Chapter 15
Brielle Shaw?
When I come back from the nursery, Desmond has the plates set out and the pan resting on the counter like he was halfway through serving dinner—but something’s wrong.
He’s standing too still.
Too quiet.
His shoulders are tight, jaw working like he’s chewing on a thought he doesn’t want to say out loud. And the second I sit down—just lower myself into the chair—my stomach drops.
Because I know that look.
Not on him, exactly… but on men. On people. On anyone who’s ever stood there and decided they were done with me.
Something’s off.
Something shifted while I was gone for two minutes, and now the air feels thin, like I walked into the wrong room.
My fingers start to fidget with the hem of my shorts. “Everything okay?” I ask, trying to sound normal, trying not to let my voice go small the way it wants to.
He looks at me.
Not angry.
Just… serious.
Focused.
And for some reason that’s worse.
Instantly my mind starts unraveling itself, tugging at every loose string it can find.
Did I do something wrong?
Did Leon do something wrong?
Did I take too long putting him down?
Did I cook something he didn’t like?
Did I mess up something in the house?
Does he regret this? Us?
Did he realize I’m too much, too messy, too needy, too me?
It spirals fast—too fast. My heartbeat crawls up my throat, making it hard to swallow. I smooth the corner of the napkin, then smooth it again, my breath getting tight in that familiar, awful way that happens right before disappointment hits.
He hasn’t even said anything yet.
He just looked.
God, I hate that about myself—that I’m this ready to crumble, this wired for the worst-case scenario. This convinced that good things are temporary, that sweetness is time-limited, that the first hint of quiet means the storm’s already forming.
I force a smile—small, brittle. “If it’s the pumpkin… I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have given him so much, I read babies can get upset stomachs from too much fiber and I just— I didn’t think—”
He frowns. “What? No—Bri—”
“Or the laundry,” I rush, heat creeping up my neck, “I know I mixed some of Leon’s socks with yours and I should’ve sorted better, I just— I was in a hurry and—”
He steps closer, brow furrowing deeper. “Brielle—wait—”
“Or maybe you’re upset I moved your toolbox,” I whisper, the pit in my stomach growing, “I only did it because Leon tried to climb it and I didn’t want him to get hurt, but I should’ve asked first, I didn’t mean to—”
“Sweetheart,” he says, voice low, trying to cut in again.
But my chest is tight and my hands are restless and the words won’t stop coming.
“Or maybe—maybe this is too much, maybe I’m too much, maybe I’m already taking advantage without meaning to, and I don’t want this to get weird or for you to feel like you have to take care of me more than you already do, I just— I’m trying, Desmond, I swear I’m trying—”
I don’t even know where to look.
At him? At the table? At the floor?
Everything suddenly feels fragile. Like one wrong move and I’ll watch all of this—his home, his warmth, this sweet little life we’ve been building—slip right through my fingers.
I swallow hard, voice barely scraping out:
“Just… tell me what I did.”
And the worst part?
I already expect the answer to hurt.
----
Desmond Coyle
Okay, I knew Brielle had a bad history—hell, anyone with eyes could see she flinches at shadows sometimes—but damn.
I didn’t think it was this bad.
She’s sitting at my kitchen table like a scared kid in the principal’s office, shaking so hard the napkin in her hands won’t stay still. Her eyes keep darting to mine, then away, like she’s waiting for me to blow up. Like she’s bracing for impact.
And I haven’t even said a word.
All I did—all I did—was walk over, thinking about how to bring up the money she didn’t take. I was gonna talk. Just talk. Ask her why she left it. Maybe tease her a little. Ease into it.
But now?
She’s unraveling right in front of me, pouring out apologies for shit that isn’t even real. Things I don’t give a damn about. Pumpkin mash. Laundry. A damn toolbox. Her voice keeps getting smaller, tighter, and she’s shaking so bad I can hear the chair creak under her.
And it hits me—hard, right in the center of my chest—
Someone trained her to expect the worst.
Someone taught her that silence means danger.
That a man thinking means a man getting angry.
That she’s always the one who did something wrong.
And that thought burns through me like a damn blowtorch.
This beautiful, sweet girl—who cooks for me, who takes care of my son like he’s her own, who sleeps in my arms like she finally feels safe—
She’s looking at me like she’s about to get her ass handed to her for breathing wrong.
“Damn it,” I breathe under my breath, not at her—never at her—but at whatever bastard put this fear into her bones.
She keeps going, stumbling over her words, voice cracking like she’s begging me not to hit her with something I haven’t even said.
“Sweetheart,” I try.
Nothing. She barrels right over it.
“Brielle,” I say louder.
Still nothing—she’s too far in her own head.
And then she whispers, small and wrecked:
“Just… tell me what I did.”
It guts me.
Actually guts me.
She’s not nervous—she’s terrified.
She’s terrified of me.
And I didn’t do a damn thing to earn that fear—but someone else did, and now I’m the one paying for it.
I feel something hot bite the back of my throat—anger, protectiveness, heartbreak, all tangled up—but I keep my voice low, steady, because she doesn’t need volume. She needs softness she can lean into.
I crouch down in front of her, eye-level, hands open so she can see I’m not touching her unless she says it’s okay.
“Brielle,” I murmur, rough but gentle, “you didn’t do a damn thing wrong.”
Her breath stutters, shoulders still tight as a bowstring.
And all I can think is—
Who the hell made her like this? And how do I make her unlearn it without breaking her all over again?
“Baby,” I murmur, reaching for her thighs—just to ground her, to calm her—but the second my hands graze her skin, she flinches.
A sharp, full-body jerk.
Like she’s expecting pain.
And right there, I swear—my stomach lurches so hard I almost do throw up. Rage spikes up my spine, hot and blinding, not at her, never at her—
but at the son of a bitch who taught her to fear a man’s hands.
I pull my own hands back fast, palms up in surrender, showing her I’m not touching her unless she wants me to.
“Hey—hey,” I say, voice low, steadying the edges even though I’m shaking inside. “I’m not gonna touch you. Not unless you tell me it’s okay.”
She swallows, trembling, eyes glassy.
“Brielle…” I try again, softer this time. “Look at me.”
She does. Barely. Just enough for our eyes to meet, and the second they do, hers overflow—big, silent tears sliding down her cheeks like she’s ashamed of them.
“Nothing happened, baby,” I tell her, leaning in just enough so she hears every damn word. “You didn’t do anything.”
She shakes her head, breath hitching. “But you’re… you’re different. You walked in and you were serious and quiet and you didn’t smile at me and that’s usually when—when—”
Her voice cracks.
She wipes at her face like she’s trying to erase the tears fast enough they won’t get her in trouble.
“And I just—” she whispers, “I thought maybe you weren’t happy anymore. Or I annoyed you. Or I messed something up and didn’t realize and you were waiting to say it later and—”
“Brielle,” I say firmly, cutting through the spiral before it takes her under. “Breathe, baby. Slow. Come on.”
She tries. It’s shaky. But she tries.
“I’m not mad,” I say again. “I’m not disappointed. I’m not… anything bad. I promise you, nothing’s wrong.”
“You seemed upset,” she whispers.
“I wasn’t upset,” I say, shaking my head. “I was thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” she asks, voice so small it damn near snaps my ribs.
I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “About the money you didn’t take.”
She freezes.
Her whole body goes tight again, like a trap snapping shut.
“Oh,” she breathes, barely audible. “I… I meant to tell you. I just didn’t want it to be weird or— or make you think I was—”
“Stop,” I say gently but firmly. “Before you start apologizing for shit you don’t need to apologize for.”
She clamps her lips together.
I take a slow breath, choosing every damn word like it might make or break her.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. “Not by leaving it. Not by taking it. Not by anything.”
“But… you looked so serious,” she whispers.
“Yeah,” I admit. “’Cause I was trying to figure out how to talk to you about it without making you freak out.”
Her eyes widen—hurt, confused, hopeful, terrified, all at once.
“Baby,” I say, lowering my voice to that rough, warm gravel she always relaxes into, “I wasn’t mad. I wasn’t about to yell. I wasn’t gonna punish you. I don’t do that. Not to you. Not ever.”
One tear slips down her cheek, and I reach toward it—slowly, slow enough for her to stop me—but she doesn’t move away.
I wipe it with my thumb.
Barely a touch.
Light as breath.
“You don’t gotta be scared of me,” I murmur. “Even when I’m serious. Even when I’m thinking. Even when I’m quiet. None of that means you’re in trouble.”
She swallows hard. “I’m trying. I’m really trying. I just— it’s hard not to assume.”
“I know,” I say. “I can see that.”
Her chin wobbles. “I’m afraid to do something wrong.”
“You won’t,” I tell her.
“What if I do?” she whispers—tiny, terrified, like the words are glass cutting her tongue on the way out.
I shake my head, leaning in slow so she hears it not just in my voice but in the way the floorboards don’t shake, the way my hands don’t twitch, the way nothing in me is changing into something dangerous.
“Then we talk,” I say, steady as bedrock. “We figure it out. But I don’t yell at you. I don’t throw things. I don’t hit. That’s all that’s gonna happen, Brielle. A talk.”
Her lips wobble, like she’s trying to swallow a whole lifetime of the opposite. “A… talk.”
“Yeah,” I say, firm but gentle. “You tell me what you think and feel, and I’ll tell you what I think and feel. That’s it. That’s all. No punishments. No doors slamming. No walking on eggshells. Just us talking like two people who give a damn about each other.”
Her chin dips, her shoulders curling in like she’s bracing for something that isn’t coming. “And… you’re not angry?”
I move closer—not fast, not looming, just closing the space enough that she can see every inch of calm on my face. I reach for her hand, slow enough she could pull away, but she doesn’t. Her fingers slide into mine, small and cold and trembling.
“Not one bit, baby,” I say, giving her hand a squeeze that’s more warmth than pressure. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Not a single thing. And even if you did,” I add, tipping her chin just enough so she has to meet my eyes, “all we do is talk about it. That’s it. Okay?”
She blinks, tears clinging to her lashes, breathing all uneven as she tries to take the words in like they’re foreign.
“Okay…” she whispers.
But it sounds more like I want to believe you.
I drag my thumb across her knuckles—slow, steady, a grounding line she can hang onto.
Then I exhale through my nose, the kind of breath that’s not anger, just me trying to switch gears without spooking her more.
“Now,” I say, voice low but even, “why didn’t you take your money?”
She fidgets, shoulders curling in a little like she’s trying to make herself smaller on the chair.
Her gaze drops to her lap. “’Cause it feels weird to already sleep in your bed… we have sex and everything… and still get paid like a normal nanny.”
She swallows, picking at a loose thread on her shorts. “Seems… messy.”
I nod, leaning back just a bit, giving her room without pulling away. “Yeah. I get that.” My thumb keeps circling her knuckles, slow, deliberate. “But it’s still your money, Brielle.”
She shifts, jaw tightening like she’s waiting for the catch.
So I keep going before she spirals again.
“Whatever we got going on between us—even if it’s good, even if it feels natural—that doesn’t erase the fact you take care of my kid every damn day,” I say, voice firm enough that she looks up at me.
“You cook, you clean, you watch him, you do a hell of a lot around here. That shit is real. That work is real.”
Her lips press together like she wants to argue but doesn’t have the heart for it.
“And I’m not the kind of man who uses someone’s feelings to get free labor,” I add, blunt as a hammer. “I’m not paying you because you’re ‘the nanny.’ I’m paying you because your time and effort have value. And I’m damn sure not gonna let you forget that.”
She blinks at me—surprised. Maybe a little overwhelmed.
I shrug one shoulder. “Sex doesn’t cancel your worth. If anything, it just means now I care about you and your work. So you take the forty. Every day. Until you tell me you got something else lined up or you don’t want it anymore.”
Her throat works as she swallows. “I just… don’t wanna feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
“You’re not,” I say immediately. “If someone’s getting lucky in this arrangement?” I squeeze her hand gently. “It’s me.”
Her eyes soften then, the tension in her shoulders letting go by inches.
“There’s nothing messy about paying you what you’ve earned,” I finish, voice steady. “What’s messy is you thinking you gotta give up what’s yours just to stay close to me.”
She lets out a tiny breath—half relief, half disbelief—and nods.
And that’s when I know we’re finally on the same page.