Chapter 15
Chapter
Fifteen
FALLON
On my way to the restroom, I snatch a champagne flute from a passing waiter's tray.
One drink won't hurt. The crystal is cool against my palm as I bring it to my lips and drain it in one long swallow, the bubbles burning down my throat.
Empty. I set the glass on an abandoned cocktail table without breaking stride, my heels clicking against marble as I navigate through clusters of Los Angeles' elite who wouldn't notice me if I burst into flames.
The bathroom materializes like salvation—all white marble and gold fixtures, the kind of restroom that costs more than most people's cars.
I push through the door into blessed solitude and lock myself in the furthest stall, my back hitting the partition as my carefully controlled breathing finally shatters.
The panic attack hits like a fist to the chest. My lungs constrict, air coming in short gasps that don't reach deep enough. The walls close in. My vision tunnels. I press my palms flat against cool tile and count—one, two, three, four—forcing oxygen in and out with deliberate precision.
This is survival. This is what I've learned to do. Break down efficiently, quickly, where no one can see the cracks.
She's engaged to him. The thought loops endlessly. Sweet, beautiful Grace with her Southern charm and genuine kindness is wearing his ring.
And I wanted him. Want him. Let him touch me in ways Daniel never has—with gentleness, with desire that felt mutual instead of obligatory.
The shame tastes like champagne and bile.
Minutes pass—I don't know how many—before my breathing steadies, before the room stops spinning. I can't stay here forever. Daniel will notice eventually, will demand explanations I can't give. I emerge from the stall on unsteady legs and approach the sink.
The mirror reflects a woman in control, calm, nothing like I feel.
I wash my hands then pull out the compact from my clutch. A touch more powder. Lipstick reapplied with steady hands that betray nothing. The mask slides back into place, perfected over three years of practice.
When I look presentable—when I look like Mrs. Daniel Reid instead of the mess underneath—I push back out into the hallway.
The corridor stretches long and empty, voices from the gala muffled by thick walls and distance. My heels echo too loud against marble as I walk toward the noise, toward the performance I need to resume.
I don't make it far.
Strong hands yank me sideways into one of the rooms lining the hall. A palm covers my mouth before sound can form, cutting off the scream building in my throat. The door slams shut behind us and suddenly I'm pressed against it, a hard body pinning me in place from behind.
"Didn't expect to see you here."
The voice is low, rough, immediately recognizable. My body responds before my mind catches up—pulse racing, skin heating, every nerve ending suddenly alive.
His hand drops from my mouth.
"What are you doing?" The words come out breathy, shocked.
"I needed you alone." His body presses closer, heat radiating through expensive fabric. His mouth finds my ear. "Fuck, Peaches, this dress is driving me crazy."
The growl in his voice does something terrible to me. Something wrong and intoxicating and absolutely forbidden. I feel him hardening against my back and liquid heat pools low in my belly, my body betraying every moral boundary I should be maintaining.
This is so wrong.
Grace's face flashes through my mind—her genuine smile, her kind eyes, that stunning engagement ring catching the light.
I struggle against his hold, my body twisting instinctively away from his heat. "No."
He releases me immediately—not reluctantly, not with hesitation, just instant compliance. But he doesn't retreat far. Still crowds my space, still close enough that his presence fills every molecule of air between us. His scent invades my lungs with each breath.
I whip around. My palm connects with his face before thought catches up to action. The sharp crack echoes through the small room like a gunshot.
"You're engaged." The accusation tears from my throat, sharp and damning. My hand stings from the impact, but the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional chaos churning through me.
He moves faster than I can track. His hands close around my wrists—firm but not painful, god, why is it never painful with him?
—pinning them to the door on either side of my head.
His face is suddenly inches from mine. Close enough that I can see the faint stubble darkening his jaw, the way his pupils dilate as he stares at me.
His eyes blaze with something that makes my knees weak, makes heat pool low in my belly despite everything.
"And you're married." His voice is rough gravel dragged over raw skin.
The truth hangs between us like a weapon, damning and undeniable.
He has a point—of course he has a point.
But he doesn't understand. Can't possibly understand the difference between his relationship and mine.
Doesn't know what happens behind the closed doors of my perfect house, how the charming man I married transformed into a devil who owns me like property.
Who marks my skin with bruises carefully positioned where no one can see.
Who breaks things—objects, bones, spirits—with calculated precision.
But Grace... sweet, genuine Grace with her open smile and kind eyes deserves better than being betrayed by her fiancé and some pathetic married woman who can't keep her hands off her student.
"It's different," I manage, the words scraping past the tightness in my throat.
"Oh?" Challenge loads that single syllable with weight. His thumbs stroke the inside of my wrists—gentle, maddening circles that make my pulse race faster. "Different how, Peaches?"
"Daniel's not a good person." The admission costs me.
I don't want to spell it out, don't want to detail the bruises and broken bones and constant fear that defines my existence.
He wouldn't understand anyway—no one ever does.
People see Daniel's expensive suits and political smile and assume I'm lucky.
They don't see the devil behind the mask. "But Grace is good."
"Yeah, she is." The immediate agreement hurts more than a slap. Then his mouth curves slightly—not quite a smile, something darker and more complicated. "She's sweet and good." He leans closer, eliminating what little space remained between us. His breath warms my skin. "And she's my sister."
I stare at him. Brain struggling to process the words, to reshape the reality I thought I understood. "Your... sister?"
"Yes, Peaches. She's my sister." His voice drops lower, rougher. "My half-sister, technically. Same dad. Grace just met him—met all of us—a few months ago."
The relief that floods through me is immediate and overwhelming.
Wrong on every level—I shouldn't care whether he's engaged or not, shouldn't feel this desperate gratitude that the ring on Grace's finger doesn't mean what I thought it meant.
I'm still married. Still his teacher. Still crossing every ethical line that matters.
But God, the relief is intoxicating.
His face moves closer—not kissing, not yet, just shifting position until his mouth hovers near my neck. He inhales deeply, like he's trying to memorize my scent, and the groan that escapes him is pure hunger. The sound vibrates through me, igniting every nerve ending.
"You drive me fucking crazy." His voice is wrecked, stripped of the careful control I'm used to. This is raw need, unfiltered desire. "You smell so goddamn good. I want another taste of you."
My head spins. Lost in his scent and heat and the words that should terrify me but instead make me want things I have no right to want.
Logic dissolves like sugar in rain. Morality blurs at the edges.
Everything narrows to this moment, this man, this dangerous desire burning through my carefully constructed control like wildfire through dry grass.
His hands still pin my wrists to the wall.
I could ask him to let go—know he would release me immediately if I said the word.
But I don't. Can't force the protest past my lips because some treacherous part of me likes this.
Likes being held. Likes feeling desired.
Likes the way his body crowds mine without demanding, claims without destroying.
God help me, I want him.
Want his hands on me, his mouth against my skin. Want to forget—even for stolen moments—what my life has become. Want to feel something other than fear and numbness and the constant dread that follows me through every waking hour.
"This is wrong," I whisper, but the words lack conviction. Sounding like a prayer without faith.
"I know." His mouth brushes my neck—barely touching, just enough pressure to make me gasp. "Tell me to stop and I will."
The offer hangs between us. A choice. Permission and power handed back to me when I haven't had either in years.
I should tell him to stop. Should push him away, straighten my dress, return to the gala where my husband waits with his campaign smile and monitoring eyes. Should remember that Kade is my student, that I'm ten years older, that this crosses every professional and moral boundary that exists.
"I'm pregnant," I whisper.
The words slip out before I can stop them, before conscious thought catches up to the confession. His body goes absolutely still against mine. For one terrible heartbeat, I think he'll release me. Walk away. Leave me here with the truth hanging in the air like poison.
Then his hands tighten fractionally on my wrists—not painful, never painful, just there. Grounding.
Kade's exhale is warm against my neck. Then his mouth moves again—soft kisses trailing up the column of my throat, across my jaw. Gentle in ways I've forgotten touch can be.
"That doesn't change anything," he murmurs against my skin. "Not for me."