Chapter 43 Delaney
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Delaney
Morning comes too fast.
Not gently. Not with the soft, forgiving light I’ve started to associate with the ranch. It comes sharp and invasive, dragging me out of sleep like it has somewhere important to put me and no patience for hesitation.
For a few blessed seconds, I don’t remember.
I’m warm. There’s a blanket tucked around me that I don’t recognize as mine. The mattress is firm, it smells faintly of pine and coffee, and something baked from last night. My body feels heavy in that good way. I slept hard and deep.
Someone got my boots off. Someone pulled the blanket up. I don’t remember it happening, which somehow makes my throat tighten.
Then my phone vibrates on the nightstand.
And everything comes rushing back.
Marcus.
The café. His voice saying my name like it still belongs to him. The way my chest locked up when I realized he hadn’t just found me, he’d followed me.
I sit up too quickly, the room tilting as panic slams into me full force. My heart starts racing before I even touch the phone. It knows what’s waiting.
The screen lights up.
Messages. Too many of them.
I don’t open them at first. I just stare at the lock screen, at the stack of notifications piled one on top of the other like accusations.
My hands are shaking.
I swipe anyway.
The first one is from yesterday, sent not long after I ran.
Marcus: I hate how that ended. You didn’t let me explain.
Another.
Marcus: I wish today had gone differently.
Another.
Marcus: I was worried about you. I still am.
I scroll down, my heart pounding harder with every message, every word.
Marcus: I’m staying in town for a few days. We should talk properly. Not like yesterday.
My stomach drops.
Staying in town.
Marcus: You don’t have to run from me, Delaney. I’m not your enemy.
A humorless laugh tears out of me before I can stop it. It comes out shaky and sharp and ugly.
Not my enemy.
I press my phone to my chest, fingers curling around it, wishing I could crush the words out of existence.
There’s a sickening familiarity to this. The persistence disguised as concern. The insistence that if I’d just stay, just listen, just stop being so dramatic, everything would make sense again.
He’s done this before.
Not like this, not showing up uninvited in a small town, not cornering me in public, but the shape of it is the same. The pressure. The reframing. The refusal to accept no unless it’s wrapped in the right kind of compliance.
And the worst part?
A small, traitorous piece of my brain whispers: What if he doesn’t leave unless you make him?
That thought settles deep and heavy.
I swing my legs out of bed and stand, pacing the room like a trapped animal. The ranch is quiet outside my window. Morning chores already underway somewhere beyond the trees. A normal day unfolding without any idea that my past has crawled back into my present and set up camp.
I can’t let him do this.
I won’t.
He already took enough from me. My job. My reputation. My confidence. The version of myself that believed hard work and talent were enough to keep me safe.
I won’t let him poison this too.
I stop pacing and stand very still, staring at my reflection in the mirror over the dresser.
I look… different.
Steadier.
There are shadows under my eyes, yes. My mouth is tight, my shoulders drawn. But there’s more there too. Something I didn’t have the last time I faced him in an office full of stainless steel and power imbalance.
I have a choice.
And I have people.
Boone, with his quiet gravity and unyielding sense of right and wrong. Silas, who sees cracks before anyone else does and hates when people he cares about get hurt. Caleb, who listens without demanding and stays without crowding.
Sadie.
The thought of her twists fierce in my chest. Her trust. Her easy affection. The way she assumes I’ll be there for her.
Marcus doesn’t get to touch that.
I pick up my phone again and scroll back to the most recent message.
Marcus: Let’s meet today. Main Street. We can clear the air.
Clear the air.
Like this is a misunderstanding instead of a boundary violation wrapped in nostalgia.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I don’t want to see him.
But I want him gone.
And I know, deep down, that he won’t leave just because I ignore him. Silence has never stopped men like Marcus. It only gives them room to rewrite the story however they like.
No.
If this ends, it ends because I end it.
I type before I can talk myself out of it.
Delaney: Fine. One conversation. Main Street. Public. After that, you leave me alone.
The reply comes almost instantly.
Marcus: Thank you. I’ll be there in half an hour, outside the bakery.
The speed of it makes my skin crawl.
I lock my phone and press it face down on the dresser, breathing hard.
Okay.
I can do this.
I get dressed slowly. Jeans. Boots. A sweater that feels like armor. I pull my hair back, not because I owe him neatness, but because I don’t want anything in my way.
I pause in the hallway outside my room, listening.
Silas’s voice drifting from the kitchen, animated as ever. The smell of coffee reaches me.
I consider telling them.
Just blurting it out. Letting them come with me. Letting someone else hold the line.
But this is my fight.
And if I don’t do it myself, he’ll always think there’s still a door open.
I grab my jacket and slip out quietly, heart pounding all the way down the porch steps.
Main Street is already alive when I get there.
Tourists browsing shop windows. Locals loitering with coffee cups. The hum of normalcy makes my skin itch with the wrongness of what I’m about to do.
Marcus is easy to spot.
He always is.
He stands near the crosswalk, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed. He looks around as if taking in the town with mild amusement, like it’s a novelty rather than a place people live.
When he sees me, his face lights up.
Not the sharp smile from the café. Not the brittle, defensive version from the office. This smile is softer. Familiar. The one that used to make my shoulders relax before I even realized I’d been tense.
“There you are,” he says warmly, like we’re late for dinner and not standing in the middle of Main Street with my heart trying to escape my ribcage. “I was starting to think you’d changed your mind.”
“I almost did,” I say.
His smile flickers then settles back into place. “You always were dramatic when you were nervous.”
There it is.
The old rhythm. The gentle tease that makes it feel like we’re already on the same side.
“I’m not here to fight,” he continues, holding up his hands as a peace offering. “I just want to talk. Five minutes. That’s all.”
I don’t respond.
He takes that as permission.
“I meant what I said yesterday,” he goes on, voice dropping into that intimate register he always used when he wanted me to lean in. “I was worried about you. When you disappeared… it wasn’t like you to just vanish.”
I let out a breath that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “You fired me.”
His brow furrows, perfectly calibrated concern sliding into place. “I know how it felt. I do. But you have to understand the position I was in.”
I stiffen. “I understand it just fine.”
“Delaney,” he says gently, like he’s calming a skittish animal. “You were under an unbelievable amount of pressure. The hours, the scrutiny, the expectations you put on yourself. Anyone would’ve cracked.”
“I didn’t crack.”
“You don’t have to defend yourself,” he replies smoothly. “I saw how hard you were pushing. How much of yourself you were pouring into that kitchen. I admired that about you.”
My chest tightens traitorously.
He was always good at this, taking the sharp edges of what he did and sanding them down with praise.
“You were the best sous I ever had,” he continues, earnest now. “No one read my mind like you did. No one anticipated dishes the way you did. We were… in sync.”
A memory flashes uninvited: him handing me a glass of wine like a secret. You get me, he’d said once. That’s rare.
“I don’t miss the noise,” he says quietly. “But I miss you.”
My throat burns.
“Don’t,” I warn.
“I know I hurt you,” he presses. “And I hate that. But you can’t tell me you don’t miss it too. The rush. The focus. The way it felt when a service went perfectly, and the whole room was buzzing because of something you helped create.”
I don’t answer.
Because that part of me does stir. The one that loved the hum of a kitchen, the sharp clarity of purpose, the high of being excellent at something that mattered.
He sees it in my silence and steps closer, careful not to crowd me.
“I can fix this,” he says softly. “I’ve already started laying the groundwork. There’s a position waiting for you. Different group. Different structure. No headlines. No baggage.”
I shake my head. “You can’t fix what you broke.”
“I can give you your life back,” he counters gently. “The one you worked for. The one you wanted.”
“You mean the one you took from me.”
He exhales slowly, disappointed but not surprised. “You’re angry. I get that. But don’t make permanent decisions based on a temporary wound.”
The words hit because they sound so reasonable.
“You don’t belong here,” he adds, gesturing vaguely at the street. “This town, this ranch… it’s a hiding place. You were never meant to shrink yourself this way.”
“I’m not shrinking,” I say. “I’m healing.”
“By running away?” His tone is still calm, but there’s steel underneath now. “You think cooking family meals and playing house is going to fulfill you?”
My spine straightens. “It fulfills me more than being disposable ever did.”
“That’s not fair,” he snaps, then immediately reins it in. “I invested in you. I pushed you because I believed in you.”
“You used me,” I say quietly.
His jaw tightens. “I gave you opportunities no one else would have.”
“And you took everything when it suited you,” I shoot back. “Including my voice.”
The charm wavers. The mask slips just enough for me to see irritation flash beneath it.
“So that’s it?” he asks. “You’re choosing this place over your career?”
“I’m choosing myself.”
That’s when his hand shoots out.
Fingers wrap around my wrist, firm and unyielding, anchoring me in place before I can step back.
“Don’t walk away from me,” he says sharply, the warmth gone. “Not after everything.”
My breath stutters. Panic flares hot and fast.
“Let go,” I say.
“You owe me a conversation,” he snarls under his breath. “I made you.”
The words are the last crack in the dam.
“Get your hands off me,” I shout, loud enough that people turn.
His grip tightens for half a second. Long enough to remind me exactly who he is when he doesn’t get his way.
And I hate who he is when he doesn’t get his way.