28. Cora
Chapter twenty-eight
Cora
J ames strides into the police station like he owns the place. Each crisp clack of his shoes on the linoleum carries an air of authority that immediately turns heads. There’s a subtle, commanding swagger in the way he moves, and it’s impossible not to take note. Even the police officers at the front desk look up, their posture stiffening as if they’ve been caught slacking off. The line of civilians waiting for their turn at the counter doesn’t faze him. James bypasses them all, heading straight to the front of the queue.
No one questions him—not the people in line, not the officers, no one. They recognize power when they see it. He is the kind of man people don’t confront.
I slouch in the corner of the waiting room, the hard-plastic chair digging into my back. The scent of stale coffee and disinfectant hangs in the air, and the fluorescent lights overhead buzz like a swarm of flies. I feel safe watching him from a distance. But my heart gives an involuntary jump the second his eyes land on me. There’s a hint of something in his gaze—relief? But then his jaw tightens, and his eyes travel over my body, inspecting me. Once he’s satisfied, he locks onto my eyes, and I’m caught in the power of his stare.
My pulse quickens. There’s a promise in that look—punishment. My skin heats at the thought. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, suddenly all too aware of how horrible I must look—my makeup smudged, hair tangled with remnants of vomit, bloodshot eyes. I must look like shit.
But still, the mental image of James bending me over his knee and pulling my panties down to spank my ass red sparks a dark thrill in me. Pressure builds within me, anticipation prickling along my skin. His lips twitch into a knowing smirk as if he can read my filthy thoughts.
God, of course he knows.
He turns back to the officer he’s speaking with, nodding curtly. Even while he’s focused on the conversation, his gaze flicks to me every few moments, keeping me pinned. I can’t look at him any longer—I’m too mortified. I drop my eyes to the floor, my cheeks burning.
This is rock bottom.
After what I’m now referring to as “spew-gate,” the officer—Carl—woke up Hailee and escorted us both to his patrol car. Hailee had apologized profusely, sobbing in the backseat, but I was too sick and too humiliated to care. I just wanted to crawl into a hole and disappear.
At the station, Carl handed me a breathalyzer, and I held my breath, praying. When the number blinked just under the legal limit, relief hit me so hard I almost staggered. I’d been stupid, reckless—if I hadn’t thrown up, I’d probably be in a cell right now, facing charges, maybe even losing my license.
Instead, I got a warning. Extremely lucky, considering how it could have turned out. I shouldn’t have gotten behind the wheel in that state. It was dangerous and stupid. I promised myself I’d be better, that I’d make smarter choices, yet here I am, sitting in a police station at three in the morning, waiting to be picked up like a reckless teenager. Shame curls inside me. It’s not just about the vomiting or the breathalyzer. It’s about how easily I could’ve lost everything—my freedom, my safety, my son. I can’t let this happen again. I can’t keep making stupid, reckless decisions like this. Leo deserves better. I deserve better.
James finishes his conversation and stalks toward me. He looks as polished as ever, despite the early hour and the fact that he’s still wearing his suit from earlier. He stops directly in front of me, towering over me, forcing me to tilt my head back. He runs his thumb over his bottom lip and studies my face. He’s slipped his mask back on, but the frustration and disappointment that flares in his eyes is hard to miss. Whether that’s from earlier in the evening or from now, I don’t know. Take your pick.
“Come on, let’s go.” Without sparing me another glance, he turns and walks toward the exit, expecting me to follow.
I jump to my feet, irritation simmering under my skin. His cold indifference is starting to piss me off. By the time we reach his car, I can’t hold back anymore.
“Get in,” he says.
“No.” I cross my arms over my chest, refusing to budge.
James freezes, his hand on the passenger door handle. He turns slowly, his eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”
“I know I asked the officers to call you,” I say, “and I’m grateful that you came. But I’m not a child, and I won’t be treated like one.” The words spill out faster than I expect.
His face clouds over. “Well, stop acting like one.”
The sharpness of his retort slices through me, but I hold my ground. “I screwed up, okay?! I made a mistake, but that doesn’t give you the right to treat me like an idiot!” I plant my hands on my hips, only just containing the urge to tap my foot like a petulant child.
His eyes blaze, anger finally breaking through his icy exterior. He steps closer, his body practically vibrating with fury. “An idiot? You are an idiot!” he bites back, his voice rising with each word. “You could’ve killed someone! Or worse, you could’ve been killed!”
His hands grip my upper arms, like he’s going to shake some sense into me. “You could’ve been hurt, Cora. Do you understand that?” His voice breaks on the last word, and for a moment, the emotion on his face is raw and unfiltered.
“When the officer called and asked if I knew a Cora Rossi,” he says, quieter now, almost broken, “I—I just…” He trails off, lowering his head, his grip loosening. His vulnerability is breaking my heart.
God, he’s right. I’m such an idiot.
“Please, Cora.” He lifts his head, not quite meeting my eyes. “Just get in the car.”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak, and slip into the passenger seat.
The car door slams behind me, making me flinch. James stalks around to the driver’s side and slides in without a word, the leather creaking beneath his weight. His knuckles turn white as they clamp down on the steering wheel like he’s trying to crush it. The air in the car is thick, silence pressing in on us as Sydney’s streets race past the window. I notice we’re heading toward my neighborhood, but I don’t dare ask how he knows my address.
Finally, when we’re a block away from my house, he breaks the silence, making me jump in my seat. “Do you have a problem with alcohol?”
“What?” I whip my head around to look at him. He’s serious. Deadly serious. “No! Of course not.” I scoff, but the accusation stings. Sure, I like to let loose once in a while, but I’ve never been this drunk or sick from alcohol before. Never. His words from five years ago bubble to the surface: I don’t fuck drunk chicks.
James says nothing, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. His grip on the steering wheel remains firm, his jaw clenched tight. The silence stretches between us and I gaze at him again, studying the hard lines of his face.
He’s so gorgeous.
Even now, it’s impossible to ignore. That strong jawline, those sharp cheekbones—they’re almost unreal, like they were sculpted with precision.
When we pull up outside my house, he still won’t look at me. He sits there, staring straight ahead, his entire body rigid. I wait for him to say something—anything, really—but he doesn’t.
I sigh heavily; talking to him right now is pointless. With a huff, I open the car door and slam it shut behind me. I don’t look back as I walk up to my front door. I hear his car drive away as soon as I step inside.
I slump against the door, close my eyes, and shake my head at my stupidity.
Fuck.
I want to collapse into bed and forget this whole night ever happened. But the pungent, sour smell of vomit in my hair hits me like a slap, making me grimace. There’s no way I can sleep like this.
Somehow I peel myself off the door and drag my feet toward my bedroom, the wooden floorboards creaking under my heels. But as I pass Leo’s room, instinct kicks in. My feet stop of their own accord, and I hover outside his door, staring at the faint light of his nightlight spilling into the hallway.
For a moment, I consider skipping it. I’m too tired, too wrecked. But then I think about his little face, his peaceful expression when he’s sleeping, and I can’t resist. I turn the knob and push the door open, just a crack.
Leo is curled up under his dinosaur blanket, one hand gripping his stuffed giraffe. His tiny chest rises and falls with each gentle breath, his face serene, completely unaware of the chaos his mother has just brought on herself. Watching him like this, so peaceful, so innocent, a lump forms in my throat. For a moment, I hate myself. I hate myself for being reckless, for almost making tonight a disaster, for being a woman with vomit in her hair instead of someone he can count on.
I step inside, my heels sinking into the carpet as I approach his bed. Leaning over, I gently brush a lock of dark hair off his forehead. I press a soft kiss to his temple, the catastrophe of the night momentarily slipping away.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, though he’s too deep in sleep to hear me. “I’ll do better.”
Straightening up, I back out of the room and pull the door quietly behind me, leaving it slightly ajar. The moment I step into the hallway, though, exhaustion hits me. I’m running on fumes, my body aching for rest, but I still need to clean myself up.
The bathroom light is blinding, and I wince at my reflection in the mirror. Mascara streaks down my cheeks like black tears. My skin is blotchy, red patches blooming across my face, and the dark shadows under my eyes make me look like I haven’t slept in days.
But the worst part is the hair. The vomit. Ugh . It’s clumped in chunks near the ends of my curls, and the smell makes me gag all over again. I should shower, but the mere thought of standing under hot water is too much right now.
Instead, I settle for the bare minimum—pulling off my clothes and dragging a damp towel through my hair to clean out the worst of it. The towel comes away stained, and I cringe, throwing it into the laundry hamper with a sigh.
At least the smell isn’t as overpowering now.
I shuffle out of the bathroom in my underwear and pull an oversized T-shirt from my dresser. It’s soft and comforting against my skin, exactly what I need. I collapse into bed with a groan, burying my face in the pillow, but the events of the night keep playing on my mind, refusing to let me rest.
James.
The way he looked at me in the police station, his anger, his fear, the vulnerability in his voice—it all replays on a loop, cutting deeper each time. And then his question. Do you have a problem with alcohol?
I don’t. Do I?
I squeeze my eyes shut, desperate to hold back the flood of memories of Nathan, our reckless, drunken night and our foolish attempt to work the next day. But tonight wasn’t like that. Tonight was just… a stupid mistake. A one-off.
But still, I can’t shake off James’s words, the way his hands gripped my arms like he was scared to lose me.
Scared to lose me.
That thought sticks.
He cares.
And somehow, that makes everything worse.
I groan again, louder this time, pressing my face harder into the pillow as if that might block out the mess in my head. Sleep won’t come easily tonight. Not with everything swirling around me like this. Not with the hurt I caused James still fresh in my mind, and the fear that I might lose him for good hanging over my head like a dark cloud.
Eventually the exhaustion wins. My body gives in, and I drift into a restless, uneasy sleep, haunted by the chaos I caused.