Chapter 23 #2
The car hits a bump, and my stomach lurches. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
“And that’s my job because…?” he snaps before clearing his throat. Miles sighs, then glances at me sideways. “Sorry. You think I didn’t want to?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
Vinny clears his throat from the front seat. “We’re heading to the party now,” he says. “He’s been there a couple of hours. Robyn’s there.”
“A couple—” I press my fingers into my knee. “What kind of party? He mentioned it briefly, but I’m not sure what the party is for.”
Miles huffs out a humorless laugh. “It’s at Stenton Carranza’s place.”
My stomach sinks. Stenton Carranza is infamous. Legendary musician, legendary excess. The kind of name that comes with stories you hear secondhand and don’t fully believe until you see them for yourself.
“Fuck,” I whisper.
Miles nods. “Yeah.”
The rest of the drive passes in a tense blur. My mind keeps leaping ahead, imagining scenarios I don’t want to picture. Rafe drunk but fine. Rafe drunk and sloppy. Rafe with someone else’s hands on him. Rafe so far gone he doesn’t know where he is.
I hate myself for not knowing how bad it’s gotten.
For being relieved when the distance made things quieter.
For thinking space was safer than presence.
When we pull up to the mansion, it’s chaos. Cars line the street in every direction. Music thumps through the walls so loud I feel it in my teeth. Lights flash from inside like it’s a club instead of someone’s home.
Vinny parks as close as possible. “We go straight in and straight out,” he says. “Stick close.”
I nod, heart hammering.
Inside, it’s worse.
The smell hits first—alcohol, sweat, something chemical and sharp that makes my nose burn. The room is packed wall to wall with people, bodies pressed together, voices raised over the music. Someone stumbles into me immediately, laughing, apologizing, already gone.
My pulse spikes.
There are lines of white on a glass table near the entrance. Someone is bent over it, snorting openly, no attempt at discretion. Another person watches, amused, filming on their phone.
A cold wave of fear washes through me. If I get photographed here, Coach will lose his mind. The franchise will lose trust, and everything I’ve clawed back since the Kirk incident could evaporate.
But this isn’t about me. This is about Rafe.
Miles leads the way, Vinny close behind me like a shadow, having already told us that Rafe’s in the media room. We move through the crowd with purpose, drawing annoyed looks and drunken protests. Someone shouts Miles’s name from across the room.
My pulse pounds loudly.
The media room is tucked away at the back of the house, and Robyn is standing outside it in the hallway, looking all levels of pissed off. When we push the door open, the sound dims slightly, but the scene inside makes my stomach roll.
There are maybe eight people sprawled across couches and the floor. A coffee table is littered with bottles, crushed cans, white residue smeared carelessly across the surface.
Rafe’s on the couch.
He’s slumped back like gravity won, head tipped against the cushions, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat.
There’s a whiskey bottle in his hand, loose-fingered, like he forgot what he was holding halfway through the night.
His eyes are glassy, unfocused, blinking slow like it takes effort just to stay awake.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
He looks wrecked. Not the playful drunk I know. Not relaxed and laughing. He looks hollowed out, like something vital has been drained from him and replaced with noise and hands and heat.
And there are hands.
A woman is pressed into his side, too close, laughing in his ear like he’s said something charming, like he’s fully there with her. She’s got one arm looped around him possessively, her other hand in his pants, clearly jacking him off. My stomach flips violently.
Rafe doesn’t react. Not really. His body doesn’t lean into it. His hands don’t find her. His mouth doesn’t curve into anything close to intention. He’s just… there. Breathing. Barely conscious.
Something inside me goes ice-cold.
Then molten.
Because this isn’t flirting. This isn’t messy-but-mutual. This is someone touching my husband when he can’t even keep his head upright.
I take a step forward without thinking.
Someone laughs loudly. Someone else does another line, wiping their nose with the back of their hand like it’s normal. Like this whole room is normal.
Rafe’s gaze drifts, unfixed, then catches on me.
It takes a beat for recognition to land—like his brain has to fight through the fog to find my face.
Then his eyes widen. “Ollie?” he slurs, then tries to push himself upright too fast, shoulders rolling forward like his body is trying to remember how to stand. “Wha—whats youdoins here?”
Heads turn and attention shifts like a spotlight. Heat floods my face, and my hands clench into fists at my sides, pure instinct, pure protective rage.
Miles mutters, low and sharp, “Fuck.”
The woman beside Rafe laughs like this is cute. Like I’m a surprise guest. “Oh my God,” she says, voice syrupy. “Are you—”
“Get off him,” I say. My voice doesn’t shake. It doesn’t crack. It comes out flat and deadly, like it doesn’t belong to me.
She blinks at me, startled, then scoffs. “Excuse me?”
Rafe sways. His hand slips off the bottle. It thuds onto the carpet, rolling away.
I move again, faster, stepping in front of where he’s sitting. “Hey,” I snap, catching Rafe by the shoulders. “Rafe. Look at me.”
His eyes fight to focus. His mouth moves like he’s trying to form words, but they don’t land properly.
The woman stands, annoyed now. “He’s fine. Relax—”
“No,” I cut in, louder this time. “He’s not.”
My chest is heaving, adrenaline sharp and sick in my bloodstream. I glance around the room—at the laughing, at the filming, at the faces that look entertained instead of concerned—and something in me turns feral.
I don’t care who they are. I don’t care whose mansion this is. I don’t care what this looks like. This is my husband, and he’s not safe.
The woman reaches for Rafe as he tries to stand. I turn toward her, blocking her, just as his knees buckle instantly.
“Rafe, don’t—” I say sharply, moving faster, but too late. He smacks his head on the corner of a table on the way down. “Fuck.” I brace him fully against me, hauling him up like I’m holding him together by force alone.
He makes a small sound—confused, dazed—then sags into me, too heavy, too loose.
Too gone.
My stomach clenches. I turn my head just enough to look at Miles. He’s already moving.
Robyn clears a path, her face thunderous, Miles at her side, ordering, “Out. Now.”
Vinny appears next to us, and we haul Rafe up between us. I fasten his pants before we push through the room. Someone complains. Someone films. Someone calls out his name again.
I don’t look back.
Outside, the cool night air hits us like a shock. Rafe retches almost immediately, bending over and vomiting onto the grass. I hold his shoulders, rubbing his back automatically.
“I’m… sorry,” he slurs. “Didn’t mean—fuck, I’m… sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I say, though it isn’t. “Just breathe.”
Vinny cleans the cut on his head quickly, efficient and calm. “Doesn’t look deep,” he says. “No stitches. We’ll monitor him.”
Rafe sags against me, heavy and unsteady. “I missed you,” he murmurs, words thick. “Love you.”
My throat closes. “I know,” I whisper, even as my heart breaks open.
We get him into the car, Rafe half-conscious, head lolling against the window.
As the car pulls away—Robyn following closely—Rafe’s hand fumbles blindly until it finds mine. His grip is weak but desperate. “I didn’ts means to,” he says again. “I just—”
“I know,” I repeat, though I don’t know what I’m forgiving.
Rafe slumps back against the seat, eyes fluttering shut, his grip on my hand loosening but not letting go.
His breathing is uneven, shallow in a way that makes my chest ache.
I lift my gaze and meet Miles’s eyes in the visor mirror.
It’s brief. No words. No nod. Just a look that lands hard and stays there a second too long.
This is bad. The kind of bad that settles in your bones and doesn’t leave.
Miles looks away first, jaw tight, shoulders rigid, like he’s bracing for something he already knows is coming: Something has to change.
The certainty hits me without ceremony, cold and absolute, and I feel it lodge in my chest like a weight I won’t be able to set down.
Outside, the city blurs past, bright and careless and loud.
Inside the car, everything is quiet except for Rafe’s breathing and the slow, terrifying realization that loving him is no longer enough to keep him safe.