Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Atlas
I’ve been preparing for Winston and his people.
Am I ready?
I’d say I’m eighty percent sure I could take them on my own if they showed up right now, but protecting Blythe and the baby?
That’s the part that keeps me awake at night.
The part that turns this from a calculated plan into something personal.
Taking them down is one thing.
Keeping them safe? That’s everything.
According to Sanford, I have two operatives stationed nearby, ready to assist if things go sideways.
In theory, they’ll be enough.
But theory means shit in the real world, and I don’t trust anyone I haven’t worked with before.
I don’t even know their names.
Could I reach out to Malerick?
Get him to back me up like he did with Hopper when Nysa was in danger?
Maybe.
But Malerick hates me, and I have no reason to believe that’s changed.
If anything, he’d probably enjoy watching me struggle.
And that’s probably the other thing I should have been preparing for these past five weeks—my family.
The town.
Because it’s not just Winston’s people, I have to worry about.
Sooner or later, everyone in Birchwood Springs is going to start asking questions about my happy marriage to the woman I keep close—too close.
She goes to some places alone.
The Honey Drop and the library, mostly.
Says the books I get her aren’t enough.
But I’ve seen the looks people give her.
The curiosity. The doubt.
I should have realized from the beginning that nothing about this relationship was ever going to be invisible.
I figured—nothing.
The plan was simple: just do what I always did when I came back to visit Therese.
I kept my head down, ignored people as much as possible, and focused on the only reason I was here.
But that doesn’t work when you live in town with a woman who’s pregnant and works for you, does it?
Now, everything is different.
Nysa and Delilah’s visit made that clear.
I can’t pretend everything outside this shop doesn’t exist. I have to play along.
I have to make it look like Blythe, and I have a happy marriage.
Like, I’m not some asshole isolating my wife from the rest of the world.
Which, for the record, I am not doing.
I’m keeping her safe.
There’s a difference.
A huge difference.
Maybe I should ask her if she feels that difference.
If she feels safe or if she feels trapped.
Because if she does—if she thinks she traded one cage for another—I need to fix that.
I also need to get her a therapist.
Because the flinching, the fear .
. . all the signs of a woman with PTSD because she was abused are still there.
I see it in the way her body tenses when I move too fast. In the way she swallows down her instincts when someone unexpected walks into the shop.
In the way she gets that look—that look—when she thinks I’m going to be angry.
She’s getting better at hiding it, but I notice.
And I hate that she even has to, or that she’s working to hide it, to try to be perfect or .
. . who knows, but I hope she realizes that with me, she just has to be herself.
After I finished with my client, I went straight to Simone’s office, ready to let her have it for running her mouth.
Turns out, she had no idea I was keeping this from my family.
Apparently, she assumed they already knew—because, according to her, who wouldn’t immediately tell their family they got married?
And that? That’s the moment I realized how completely fucked this situation really is.
She should’ve known I wouldn’t.
I can’t stand any of them.
It’s not new information, but since Mal, Ledge, and Hop are close, she thought maybe our family had fixed our shit—we were finally happy again, and they had finally included me.
Like I ever was part of them.
In the end, we agreed that from now on, she’ll be more guarded with what she shares with my family.
Mostly, just Nysa and Delilah, who she used to be very close to in high school.
Fuck, it’s like we’re back in high school but now with grown-up problems but still the same hate.
So, as I was leaving, everything was solved.
That’s what I thought—until, while in the clinic, I ran into Ledger and Galeana.
They were not only cordial; they invited me—and my wife—to dinner.
It was a very simple ‘fuck no’ until I realized everyone in the waiting room was watching.
Of course, I had to say yes, because in this town appearances are everything.
So now the town knows I’m married to Blythe and that, apparently, I get along with my asshole brothers.
Isn’t that fucked up?
So, I have to make it all official.
Hence, I’m in my truck with Blythe by my side, heading toward my childhood home, where Ledger and Galeana are currently living while their home is being built.
Almost a year ago, the old Doherty mansion was set on fire by the Hollow Syndicate.
See, that’s something I don’t understand.
Why not just leave town and start somewhere new?
Why keep his wife in danger?
They could’ve just sold the Old Birchwood Timber company and gotten the fuck out of here.
And maybe that’s what I should be doing with Blythe.
Forget about the parlor and get her to safety.
No, I already went through that scenario, and we can’t be on the run.
Is that why Ledger and Galeana stayed?
Fuck, I don’t want to know.
I could ask, but if I do, I have to share my part.
I’m not sure how much I should keep from them.
I’m in the middle of running through every possible scenario in my head when Blythe’s voice pulls me back.
“If you didn’t want to go, you should’ve just said so,” Blythe mutters beside me, arms crossed, staring out the window.
“You didn’t have to organize a family dinner to avoid my cooking.”
I huff out a laugh, shaking my head.
“It wasn’t that bad . . . I think.” I turn to wink at her.
Yesterday’s meal was great, and I would prefer to eat at home with her than have to deal with my brothers but .
. . this has to happen.
People know I’m supposed to be with them and they’ll know if I skip the family dinner.
“Are you nervous?”
I scoff.
“No. I just hate family dinners,” I mutter, instead of saying, I just hate my family and the feeling is mutual.
“Would it help if I embarrassed you in front of them? You know, really sell the loving wife act?”
I smirk, side-eyeing her.
“What exactly do you have in mind?”
She shrugs.
“Maybe I tell them you’re obsessed with those cheesy holiday romance movies. That you cry during the big gesture. All. The. Time. ”
I, deadpan, say, “That’s defamation.”
Her grin widens.
“Or I could say you’re weirdly good at . . . what could be weirdly funny?”
“I will leave you on the side of this road.”
She hums, tapping her chin.
“Or—oh—maybe I tell them you proposed to me after knowing me for a week and cried when I said yes.”
I give her a look.
“You really think they’d believe that?”
She arches a brow.
“Are you saying you didn’t cry?”
I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face.
“I should let them think you were a mail-order bride.”
She snorts, shaking her head.
“I don’t think they have those in New York. I couldn’t sell that idea.”
“What can you sell?” I ask.
She doesn’t answer right away.
Just stares at the house, the lights glowing through the windows, the silhouettes of people moving inside.
Then, finally, she exhales.
“I guess we’ll find out.”
“We can’t just leave it up to whatever happens when we’re there,” I remind her.
Because if I want this town to accept her, if I want her to have a chance at something normal—I have to show them she belongs.
Even if I have no fucking clue what that actually means.
“Why do you think people get married in Vegas?” I ask.
She gapes at me. “Oh my God. You can’t say we got married in Vegas.”
“You’re right. It would’ve been easier to add you to my Costco membership without them finding out.” I sigh.
“How did we get married if I met you the same day I arrived?”
“Tell them we fell in love immediately, and I’m very conservative. I believe in marriage before sex,” she states.
“Do you?”
She laughs.
“No. I had some experience in high school, college . . . I’m not a virgin.”
“Obviously, you’re pregnant, sweetheart,” I remind her.
She snorts. “You can always make them believe I was, we skipped the condom and boom . . . baby on board.”
And when we finally pull up in front of the Timberbridge family house, slow irritation curls in my gut.
I shouldn’t care.
I don’t give a damn about my brothers.
I don’t give a damn about what my family thinks of Blythe—of us.
But I hate that I have to do this.
Hate that this town won’t just let us exist without watching.
“We can’t hide out forever,” I say, staring out at the house.
Not sure if I’m reassuring her .
. . or myself. “But the whole ‘you were a virgin and I had to marry you’ is weird.”
“Anything we say is going to sound weird,” she offers.
I smirk, shifting into park.
“Then we don’t say anything.”
“That might be the best solution you could’ve come up with,” she agrees.
“Just remember, sweetheart,” I lean closer, dropping my voice, “the best way to deal with them is to act like you belong.”
Her brows lift slightly.
“Okay, let’s see how these acting classes I took in high school pay off.”