Chapter 3
Chapter Three
MYA
One Month Later
T he zipper of my suitcase shrieks like it’s auditioning for a slasher movie. High-pitched. Haunting. Melodramatic. Which, fine—same.
I am a mess of drama and hormones, and the sooner I get out of this emotional echo chamber of a house, the better.
“You don’t have to do this,” Reese pleads from behind me, her voice cracking like dry ice under pressure. “Please, Mya. Don’t go.”
I freeze. Mid-pack. One hand tangled in a heap of black leggings that haven’t fit me since week seven. My chest clenches like someone’s reached in and twisted my lungs into balloon animals.
“I do, Reese.” My voice is flat. Final. I don’t even look at her.
In the hallway, chaos unfurls—Fletch barking something at Carson, who snaps back with venom. Benji throws fuel on the fire while Thorin plays human barricade. Again. Always.
“This place?” I gesture vaguely, like that’ll capture the insanity. “It’s not a home. It’s a warzone with throw pillows.”
She steps closer, eyes glossy and guilt-ridden. “But we’re your people.”
“And that’s why I’m leaving.”
The silence between us stretches so taut it could snap. I turn and meet her gaze. She looks heartbroken. Hopeful. Beautiful in that effortless Reese kind of way. All sunshine and soft sadness.
“I’m not doing this for me,” I murmur, resting a palm over my somewhat still-flat stomach. “I’m doing it for them.”
Boom.
Door slam.
Boom.
The walls shake. So do I.
“These babies deserve quiet. Not angry men yelling like frat boys in a cage match.” My eyes sting. My grip tightens on the suitcase handle. “I’m tapped out, Reese. I’m trying to protect what’s left of me before there’s nothing left at all.”
She wraps her arms around me from behind, like she’s thirteen again and I’m the only one who got her. “I’ll miss you.”
“I’m not disappearing,” I say, even though it kind of feels like I am. “I’m just… exiting the toxic group chat that is this house.”
She pulls back, swiping a tear with the sleeve of her sweater. “Where are you even going?”
“New York.”
Her brows pinch. “Where exactly in New York are you even staying?”
I shift my weight, the truth tasting both ridiculous and surreal on my tongue. “A penthouse.”
Reese blinks. “A what now?”
“Yeah.” I nod once. “My dad arranged it.”
Voices build again outside the bedroom. Carson yells. Glass shatters.
Reese flinches. I do, too.
“I’ll come back,” I promise. “I just need some damn peace first.”
A beat.
Then another.
She lets me go.
And that’s when I know I have to.
Thorin’s the one who carries my suitcases. The rest of them follow us outside like mourners at a funeral. The cold air slaps me in the face like it’s offended by my existence. Fair.
The Uber sits on the grabe driveway, taillights glowing red like it knows I’m running.
And then, because the universe can’t help itself—“Mya!”
Fletch. Jogging down the steps like a man with too many regrets and not enough apologies.
“What the hell are you doing?”
I square my shoulders. “Leaving.”
“You can’t.”
“I can. I am. Unless you’ve got something real to say.”
Silence.
Just clenched fists and a clenched jaw.
Exactly.
Benji hugs me. “Text me when you land, yeah?”
“Promise.”
Thorin’s next. His hug is tight. Bruising. “We’ve got you. Always.”
Reese’s turn tastes like vanilla tears. “Don’t ghost me or I’ll hunt you down.”
“You’d have to catch me first.”
Fletch doesn’t get a goodbye.
He already had one.
He wasted it.
* * *
The airport’s a blur.
It’s a smear of fluorescent lights and hollow announcements, of wheels clicking against linoleum floors and the faint scent of burned coffee hanging in the air. Everything’s louder than it should be—the drag of my suitcases behind me, the static buzz of the speakers, the thud of my own heartbeat.
I recheck my phone.
The Uber that was supposed to get me here in twenty minutes took nearly an hour, every traffic light stretching into forever, every turn feeling wrong somehow, like I was moving but not getting anywhere at all.
I tell myself it’s nothing. Just bad luck. Just timing.
But a small, stubborn part of me—a part I usually ignore—whispers that something about tonight doesn’t fit. Like a song stuck half a beat off tempo. Like a dream wearing a real-world mask.
I swipe away the thought and focus on the screen in my hand.
Departure: On time.
Gate: 34B.
I weave through the crowd on autopilot, my fingers gripping the handle of my suitcase tighter with every step. Everything looks right, but it feels wrong. The overhead lights are too bright. The colors are a little too muted. Like someone turned the saturation down on the world.
My shoes squeak against the floor.
Nobody looks at me.
Nobody sees me.
And for the first time all night, I wonder if I ever even made it to the airport at all.
But the gate number blinks in front of me, sharp and certain, and the boarding announcement cuts through the static with my flight number, my destination.
I keep walking.
Because if I stop now—if I turn around—I know, somehow, that the whole world might collapse in on itself.
And I’m not ready for that.
We touch down in New York with a thud, and the jolt shakes something loose in my chest. A breath. A sob. A flicker of hope? I don’t know.
I check my phone.
Dad: Someone will be waiting when you land.
I assume a driver. Some stiff in a suit holding a sign with my last name and an umbrella bigger than my emotional baggage.
I assume wrong.
I step through the terminal and freeze.
Kingston.
All six-foot-five inches of my high school heartbreak. Green eyes that still see right through me. Dark hair that makes me want to run my fingers through it even though I shouldn’t.
My jaw drops. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He grins, and it’s unfair how good he looks. NFL muscles in a hoodie. Tattoos peeking out from under sleeves I suddenly want to roll up with my teeth. Dangerous.
“Mya,” he drawls, like my name is a song he forgot he loved. “Nice flight?”
“I—what are you—why are you here?”
He lifts a shoulder, lazy and charming. “Coming to your rescue. Your dad called in a favor. Said you needed a place to crash for a bit.”
I blink.
He smirks. “Don’t look so shocked. I do favors. Occasionally.”
“Where are we going?”
“My place. For now.”
I swallow. Hard.
“ Your penthouse?” I croak.
“That’s the one.”
Jesus. Of course it is. Of course I’m staying with the boy who broke my heart and still owns a piece of it, even if he doesn’t know.
He nods toward the doors. “Come on, Mya. You look like you could use some quiet.”
Quiet.
God. I could cry.
And then I do.
Ugly, silent sobs that shake my shoulders like an earthquake’s just moved in under my skin. Like my ribs are trying to splinter and stab their way out of me from the inside. It’s pathetic, really, the way my face crumples and my breath hiccups—like I’ve forgotten how to hold myself together. Like I ever knew how in the first place.
Kingston doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t make a joke. Doesn’t recoil from my wreckage.
He just pulls me into him like he’s been waiting to. Like I’m not a burden but a puzzle piece he’s been missing. His arms fold around me, solid and strong and terrifyingly safe, and the second my cheek presses against his hoodie, I shatter.
His heartbeat drums beneath my ear—steady, unbothered. Meanwhile, mine is a damn marching band in a hurricane.
He didn’t ask questions.
And I know.
He knows.
Dad must’ve told him. That I needed to get out. That I needed space. That I’m pregnant.
But did he tell him everything?
I squeeze my eyes shut, harder than I should, willing myself to believe my father didn’t air out my entire tragedy like dirty laundry on a community clothesline. That he didn’t unload my trauma like it was small talk over scotch.
Kingston’s hand comes up and cups the back of my head, thumb stroking the crown of my hair in slow, rhythmic circles, like he’s drawing constellations only I can see. He’s not trying to fix me. Just… letting me fall apart in his arms.
And maybe that’s worse.
Because I’m not used to being held without expectation. I’m used to hands that want something. Words that slice instead of soothe.
But he just holds me.
And God, it breaks me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper eventually, voice rough as gravel. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“To what?” His voice is a low rumble, heat and concern and something I don’t want to name. “Feel something?”
My throat tightens. “Fall apart.”
He exhales, the sound soft and sharp all at once. “Mya…” My name sounds different in his mouth. Less like a label. More like a lifeline. “You don’t have to apologize for breaking when the world’s already been trying to do it for you.”
I press my forehead to his chest, breathing him in—cedar and citrus and something that smells a hell of a lot like home.
“What did he tell you?” I ask, because I have to. Because I can’t sit in this suspended space of not-knowing.
Kingston pauses, the way people do when they’re weighing mercy against honesty.
“Only that you needed somewhere to go. That you were overwhelmed. That you—” He clears his throat. “That you’re pregnant.”
I wince. The word still slices through me like broken glass, even when it’s spoken gently.
Nothing else? No mention of the chaos I crawled out of? The betrayal? The bruises no one can see?
Good. God, I hope not.
“I didn’t ask for details,” he adds, like he can feel my fear. “Figured if you wanted me to know, you’d tell me.”
That alone nearly makes me cry all over again.
He’s giving me space. In a world that keeps trying to take it away.
“You’re not…surprised?” I whisper, still curled against him like the weak thing I swore I’d never become.
“Sure,” he says simply. Like it’s not even up for debate. “But what matters is that I’m here.”
And somehow, I’m here , sounds a lot like I’ve got you .
Which is everything I didn’t know I needed.
And everything I don’t think I deserve.
* * *
The moment Kingston unlocks the door to his penthouse, I’m hit with the kind of masculine opulence that makes my lungs forget how to function.
This isn’t a home—it’s a mood.
Wide-plank dark hardwood floors ground the space with quiet confidence, their rich grain catching the soft wash of recessed lighting overhead. Floor-to-ceiling windows line the far wall, offering an unobstructed view of the Manhattan skyline—less like a backdrop and more like an ever-changing masterpiece. The city glows beyond the glass, twinkling like it knows it’s being watched. The living room strikes a careful balance between sophistication and comfort. A deep charcoal sectional anchors the space, oversized and well-worn in a way that invites lounging. The scatter of pillows—cashmere, suede, linen—looks curated but lived-in, like someone actually uses this place. A stone fireplace sits beneath a floating mantel of reclaimed wood, the slab of slate surrounding it smooth as river rock, subtly veined with silvery streaks that catch the light. A matte black coffee table—part industrial, part art piece—rests on a textured rug in muted greys and ochres, grounding the room in warmth. There’s a leather armchair in the corner with a reading lamp that suggests late nights and good bourbon, and tucked beside it, a stack of hardcover books and a forgotten Bruins cap. The air carries a hint of cedarwood, leather, and something unmistakably Kingston—polished, steady, and just a little bit untamed.
He drops my suitcases just inside the door like they weigh nothing—like I weigh nothing, and maybe I do in the strange gravity of his orbit.
“Come on,” Kingston says, nodding toward a hallway with walls the color of wet charcoal. “I’ll show you your room.”
I trail after him on legs that feel made of static. The place is so silent it hums. Not in a bad way, though. In a holy-shit-he-lives-like-this kind of way.
He pushes open a set of double doors, and it’s like I’ve stepped into a luxury hotel suite curated by a brooding billionaire with too much money and too few emotions.
The guest bedroom is enormous—A king-sized bed, clean white duvet, and navy accents. A dark wood dresser and matching nightstands complete the picture, along with a soft Persian rug that I’m half-tempted to sink onto just to see how it feels. A massive painting hangs above the headboard—abstract black brushstrokes cutting across a pale canvas like a fight frozen mid-swing.
The en-suite bathroom is marble and chrome, stocked with fluffy towels folded into neat thirds. Everything gleams.
He leans in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, muscles flexing like they’ve got something to say.
“Hungry?” he asks.
My gaze flicks to the wall-mounted clock. It’s nearly midnight.
“I—what?” I blink. “It’s late.” I was so desperate to get out of Horseshoe Bay, I ended up on a late flight out of Dallas. His mouth quirks like he knows exactly how unconvincing I sound. “So that’s a no?”
I hesitate. Because sure, my stomach’s playing it cool now, but it’s one bite of food away from a full-blown protest. And the thought of eating with him, of sitting across from Kingston Maddox in that kitchen I glimpsed with its waterfall island and moody pendant lights, makes something unspool in my chest.
“Depends,” I say carefully. “Are we talking sad-girl cereal or late-night caviar?”
“Neither,” he says, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m not that cruel. Promised your dad I'll take care of you.”
His eyes flicker over me, unreadable. “I figured we could get some take-out or something. You’ve had a long day.”
A long day. Right. One that started with me thinking I could survive the week without falling apart, and ended with me crashing at Kingston’s penthouse like a stray kitten he’s too soft to leave out in the cold.
“Okay,” I murmur, voice too thin for the way my heart is pounding. “Yeah. I could eat.”
His smile is brief, barely there, but it’s enough to send goosebumps skating up my arms.
He disappears toward the kitchen, and I stand in the doorway a beat longer, staring at the bed I’ll be sleeping in, and the bathroom I’ll be crying in.
But I follow the sound of his footsteps anyway.
Because I’m too tired to keep holding the weight of my own world, and something about the scent of soy sauce and safety feels like a temporary surrender I can survive. I pad barefoot into the kitchen, drawn by the promise of comfort food and the soft hum of a man who—despite everything—feels familiar in a way nothing else does right now.
Later, I’m curled on one of the barstools, belly full and soul slightly less splintered.
I can’t stop yawning, and I’m pretty sure my eyes are at half-mast as Kingston cleans up the takeout containers, stacking them like he’s playing a quiet game of Tetris. There’s something almost… safe about his space. Masculine, muted, and meticulously tidy, but lacking any trace of another woman. No bobby pins on the sink, no fuzzy pink socks in the corner, no lingering scent of cheap perfume clinging to throw pillows.
I shuffle toward the guest room, dragging my feet like I’m starring in the world’s most pathetic zombie flick, but I pause at the threshold. “Hey, King?”
He glances up, eyes dark and steady. “Yeah?”
“You’re really single?” My voice is scratchy and small, not because I’m fishing, but because I’ve forgotten what it feels like to be alone without it also feeling like being abandoned.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, like he knows what I’m really asking. “We wanted different things.”
Oof.
There’s no dramatic flourish to it. Just fact. Hurt wrapped in calm. That kind of heartbreak that’s already settled in his bones and become background noise. And somehow, that’s worse.
I nod slowly. “Fletch doesn’t want anything to do with me. Or the babies.”
The air crackles. Not loud, not obvious. Just a subtle shift in the weight of the moment. Heavy enough to sink.
“What a sad pair we make,” I murmur, and I don’t mean to sound so damn hollow, but it slips out anyway, brittle and bruised.
Kingston’s eyes soften. Not pity, thank God. I couldn’t take that. Just this quiet understanding that almost breaks me.
“You don’t have to stay, you know,” I add quickly, gesturing around the room. “I mean, I’ll find somewhere. I don’t want to be a burden.”
He steps forward, not close enough to crowd me but close enough to cut off my spiral. “You’re not a burden, Mya. You’re a friend. Friends look out for each other.”
God.
I forgot what that feels like. Being looked after.
He nods toward the counter. “Spare access card’s by the keys. Come and go as you need. I’ve got practice in the morning, but make yourself at home.”
I nod, throat thick. “Thanks.”
“Try to get some sleep,” he says, already retreating, giving me space without making it feel like distance.
I shut the bedroom door behind me and lean against it for a beat too long, like maybe if I stand still enough, I’ll stop spinning. But the ache in my chest doesn’t go anywhere. It pulses with every heartbeat. Fletch’s voice still echoes in my skull. Cold. Detached. Like the past few months meant nothing.
I sit on the edge of the bed, mattress dipping under my weight, and let out a breath that feels stolen. My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I don’t even need to check to know it’s not him.
It never is.
The silence wraps around me, and I lie back, curling onto my side. The sheets are cool against my cheek, the pillow firm and unfamiliar. Everything smells like detergent and something that might be sandalwood, and for a second, I let myself pretend I belong here.
Just for a second.
But sleep doesn’t come easy. Not when your heart’s cracked wide open and you’re in someone else’s home, curled around a future you didn’t ask for.
God help me.
Because I’m not sure anyone else will.