Chapter 18 Nick
NICK
Icouldn’t move. Her words hit like a gut punch, stopping everything.
Breathing, thinking, blinking. Just… gone.
The air around me thickened, clamped down on my chest. All the pieces that never quite fit—her flinches, her cold walls, the way she looked like she was always bracing for something—they snapped into place with violent clarity.
And suddenly, it made sense. Why she didn’t want to go home.
Why she always seemed a second away from bolting.
Did her mom know? She had to. But how could she ignore something like that?
My fork clattered against the plate as I stood, heart racing. I took the stairs two at a time, blood roaring in my ears, anger burning in my throat, though I didn’t know who it was for—her mother, her stepdad, myself.
And then I saw her.
She stood by the bed, undressing, her back to me. Her bra strap was cutting across her smooth, flawless skin. Just her in panties and a black bra, the curves of her hips framed by the low light pouring in through the window.
I froze again—but for an entirely different reason.
My body reacted instantly, traitorously. I should’ve turned away, should’ve said something. But I just stood there. Watching. Wanting. Guilt twisted in my gut, but the desire was stronger. I’d pictured this moment since the first day I saw her. And now that it was real, it hurt.
Not because of how beautiful she was, but because now I understand the pain she carried beneath that beauty.
“Why did you tell me something so personal just now?”
She pulled on the black shirt she wore to work like armor, and I stayed frozen, locked in some sick mix of lust and heartbreak.
She had a beautiful body but a poisoned mind and heart.
That thought pulsed through me. And now, I knew the reason for both.
Still, my body didn’t care about her trauma.
It only knew she was close, half-dressed, and mine, at least on paper.
“I know we are married, but can a girl get some privacy?” Her voice was calm, but there was steel under it. She looked over her shoulder, challenging me with just a glance.
I didn’t move. Couldn’t. My eyes drank her in like I’d been starving.
“Who’s that dog?” she asked, grabbing the rest of her clothes.
I blinked, breaking from the trance. My eyes landed on the framed picture on my nightstand—Chaos and I, his goofy tongue out, both of us grinning like idiots.
“That was Chaos, my K-9.” I rubbed the back of my neck, trying to find my footing. “We were partners in crime. Best friends.”
She bent over to grab her pants. And Jesus. The vision that flashed in my head—her bent over like that, face buried in my pillow, me behind her, taking her how I’d imagined a hundred times—nearly made me groan out loud.
She had to know what she was doing.
“Why is a dog your best friend?” she teased.
“Was,” I corrected her.
She looked at me again, something flickering in her eyes. “Don’t you think I should know stuff like that? I’m sure your number one fan, Alexa, knows more about my husband than his wife.”
“What do you think I was trying to do downstairs? And what makes you think Alexa is my number one fan? We never went on missions together. She was already in the reserves when I returned. That’s how we got to know each other.
She was looking for a job, so I offered her one at Villa Ravenna. We’re friends. Nothing more.”
The air shifted.
She turned, her expression unreadable as she walked toward me. My back hit the top step. She didn’t stop until her bare feet were inches from mine. My heart thudded. Her scent—soft and warm, like vanilla and skin—wrapped around me.
“Have you and her fucked before?” Soft. Almost too soft. But it was loaded, sharp—a test.
Jealousy? Or was it something deeper—freedom, now that she’d finally let me see the darkest part of her?
“Don’t change the subject. Why did you tell me what you just told me?”
Her lips were right there. And God, I wanted to taste them.
“We’re married. If this is going to work, then we can’t lie to each other, right?”
Her lips dropped to mine. It wasn’t soft or hesitant—it was deliberate, like she needed to anchor herself. Like she wanted to feel something real. And I wanted nothing more than to press my lips on hers. This girl—she made me crazy. She tore me apart and held me together all at once.
“Good point. Does anyone besides me know?”
“Yes. Olga. She was my nanny growing up.”
“Why haven’t you told your mom?”
Her eyes dimmed. She pulled back just slightly.
“Because she wouldn’t believe me. And it’s none of your business why I haven’t told her.”
That snapped something inside me.
I grabbed her wrists, maybe harder than I meant to. I needed her to hear me. To feel how serious I was.
“It is my business. I’m your husband.”
“Fake husband.” She threw the word like a dagger.
I flinched. It shouldn’t have hurt. But it did. My body felt suddenly cold. My blood drained to my feet. Maybe this started as fake, but nothing about how I felt for her was pretend.
What kind of mother doesn’t believe her daughter?
He wasn’t even her real dad.
The rage surged. Confusion clamped down on me like a vice, my thoughts spiraling as I stared at her—this beautiful, broken woman who kept rewriting everything I thought I knew.
“My stepdad is one of the biggest producers in Hollywood. He has lots of power and made it very clear that if I ever told my mom or anyone, there would be consequences.”
My blood boiled with rage, and I felt my fists clench at my sides.
What a sick bastard
I’ve killed plenty of people in my lifetime, but I never wanted to kill someone as much as I wanted to kill him.
“And my mom is brilliant about turning her cheek and keeping her head in the clouds, so it’s not even worth it.”
She breaks eye contact and starts to walk down the stairs. Brushing past me, I catch a whiff of her perfume. Spice mixed with vanilla. She smelled so good.
“It is worth it,” I say, following behind her. “He can’t get away with something like that. He deserves to be punished.”Here’s a more visceral version of that passage—more raw emotion, more bodily tension, more of what she’s feeling in her bones, all while keeping the meaning intact:
She let out a brittle laugh, the kind that didn’t touch her eyes.
“He already has. Why do you think I loved college so much?” Her voice cracked around the edges, even as she tried to sound casual.
“I was finally away from him. But when I refused to fuck him, he got jealous—thought I was seeing someone else. So he punished me.”
Her mouth twisted like the words tasted foul coming out.
“He cut me off. Stopped paying for college. Said it was because I crashed the car, but that was bullshit. He knew college made me feel free. So he ripped it away.” Her jaw clenched so hard I thought her teeth might crack. “He had to take the one thing that brought me joy. Freedom.”
Her voice broke on that word.
Tears pooled in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.
Her fists were balled at her sides, nails digging into her skin like she needed to feel pain to stay upright.
She looked ready to punch a wall—or someone’s throat.
The rage rolled off her in waves. But underneath all that fury, there was something even heavier—grief. And shame.
And fuck, she was beautiful in it. Fierce and broken and standing there like a lit fuse.
I used to think her life was charmed—money, beauty, privilege. But if even half of what she just told me was true, then her stepdad wasn’t just a monster. He was a full-blown psychopath.
And she’d been surviving him, silently, for years.
“Is he in love with you?”
She jerked backward like I had just slapped her across the face, and then she looked down at her feet before looking back up at me.
“He’s in love with himself.”
“Is this why you drink so much?”
She turns around swiftly, holding her meter in one hand. “I didn’t tell you all this so you can be my hero and save me, Captain Save-a-hoe.”
“I’m not a captain.”
“Sir,” she snaps, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “I told you because I wanted you to know you’re not the only survivor on this planet.”
Her words land like slaps. Fast. Brutal. No room to dodge.
“Just because I came from money and you didn’t doesn’t mean you get to make snarky comments or assumptions.” Her eyes are lit with something between fury and pain, and she doesn’t blink. “At least you had a choice. No one forced you to join the army. I didn’t have that luxury.”
She turns sharply, like she can’t stand to look at me a second longer. Her hand moves with practiced precision—finger in the meter, click, blood. I watch the drop bead on her skin, bright red and fresh, a reminder that her body has become a battlefield, too.
“You think I like doing this?” she says, spinning around and shoving her finger in my direction, blood still wet. “And the fact that I have to do this for the rest of my life? Sucks.”
I don’t know what to say. I just stare at her back, muscles tense under the fabric of her shirt, shoulders tight with years of holding everything in.
Guilt floods me—slow at first, then all at once.
My stomach twists. She’s right. I have judged her.
We have both been sizing each other up like enemies when really…
we’re bleeding from the same kind of wounds.
Her voice cuts through the silence again, sharper this time. “And you’re being kind of hypocritical.”
She turns to face me, eyes locked on mine, and the way she holds her mouth—lips pressed together, jaw trembling slightly—tells me she’s been waiting to say this.
“I’ve heard you scream at night. So if getting help is so easy, why don’t you do it?”
Silence stretches tight between us.
There’s no hiding here. Not anymore. Just her pain. My shame. And the uneasy truth hanging heavy in the space we both keep trying to fill with sarcasm and distance.