Chapter 24
I’ve been awake for hours. Spending the night freaking the fuck out, wondering what would have or could have happened to Rafe if we hadn’t arrived, will do that to a man.
It feels like the ground underneath my life has shifted.
The sun has already risen and climbed into the sky, spilling pale light across the mansion’s kitchen like nothing happened last night.
Like we didn’t drag Rafe out of a house full of strangers while he bled and couldn’t stand.
Like I didn’t watch people laugh at him while my stomach turned with something sharp and violent and sick.
Like my hands weren’t shaking so badly in the car that Vinny quietly asked if I wanted him to drive me somewhere else.
I said no. I said it too fast. Because if I leave—even for a second—I don’t know what happens next.
Rafe is upstairs.
Miles told me he’s still asleep the last time he checked on him. Drew told me he’s okay. Eli told me not to overthink it, which would be easier if my brain wasn’t actively chewing itself to pieces.
Rachael arrived just after eight, all calm efficiency and quiet authority, and told me to breathe—like oxygen has ever fixed a mess this deep.
She’s sitting at the kitchen island now, laptop open, hair pulled into a sleek knot like she’s about to run a board meeting. Which, I guess, she is. She’s fielding calls, typing, setting schedules, moving pieces around on a chessboard while everyone else pretends this is normal.
Rachael doesn’t ask why I’m here. She doesn’t ask why I haven’t left. She doesn’t even ask why I look like I haven’t slept in a week, or why I flinch every time someone says Rafe’s name.
She’s not stupid. I’m sure she’s noticed things over the years—patterns, proximity, the way Rafe orbits me without seeming to realize he’s doing it.
But like any good agent, she keeps her suspicions neatly folded away.
What she doesn’t know, she doesn’t name.
What she doesn’t name, she doesn’t have to manage.
Right now, she’s focused on damage control, not emotional archaeology. And I’m grateful for that, because I don’t think I could survive being seen any more clearly than I already am.
Miles is pacing. Drew is leaning against the counter with a mug of coffee in his hands he hasn’t touched. Eli is on the couch, foot bouncing, eyes fixed on the floor.
Vinny is nearby, not inside the room, but close enough that he might as well be. A presence. A wall. A witness. And Robyn, I think, has the day off. Honestly, she deserves a week if this is the shit she keeps having to deal with.
The last time I was in this kitchen, it was for birthdays and laughter, for music blasting at midnight, for Rafe shoving me against a counter and kissing me like he didn’t know how to stop wanting me.
Now it feels like a hospital waiting room.
Rachael clears her throat. “Okay,” she says, calm and unyielding. “The facility is confirmed. Private entrance. No intake photos. No paperwork trail that can leak. He’ll be admitted under a different name.”
Miles stops pacing, hands on his hips. “He’s gonna hate it.”
She doesn’t blink. “He can hate it all he wants. He needs it.”
Drew rubs a hand over his jaw. “He’s gonna refuse.”
“He won’t,” Rachael says, like she’s already made the decision. “He’ll argue, he’ll insult everyone, and then he’ll go. Because deep down, he knows.”
I breathe in slowly through my nose. I haven’t said much. I’ve been in the room, but it feels like I’m not really in it. Like I’m hovering beside myself, watching it happen. Watching my husband’s life get rearranged by people who love him while I sit here holding the weight of my part in it.
Rachael’s gaze slides to me. “Ollie.”
I look up too slowly. My eyes feel gritty. My head feels too full. “Yes?”
She softens a fraction. Just a fraction. “We need you to talk to him.”
Those words alone tell me she knows a lot more than I gave her credit for.
My heartbeat kicks hard and uneven. “Why me?”
The answer hangs in the air:
Because you’re his husband.
Because he listens to you.
Because he’ll look at you and remember who he is when he isn’t trying to outrun himself.
Miles answers anyway, voice rough. “Because you’re the only one he’ll hear.”
Drew adds quietly, “And because he’s going to ask for you.”
I swallow hard and stare at the countertop. “I can’t,” I say before I can stop myself.
Silence drops into the kitchen, and Eli sits up straighter. Miles’s jaw tightens like he wants to argue, but Rachael holds up a hand before he can.
“Okay,” she says gently. “Tell me why.”
The words pile in my throat. The truth is too big. The truth is too humiliating.
Because I’m furious and terrified. Because I’m not sure I can look at him without seeing her hand on him and his eyes unfocused and his mouth slack, not there, not present—
Because last night didn’t just scare me. It broke something in me.
But I can’t say that. Not out loud. Not in this kitchen.
So instead, I force my voice steady. “Because I’m not the one who should be persuading him to do something he’ll hate.”
Miles scoffs. “He doesn’t hate you.”
My mouth twists. “Not yet.”
That lands like a slap.
Miles goes still. Drew’s eyes flick to me sharply. Eli’s brows draw together. Rachael studies my face for a beat longer than is comfortable, like she can see all the things I’m trying not to say.
Then she nods once. “He’s not in trouble,” she says quietly. “He’s not being punished. He’s being helped.”
I don’t respond. I don’t know how to explain that the help is only half of it. The other half is me. And I don’t know how to fix that without tearing us apart.
Rachael closes her laptop softly. “Go talk to him, Ollie,” she says. “We’ll handle everything else.”
My legs feel heavy when I stand. My body doesn’t want to move. It wants to stay right here where I can pretend this is logistics instead of heartbreak. But my feet carry me anyway, up the stairs, down the hallway, toward Rafe’s bedroom.
The hallway is quiet. Too quiet. I pause outside his door. Breathe in. Breathe out. Then I push it open without knocking.
The room is dim, curtains drawn tight. It smells like Rafe—cologne and sweat and sheets that have held him too many times.
It’s the scent of stale alcohol that makes my nose twitch and straightens my spine.
He’s sprawled on the bed like he dropped there and didn’t bother to land carefully.
Shirt off. Hair a mess. A clean bandage wrapped around his head, stark white against dark curls.
I step in with a bottle of water and painkillers in my hand like I’m walking into a fragile peace negotiation.
Rafe shifts at the sound of the door. His eyes blink open slowly, unfocused. He squints, then winces. “Fuck,” he mutters, voice hoarse. Then his gaze catches properly on me.
His expression changes. Confusion first, then something softer followed quickly by pain. “Thought I imagined you,” he says.
The words twist in my chest. “I’m here,” I manage.
Rafe swallows. He pushes himself up slightly, then freezes and makes a low sound in the back of his throat. He looks nauseated. “Why’re you here?” he asks, voice sharper now, like he’s trying to regain control. Like he can’t handle softness.
I keep the bite out of my tone with effort. “Because you didn’t answer me.”
Rafe’s mouth twists. “I’ve been busy.”
I stare at him, the audacity of it. The sheer, ridiculous denial.
“Busy?” I repeat.
He looks away like my stare is too bright. “I barely check my phone anymore,” he mutters. “There’s always someone wanting something.”
The words hit too close. And the ugliness rises in me like bile. “Including me?” I ask.
Rafe’s head snaps back to me. He rolls his eyes, then winces at the motion, teeth clenching. “I think it’s safe to say that’s not the issue,” he says, voice edged. “You don’t want anything from me, Ollie.”
The words land sharp, so fucking sharp that I flinch. “That’s not fair,” I say, voice low. “I love you.”
He laughs once, humorless. “Yeah, but you don’t actually want a life with me.”
I drag in a breath, but it doesn’t go far. This is the trap. This is where our fights go to die. Circular. Repetitive. Painful. I force myself to keep calm, because if I let it turn into an argument, nothing will get done. And something has to get done.
“Rafe,” I say, softer, “I’m not here to fight.”
He looks at me like he doesn’t believe that’s possible.
So I do the thing I’ve been avoiding, even in my own head. I say it. “I’m here because last night scared the hell out of me.”
Rafe’s expression flickers, defensive. “I was fine.”
“No,” I say immediately, “you weren’t.”
His jaw tightens. He tries to sit up straighter, like posture will fix it. “I had a good time.”
I stare at him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes.
My voice stays calm only because my body feels too hollow for rage to work properly.
“So, you being at a party, unable to stand, barely conscious, and letting someone touch your dick while you couldn’t even keep your eyes open—that’s you being in control? ”
The silence is brutal, and Rafe turns ashen. “What?” he croaks. He looks genuinely horrified. “I didn’t,” he says quickly. “I didn’t—Ollie, I didn’t.”
I swallow hard, throat burning. “That’s what I walked into.”
Rafe’s mouth opens, then closes. His eyes flick away, searching memory that isn’t there. He looks sick. He scrambles upright, too fast again. His legs swing over the side of the bed and he stands, then immediately sways, one hand flying out to the wall to steady himself.
“Fuck—” he hisses, palm slapping to his head again. His fingers find the bandage. “What the fuck is that?”
“Rafe,” I say, moving closer. “Sit down.”
He doesn’t. He’s breathing hard, panic starting to claw through his hangover haze.
“You fell,” I say, trying to stop my voice from shaking. “You hit your head. You were bleeding. Vinny checked you. You didn’t need stitches.”