says, her voice deceptively pleasant. "Now this is unexpected."

Her gaze slides coldly over Becca.

Assessing.

Judging.

Dismissing.

Looking over and through her in the same way people from our world always do when they encounter someone they think is beneath them.

I see Becca's shoulders draw tighter. The nervous glance she shoots toward the school entrance. The uncertainty she tries and fails to hide as her fingers twist together like she doesn't know what to do with them.

And every protective instinct inside me roars to life.

I want to pull her straight into my arms. 

I want to whisk her away from this madness and get her somewhere safe. 

More than anything, I want to put myself between her and every person making her feel uncomfortable, and it's taking every bit of strength to keep myself from doing just that.

Before Amanda can take another step, Connor moves. 

One second he's standing beside Becca. 

The next, he's standing in front of her. 

Enough to be obvious. 

Enough that Amanda's attention has no choice but to shift to him instead.

Enough that her eyes narrow with a mix of disbelief and defiance.

And somehow the worst part is catching the exact moment Becca's shoulders loosen. Not completely. But enough for me to realize she feels safer the second Connor places himself between her and Amanda. 

It slices straight through me like a dagger to the heart. 

Because she's scared. Overwhelmed. Desperate for someone to make this stop. 

And some selfish, ugly part of me hates that it's him doing it. 

Watching it all play out breaks something inside me because the move is effortless. Natural and protective in a way I've never seen from my friend before.

And somewhere deep down inside, I know I should feel relieved.

Instead, jealousy and rage slam into me so hard it almost steals the air from my lungs.

My jaw tightens hard enough that I can feel my teeth grinding together.

When I finally get close, Connor's eyes immediately find mine.

No smile. No smirk. Nothing specific that anyone else would notice. 

But that stare...

The message comes through to me loud and clear.  

I'm the one protecting her.

I'm the one doing what you should have done.

The silent declaration hits me like gasoline on a fire.

By the time I stop beside Amanda, I'm already fighting a losing battle against the anger threatening to take over.

Amanda turns toward me immediately. 

Something like relief flashes across her face, and I know instantly it isn't because she wants me here. 

It's because she thinks she's won. 

With all the cameras pointed our way, she expects me to play my part.

To stand beside her.

To publicly choose her.

And standing there beneath the glare of a hundred watchful eyes, I realize exactly how dangerous this situation has become.

Because every instinct inside me is screaming to look at Becca.

To go to her.

To put myself between her, Connor, Amanda, and the rest of the world.

I can practically feel her watching me.

Waiting.

Hoping.

But we both know I can't.

And God help me, that hurts more than anything else, because this is the only way I know to protect her.

So instead, I force myself to do the hardest thing I've ever had to do in my life. Instead of meeting my pretty girl's expectant eyes, I force myself to look only at Amanda.

"I suggest you take a step back, Amanda." Connor's voice is smooth, almost conversational. "Trust me. You don't want to make a scene."

That familiar, arrogant grin appears. The one he usually reserves for moments when he knows he's holding all the cards.

"What would your adoring fans think?" he asks lightly. "Their beloved Kline princess causing a public spectacle?" 

His gaze flicks briefly toward the phones pointed in our direction. 

"I'd hate for people to start questioning the difference between new money and no class."

For a second, I think Amanda might actually lose control. The fury that flashes across her face is instantaneous, her eyes narrowing as Connor's words find their mark.

New money.

No class.

Two subjects guaranteed to draw blood from a Kline.

But just as Connor was obviously expecting, the look only lasts a heartbeat before it disappears.

Just like that, the mask slides back into place.

Polished.

Refined.

Perfect.

Like the cracks everyone just witnessed were never there at all.

A few nervous laughs ripple through the crowd, and the tension shifts. Not gone, but cleared out just enough that I know this is my chance to end this dumpster fire of a confrontation before it escalates into something that could ruin everything.

So I move.

My hand closes around Amanda's, and the reaction is immediate. 

Her head turns toward me, surprise flashing briefly across her face before something softer replaces it.

Satisfaction.

Feigned affection.

And that sickeningly sweet look of adoration that always makes my skin crawl.

This is exactly what she wanted. Shane Montgomery falling in line. Playing the dutiful son. The perfect fiancé. 

My father would be proud.

And the thought makes me want to tear my own skin off.

Instead, I give her a soft smile. Because that's what I'm supposed to do. Give the audience exactly what they came to see.

"Come on, beautiful," I say quietly, still loud enough for those closest to us to catch every word on their recordings. "They're not worth it. Besides, we don't want to be late, right?"

The words scrape their way out of me, but I force the practiced smile the media loves and tuck a loose strand of blond hair behind her ear.

Amanda rises to the bait exactly as I knew she would. Her fingers tighten around mine, her entire posture practically preening as I guide her away from the woman I love and toward the school.

To anyone watching, it looks like love.

The devoted fiancé stepping in.

The future husband smoothing things over.

The golden couple united.

And it makes me physically ill. 

My stomach rolls violently, and it takes everything I have not to choke on the bile burning at the back of my throat.

Because I know exactly what it looks like. Not just to the crowd. Not just to the cameras.

To Becca.

After everything we've shared, she's standing there watching me take another woman's hand instead of hers.

And God help me, I can't bring myself to look at her. 

So I use what little strength I have left to resist the urge.

Instead, I keep walking. Each step somehow getting harder.

This is for her. 

I have no choice. 

It's what I have to do to keep things from getting worse for her.

At least that's what I keep telling myself.

But by the time we reach the doors, I can't help it.

I've always thought of her as my North Star. My sun. 

And like a moth drawn to a flame, I finally make the mistake of looking back, hoping a single glance might somehow carry the apology I can't give her right now.

But it's already too late.

Connor has shifted closer to her.

Protectively.

One arm around her while the other shields her from the cameras and the crowd as he leans down and whispers something into her ear.

Whatever he says finally coaxes some of the tension from her shoulders.

As they start walking, she nods. But her eyes never lift to find mine.

The sight of Connor standing where I should be, comforting her, hits me hard. And though I know I should feel grateful that he's looking out for her, that she's not alone, I don't. 

Instead, anger and jealousy twist through me so violently, so ugly, it almost steals my breath.

Because it shouldn't be Connor. 

It should be me.

And as I turn back toward the school, one terrifying truth settles heavily into my chest.

Loving Becca in secret was hard. 

Loving her in public may prove impossible.

My heart sinks as I wonder if, like so many stories from Greek mythology, ours is destined to become a tragedy too.

Not the story of Perseus and Andromeda.

Not a story where love conquers the monsters.

But a different kind of myth.

The star-crossed kind.

The kind where two people love each other desperately and still lose each other in the end.

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Chapter 49

Shane

By the time I pull through the iron gates of the Matthews Estate, I’m hanging on to the last scraps of my self-control.

The entire drive here has been a blur. A haze of anger, frustration, and thoughts I can’t seem to shut off no matter how hard I try. Because all day long, I was forced to watch the consequences of Connor’s little stunt unfold.

Every hallway.

Every class change.

Every whispered conversation.

Every phone shoved in someone’s face.

It followed Becca everywhere she went.

And Connor?

Connor never left her side.

I watched him walk her through the halls like he were some kind of self-appointed bodyguard. Watched students part around them while cameras flashed and rumors spread faster than wildfire. Watched the entire school decide overnight that Becca somehow belonged in his world.

Like she belonged to him.

The thought twists something ugly inside me, jealousy and panic tangling together until my grip tightens on the steering wheel hard enough to make my knuckles ache.

Because even worse than all of that was Becca.

The way she kept her head down. The way she avoided the attention. The way every time I caught sight of her, she looked a little more exhausted than she had an hour earlier.

And when we shared classes together?

She wouldn’t even look at me.

Not once.

Every time my gaze found her, she was staring at her notebook. The front of the room. Anywhere but me.

Like what happened this morning was still sitting between us. Like maybe she couldn’t understand why I didn’t step in to help her. Or maybe she understood perfectly and hated me for it.

The thought sits like broken glass in my chest.

It certainly didn’t help that Amanda spent the entire day attached to my side. Her every action felt like a performance. A test of my patience.

She wouldn’t stop touching me. Talking to me. Inserting herself into every conversation loudly. Doing everything she could to pull attention back to us and away from Connor and Becca. All to no avail, much to her dismay.

A fact she made painfully clear the second she climbed into my car for the ride home. Her voice turned shrill as she spent the entire drive accusing me of being behind all of this. Of conspiring with Connor to make her look bad.

I was so angry, so close to saying something I’d regret, that I couldn’t trust myself to speak. So I sat there in silence instead, staring out the windshield and pretending the day’s events didn’t make me want to do violent things.

By the time I dropped her off at her house, I was done pretending. Done thinking. Done trying to calm the hell down.

Which is exactly why, instead of driving to Becca’s new apartment, I’m parking in front of the Matthews mansion.

Because Connor and I are about to have words.

And God help him if he thinks I’m going to let him get away with what he’s done.

The front doors have barely slammed shut behind me before I’m stalking through the main house of the Matthews Estate.

A startled housekeeper calls my name somewhere behind me, but I ignore her.

Right now, I don’t give a damn about manners. Or appearances. Or whatever rules normally govern interactions between old-money families.

I want Connor.

And judging by the amused voice drifting from the study at the end of the hall, I’ve found him.

“You know,” Connor says conversationally, “most people knock. Or at the very least, announce themselves before barging in.”

The amusement in his voice only makes my anger spike higher.

I shove through the open doorway to find the asshole leaning against the edge of his father’s desk, a glass of bourbon in his hand, looking entirely too relaxed for a man who spent the day systematically pushing my every button.

The moment our gazes lock, the bastard smiles.

There’s no mistaking it. He’s pleased with himself. Like this is exactly the reaction he was hoping for.

And that smile?

That’s what finally pushes me over the edge.

Three strides are all it takes. Connor barely has time to set the glass down before I grab a fistful of his shirt and slam him hard against the wall. The impact rattles the framed certificates and paintings lining the back wall. Even the lamp on the nearby table wobbles precariously from the force of it.

Still, Connor doesn’t react. He doesn’t fight back. Hell, he doesn’t even look particularly concerned. If anything, he looks even more amused.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I snap.

Connor’s eyes meet mine. Calm. Steady. Infuriatingly composed.

“You’re going to have to be more specific.”

My grip tightens.

The smile tugging at the corner of his mouth only grows.

And suddenly I’m seconds away from putting my fist through his fucking face.

Because this…

Everything he’s done today?

This is my life. The woman I love.

My goddamn relationship.

And Connor is treating it like it’s some kind of game.

A fucking joke.

“You think this is funny?” The words come out low and dangerous as I shove him back harder.

Connor doesn’t even flinch. If anything, the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth deepens, which only makes the rage already simmering beneath my skin burn hotter.

“What? The fact that you’re currently choking the life out of my favorite shirt?” His gaze drops briefly to my fist twisted in his collar. “Not particularly.”

The answer hits me like gasoline on a fire.

My fist tightens in his shirt. He’s damn lucky they’re not wrapped around his neck.

“I spent all day watching the fallout from your little stunt.” My voice comes out harsher than I intend. “Watching cameras follow her around. Watching people stare at her. Talk about her. Speculate about her.” I shake my head. “She was miserable, Connor. And that’s all because of you.”

For the first time, the amusement fades from his face, but it’s not guilt like one would expect. If anything, it’s frustration.

“No. It’s because of you. Because of Charles and Amanda. Because of the sick games you are all playing with that girl.”

The comparison damn near knocks me back.

Charles?

Amanda?

The people trying to ruin her life?

No. I am nothing like either of those two, and the fact that Connor somehow thinks I belong in the same category is downright insulting.

He shoves me away, taking a few steps to put some distance between us as he readjusts his shirt. A scowl remains fixed on his face, like he’s genuinely offended that I’m putting any of the blame on him.

“It was a means to an end, Montgomery. Making the battle lines clear. My way of protecting her from every single one of you.”

“Me? Me?” I point to my chest. “I’m her goddamn boyfriend. I’m the man who fucking loves her. I would never hurt her.”

“Oh, don’t play me for a fool. There is nothing loving or honorable about what you did to her yesterday.”

The accusation lands like a punch to the throat. My jaw tightens, and it takes me a second to find my voice again.

Still, I shake my head, completely indignant.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

A humorless laugh escapes him.

“The hell I don’t.”

Connor drags a hand through his hair before turning away from me completely, pacing toward the window overlooking the back grounds.

For a moment, neither of us says a word.

The silence somehow makes the room feel even smaller.

“You know what I saw yesterday?” he asks finally.

I don’t answer because, honestly?

I don’t give a damn what he thinks he saw.

“I saw a terrified girl trying to do what was best for her. While caught in the middle of a shitty situation because of you and this thing with the Klines.”

His gaze shifts toward me.

“And then, to my shock, I watched the man who claims to love her back her into a corner with emotional blackmail until she felt guilty and scared enough to give in to what he wanted.”

Anger flares hot and immediate. For both of us, apparently.

“That is not what happened.” My response is instant, even as I squirm where I stand, unwilling to even examine if there’s any truth to his accusation.

“Isn’t it?”

“No. It isn’t.”

When he just continues to glare at me, my anger spikes. And, like I can’t help myself, I immediately rush in to fill the silence.

“I did what I had to do to protect her. To save her from making a decision that could put her life… and the lives of everyone she loves at risk. I did it because I love her.”

By the time I’m done, my voice booms like an echo around the study, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the staff in the adjoining corridors heard everything.

I should be ashamed of myself. I know that. And hell, maybe if I let myself dwell on any of this bullshit, I might be. But the thing is, I know better than anyone what’s at stake here. Charles is dangerous. And when it comes to Becca’s life, I refuse to just be complacent and hope for the best.

That’s what we did with Miranda.

We waited. We hoped. We convinced ourselves that everything would somehow work out. That Charles would never dare touch her.

And in the end, it cost Nick everything.

I’ll be damned if I let that happen to Becca and me.

Connor studies me for a long moment. Then he slowly shakes his head.

“See? That right there… that’s the problem.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you don’t see what you’ve done. You’ve twisted everything up. Your love for her. Your need to protect her. And somehow you’ve convinced yourself the outcome matters more than the choice.”

I stare at him, completely dumbfounded.

“What the fuck are you even talking about?”

“You keep talking about protecting her.” His voice stays calm, but the frustration beneath it is impossible to miss now. “Protecting her from Charles. From Amanda. From your families. From the press. From making her, God forbid, even a little uncomfortable.”

His eyes narrow.

“But when was the last time you stopped and asked yourself what was best for Becca? Or hell, what is it she actually wants?”

The question is stupid. Because, of course, I know what she wants.

“She wants to be with me. Just like she wants for her and everyone she cares about to be safe.”

Connor actually laughs. Not because he thinks what I’ve said is funny, but because he’s so disgusted by my answer, he can’t seem to help himself.

He’s judging me.

And suddenly I want to punch him in his smug face again.

“You hear yourself, right?”

The room goes still. Everything except for the tremor of rage coursing silently through every nerve ending in my body.

“All of that may be true, but it’s no justification for what you did.”

“What I did—”

He cuts me off.

“What you did is bait her. Like some animal. You backed her into a corner. Forced her into the trap you set, and when that trapdoor she didn’t even see coming shut behind her, you stood there preening, like the selfish, self-entitled bastard you were raised to be.”

His gaze hardens.

“And let’s be real here, Shane. You didn’t do it to protect. You did it to make sure you could keep her. You did it to manipulate the situation so you could hold on to her like she’s some priceless possession you refuse to live without.”

“Now, wait a damn minute—”

“No. I won’t. I refuse to sugarcoat this for you, Shane. You took away her choice. Made her feel both hopeless and helpless. Made her think your way was the only way. And you know what that reminds me of?”

Every muscle in my body tightens because suddenly I know where this conversation is headed.

Exactly whose ghost Connor is about to drag into this.

“My fucking mother.”

❤️

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