Chapter 16
HENRY
“I’m not asking for permission.”
She didn’t flinch.
On the screen, her mouth pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing as she stared down her nose at me.
Dark lipstick, hair cut sharp at the jaw, eyes hard as stone… everything about Victoria Hale was designed to hold its ground.
She’d built a career negotiating for writers who’d been labeled difficult to work with.
It was one of the reasons I’d agreed to work with her in the first place.
She didn’t fold.
She didn’t lose.
Right now, it was just pissing me off.
Her eyes fell shut for a beat before reopening. “Henry—”
“I said I’m not asking.” My thumb ground into the edge of my laptop. “He’s already doing the work. He’s reading drafts, flagging inconsistencies, restructuring sections I didn’t even realize needed it. You don’t get to pretend that doesn’t count because his name isn’t on the contract.”
“That’s not how publishing works.”
“No,” I said evenly. “It’s exactly how it works. You just don’t like that I’m the one deciding.”
“We can revisit this for the next—”
“No.”
I leaned back in my chair, gaze drifting to the spread of marked-up pages across my desk. Archie’s handwriting cut through mine in sharp, precise notes. There were questions in the margins and arrows connecting ideas I’d left loose.
“You’ll add him,” I said. “Co-author, contributor. Pick one. His name is going on the front cover.”
Right next to mine.
“Henry—”
“Make it happen.”
She didn’t even try to hide her displeasure. “I’ll pass it along to your publisher, but you know this isn’t in your contract.”
“Am I supposed to give a shit?”
“You’re scheduled for a full summer circuit, Henry.” She said through her teeth. “Universities, panels, interviews, book signings. You’re presenting this as your research. Your name is already attached to everything that’s been printed.”
“He did the work, Victoria.”
“That isn’t the point.”
“It is to me.”
Her expression didn’t change, but I could see the calculation behind it now, the way she was already moving pieces, measuring fallout. “You don’t get to change the terms after delivery. That’s not how this works.”
My hand flattened against the desk, then pushed the pages forward an inch like that would make the point land harder through the screen.
“I’m not putting it out without him.”
That got her attention. Not visibly—Victoria didn’t do visible—but something in her posture shifted a fraction tighter.
“You’re prepared to hold the release?”
“If that’s what it takes.”
“And what exactly are you expecting them to do, Henry? Rewrite marketing? Reprint materials? Add him to the tour?”
“Yes.”
Her eyes held mine through the screen. “You’re asking them to add Archibald to something that’s already been sold. You’re asking me.”
“I’m telling you.”
The laptop snapped shut with a sharp crack that echoed through the room.
My hand stayed where it was on the desk for a second, fingers splayed against the wood, then they curled.
The pencil between them bent before I registered the pressure.
A second more, and it snapped.
I stared at the broken halves in my hand for a beat, graphite dust smearing faintly against my fingers, then dropped them onto the desk without looking.
My phone lit up against the desk, vibrations sharp enough I somehow felt them in my teeth.
I picked it up. “Rothwell.”
A breath hit the receiver, followed by a sound that didn’t quite make it into a word.
My posture shifted before I consciously registered it. “Hello?”
“D—Daddy?”
Archie.
I was already on my feet.
The chair scraped back hard enough to echo, forgotten as I crossed the office in three strides, phone pressed tight to my ear, keys snatched off the desk without looking. “Where are you?”
“I— I don’t—”
“Look around, sweetheart,” I said, wrenching open the front door. “Tell me what you see.”
There was a scuffle on the other end, fabric shifting, the phone jostling hard enough to crack with static before someone else took it. “Hey. Uhm, it’s Rhys.”
“Where’s Archibald?” I barked.
“He’s with me. We’re outside your house. Or… we think it’s yours.” Wind pushed through the line, low traffic behind it. “Row of brownstones, all the same damn brick. Which one of these is yours?”
“519.”
I took the front steps two at a time—shoes hitting concrete in sharp, hollow cracks that could have carried down the block.
Wood snapped into frame, glass rattling in its panes as the door slammed shut behind me.
All of that noise was drowned out, swallowed whole by the rush in my ears.
“Tell me what happened, Rhys.”
I hit the sidewalk without breaking stride, already turning, scanning the street like I could pull him into focus just by looking hard enough.
“He… had a panic attack. The door handle broke off.” Rhys dragged in a breath that broke in his throat, words forced through it as his steps hit uneven beside someone who wouldn’t stop moving. “He has, uhm, not claustrophobia, but it sounds similar. Cl—”
“Cleithrophobia.” I finished.
Fear of being trapped.
“Yes—that.” Rhys said, like he was watching him instead of talking to me. “He’s okay. I got him out. He’s just… not really with me yet.”
I turned the corner and saw them at the end of the block.
Archie was pacing in tight, restless lines that didn’t take him anywhere, hands dragging through his hair and over his face, like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.
His shoulders were pulled high, breath visibly uneven even from this distance, the movement of his chest wrong—too fast and too shallow.
Baby.
My hand dropped, the phone shoved into my pocket without ending the call. I was already moving before it settled, stride breaking into something faster, the distance between us suddenly unbearable.
The pavement came up hard under my feet, rhythm uneven because I wasn’t bothering to pace it, just cutting the space down in straight lines instead of following the sidewalk like a normal person would.
He turned without me saying his name. When his eyes found mine, they were wide and unfocused for half a second before everything in them snapped into place. Relief hit so hard it looked painful, like he’d been holding himself together by force and finally didn’t have to.
“Daddy—”
The space between us collapsed in seconds.
Pace breaking, his toe caught just enough to send him pitching forward. I grabbed him under the arms before he could fall, hauling him against me.
His legs came up instinctively, locking around my waist, arms wrapping tight around my shoulders like he wasn’t letting go.
Not after just finding me.
Face pressed into the base of my neck, his chest knocked against mine in sharp, off-rhythm bursts that hadn’t settled yet.
My hold tightened in response, one arm braced solid under him, the other sliding up his back.
“I’ve got you,” I said, mouth close to his temple, voice low enough it didn’t have to compete with the way his breathing kept breaking against me. “You’re out. You’re with me. I’ve got you.”
“I couldn’t get out,” he said into my neck, words muffled. “It wouldn’t open— I tried—”
“I know, baby.” I kissed his temple. “You’re out now. With me.”
My eyes lifted over his shoulder, landing on Rhys still standing there, watching, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Thank you,” I said.
Rhys blinked, like he wasn’t sure what to do with that, then let out a breath that looked like it had been sitting in his chest the whole time. “Yeah. I mean—of course.” He shook his head once. “He needed out. I just got him here.”
“I know,” I said, and I meant it.
Rhys mattered to Archie.
He was where Archie went when things slipped—someone he’d already let close and already trusted to see him unravel and stay anyway. A place he landed without thinking about it first.
That kind of access didn’t come easy. It was earned, and I respected it for exactly that reason.
As long as Rhys kept him steady instead of knocking him off balance.
The line wasn’t complicated.
Keep him safe or step out of the way.
There wasn’t anything in between.
“I’m gonna go,” Rhys added, glancing at Archie again. “Give you some space. I’ll call you later, okay, Arch?”
There was a small movement against my neck, something like a nod.
“I’ve got him,” I said, shifting my grip, one arm tightening under him as I turned back toward the house. “You’re good.”
Rhys hesitated a second longer, then nodded and backed off, already pulling his keys from his pocket.
“Stay with me, Rabbit.” I murmured, starting down the sidewalk, my hand still moving slow and steady along his back, the same path over and over until it started to mean something. “We’re going home.”
“Home,” he breathed, the word catching it like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want it.
Something in my chest pulled tight enough to make me want to split myself open and put him there—keep him where nothing could get to him.
I cut across the grass instead of the walk. “Can we go inside?” I asked, slowing as we hit the bottom step. “Or do you need a minute out here?”
His arms tightened around me.
“Inside,” he said, voice rough. “With you.”
The porch gave under my weight, old wood creaking in a way I normally would’ve noticed. Not today. There was only him.
I nudged the door open and walked us through without stopping.
“Dont—” he muttered, voice scraping, barely there. “Don’t lock it.”
“I won’t, baby.”
Something in me bolted into place—violent in its clarity.
Protect. Protect. Protect.
It was visceral—hitting like a surge beneath my skin.
Nothing in this house would trap him. Nothing would even suggest it could.
My gaze flicked once, taking in the hinges, the frame, and the way the door sat in its track like it had the right to shut when it wanted to.
It didn’t.
Not anymore.
The urge to tear it clean off crossed my mind so fast it almost felt reasonable—rip the whole thing out, leave the space open, and make sure there was never anything between him and air again.
I took the stairs without breaking rhythm.