Chapter 18
eighteen
ELLIOTT
I found them curled up together, a treasonous pile of limbs and blankets.
I didn’t bother knocking before I cracked the door. “Is Steve—” I stopped. The dog was tucked firmly into the crook of Vanessa’s knees, peeking over the duvet like a furry bodyguard.
“Et tu, Steve?” I strolled in and plopped down on the edge of the mattress. Vanessa was buried under a mountain of pillows, a tub of popcorn balanced on her lap. “I thought you only ate Cheetos and the hearts of young children,” I said, snatching a handful of popcorn.
Steve didn't hesitate; he abandoned her lap for the snack in my hand. I shot her a smug look, even though I knew the dog was a mercenary for whoever held the calories.
“The popcorn balances out my bloodthirsty diet,” she said sweetly.
“That smile is so artificial it could cause cancer,” I fired back.
It was our rhythm. Cut, parry, bleed. We had been dealing in paper cuts for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like not to have a blade between us.
The hug at the party and the way I’d jumped to her defense earlier that day sat like an unexploded bomb between us.
I hadn't mentioned it. I didn't think she would, either.
“So, how does the great Vanessa Miranda unwind?” I asked, scooting toward the head of the bed and propping myself up against a mountain of pillows.
She stayed quiet, letting the TV answer. I chewed thoughtfully—until the screen flashed a graphic crime scene photo of a blood covered basement floor. I nearly choked.
“THIS?! This is how you relax?!”
“You knew I liked true crime,” she said, completely unfazed by the arterial spray on the screen.
“Yeah, but this? Right before bed? That’s demented, Ness.”
She shoved a handful of popcorn into my mouth to shut me up. I chewed through it, using her own blanket to shield my eyes when the autopsy photos popped up. “How do you sleep at night?” I mumbled.
“Like a newborn baby. Why do you care, anyway? And why are you in my bed? Get out.” She shoved at my hip with her feet, but I stayed rooted.
“If I told you I heard a noise and was scared, would you protect me?” I asked.
“No. I’d throw you to the wolves.”
“You wouldn’t get to keep the house, you know. The jet tub goes to Morgan in the will.”
“I’m an excellent forger,” she deadpanned.
I settled back against the headboard, the popcorn bowl wedged between us. I watched her sink into the pillows, her eyes fixed on the screen with a strange, analytical intensity. “Seriously, why do you like this stuff?”
“I love puzzles,” she admitted softly. “And it’s pure, morbid curiosity.
Why do people do what they do? Why murder your wife so you can live with your mistress?
Why not just get a divorce?” She gestured toward the screen.
“Men in general—endlessly fascinating. How you’ve made it this far in life baffles me. ”
I looked at her, the blue light of the TV casting shadows across her face. “Do you ever wonder why Javi cheated?”
Her head snapped toward me. The playfulness died instantly. I hadn't meant it as a jab—I was just blunt, and I wanted to know how her mind worked.
“You know, they say it’s never about the person being cheated on, but it’s hard to see it that way when you’re in it,” she said, her voice dropping an octave.
“Honestly, he did me a favor. What hurt worse was him stealing my designs. That was….” She sighed, shoving more popcorn into her mouth.
“No more serious talk. My head hurts. What’s Satan’s guilty pleasure? Other than death and mayhem.”
“You can’t laugh,” I warned.
“Cross my heart.” She made a sign of the cross over her chest.
I hesitated, then handed her my phone. She stared at the screen, her brow furrowing. “No way. You’re lying.”
“I swear.”
Dozens of episodes of a bridal reality show were queued up in my history. Brides, lace, and emotional breakdowns over hemlines.
“Why?” she whispered.
“I don’t know. I think it reminds me of mom,” I said, the honesty sticking in my throat. I waited for her to mock me, but she didn't. She just watched me with an expression that felt too much like pity. I needed to break it.
“Big, bad Elliott James—a sucker for happily ever afters?”
“Shut up, Ness.” I threw a kernel at her. She missed it. I threw another.
“Oh, this is gold,” she laughed, her eyes lighting up. “I’m going to torture you with this. A new chapter in our saga.”
“You’d better not, psychopath.”
I reached out and started tickling her—under her arms, the sensitive skin behind her knees. She thrashed and shrieked, tears of laughter streaking her face. “Okay! YOU WIN!”
I crawled up, pinning her wrists against the pillows.
For a second, the laughter died. I was inches from her face, and the air in the room suddenly felt too thin to breathe.
I felt her heart hammering against my chest. My eyes flicked to her lips—just once—and the realization of where I was hit me like a physical blow.
I rolled off her, retreating to my side of the bed as the next episode started. We watched two more in a heavy, charged silence until her breathing eventually evened out.
She fell asleep with the TV still flickering, her face finally losing the sharp edge of the armor she wore when she was awake.
I stayed there for a long while, watching the steady rise and fall of her shoulders.
Something had been bothering me—a hitch in her step she thought I didn't see, the way she’d adjusted her position a dozen times tonight as if she couldn't get comfortable.
She’d been doing her best to hide that knee from me since the first time I’d caught her limping, pulling her hem down or shifting behind her chair whenever I looked too closely. It was a silent game of redirection, and I’d let her play it because I wasn't sure I was ready for the answer.
But now, in the quiet of the room, the curiosity felt like a lead weight in my gut.
I needed to see. Not because I wanted to pry, but because the version of the story I’d told myself for years—the one where she was the villain in my story—was starting to feel like a lie.
With a hand that wasn't entirely steady, I carefully peeled back the edge of the duvet.
The sight of it hit me harder than I expected.
Her pajama shorts were hiked up, revealing the leg I tried so hard not to think about.
I reached out, my fingers hovering an inch above the skin, afraid that even the air from my hand might hurt her.
The scarring was extensive—a jagged, silvery roadmap that I hadn't realized was so long, or so deep. I found myself imagining the trauma that had left such a mark, the shattered pieces I’d never bothered to know about.
There had to be metal in there. There had to have been countless stitches, maybe more than one surgery, to keep a leg looking like that.
My chest ached with a familiar, suffocating guilt.
I’d spent years telling myself my parents were dead because of her but here she was held together by stitches and ligaments.
My chest ached with a familiar, suffocating guilt. I’d blamed her because it was easier than grief. It was easier to hate than to feel anything else. I pulled the blanket back up, tucking it gently around her waist.
“I’m sorry, Ness,” I whispered to the quiet room.
I didn't mean to fall asleep, but the exhaustion of the week caught up to me.
I woke hours later to a sharp, stifled cry. The bed shifted violently. Vanessa was jackknifed upright, her face slick with sweat.
“Ness?”
She didn't answer. She tried to swing her legs off the bed, but her left leg locked, rigid and useless. She collapsed onto the floor before I could catch her.
“Jesus Christ!” I lunged off the bed, scooping her up and laying her back on the mattress. She was gasping, her eyes dilated with agony.
“My leg. The pain,” she choked out.
I started to rub the muscle, but she groaned so sharply I jerked my hands back. “What do I do? Tell me.”
“Nothing. It lasts hours. Like a charley horse that won't quit.”
I didn’t think; I just reacted. I bolted for the laundry room and grabbed a wide plastic storage bin—the kind meant for heavy loads. I hauled it into the kitchen, dumping the entire contents of the ice maker into it before topping it off with cold water.
The bin was heavy and awkward, but I carried it back to the bedroom, the water sloshing over the sides. I set it down on a towel at the foot of the bed and knelt in front of her.
“Ness, look at me. Trust me,” I said. My voice was firm, the tone I used when a merger was failing and I needed everyone to stay calm. I didn't leave her any room to argue.
I slid my arms under her calves and gently guided her legs toward the edge of the mattress.
I lowered her injured leg into the freezing water, supporting her thigh so the ice could fully submerge the knee.
She let out a sharp, ragged breath—a sound of pure shock—but within seconds, I saw the white-knuckled tension leave her jaw.
The cold was doing what I couldn't: it was numbing the nerve and forcing the muscle to surrender.
I stayed there on the floor, bracing the bin with my own body so she wouldn't slip, my hand resting just above the waterline on her thigh. It was a grounding wire, a way to tell her I wasn't going anywhere.
I stayed there on the floor for a long time, bracing the bucket with my feet and keeping one hand steady on her thigh to keep her leg submerged.
We were face to face. I watched the color return to her cheeks, my hand grounding her.
It felt more intimate than any of the sketches I’d seen in her notebook.
Eventually, her eyes fluttered shut. I dried her leg with a towel, tucked her back in, and—knowing I wouldn't sleep a wink otherwise—I climbed in behind her.
I draped my arm over her waist, pulling her back against me until there was no daylight left between us.
I stayed awake for a long time, watching the shadows stretch across the wall, standing guard against the pain that seemed determined to steal her peace.
When the sun started to bleed through the curtains, I felt her wake. She froze. I knew the exact second she realized my arm was heavy around her and that my body was reacting to hers with morning wood I couldn't control.
I felt her squirm, her hips pressing further into me.
“Morning,” I murmured against her hair, my voice raspy.
She wiggled again, trying to escape. I tightened my grip for just a second. “When you wiggle your ass like that, Ness, you’re just making it worse.”
I felt her go still, the air between us crackling with a different kind of tension. I finally let go, and she was out of the bed before I could breathe. She looked shaken, her eyes wide as she headed for the door.
“Nessa.”
“Please. Don't make me talk about it,” she begged.
I felt a sharp flicker of disappointment, but I didn't press. She stopped at the door, turned back, and squeezed my hand for a brief, fleeting second.
“Thank you, Elliott. Really.”
Then she hobbled away, leaving me alone in a bed that suddenly felt far too cold.