Chapter 8
Wyatt
I refill our mugs and hand one to her before settling at the other end of the couch. Sadie shifts, moving closer to me as Maisie curls up on her other side. My hands itch to reach for her, wrap my arms around her, but I push the instinct down. She needs to come to me on her own terms.
I sit. Not too close. Close enough. If she hands me her story, I’ll guard it with the same fierceness I’ll guard her life.
Sadie looks into the fire, her gaze distant. When she finally speaks, her voice is steady.
“My mother died when I was eight,” she says softly. “She had a rare, aggressive form of lupus. Even with specialists and constant care, it moved faster than anyone expected. I think she knew she was leaving me with a man who didn’t know how to grieve.”
She exhales a humorless huff. “And she was right. My father remarried less than a year later. Joanne.” Her mouth twists. “Lovely woman. Wrong man. They lasted a year. Then came Nancy. Three years. I liked her. She tried.”
Another small breath, this one sharper. “After that was Marcie. Six months. They didn’t even bother unpacking the wedding china.”
She pauses to sip her tea. “By then, I’d figured it out. He wasn’t replacing a wife. He was replacing the part of himself he refused to deal with.”
“And then came Clarissa.” The way she says it changes the temperature of the room. She places her mug on the side table and tucks her hands under the blanket like she’s afraid they’ll shake.
“Take your time,” I murmur.
“I’d already finished my undergrad and had just started my third year of vet school. Exhausted, busy, but happy, I guess. As close as I’ve ever been. Animals were the one place I felt… normal.”
Her gaze drifts to Maisie, who noses her thigh softly. “My father remarried Clarissa while I was at school. We’d met a handful of times. Enough to know she was polished, observant, and very good at making everything feel like a performance you didn’t know you were auditioning for.”
Sadie’s throat works around a swallow. “I didn’t trust her,” she admits.
“Not because she was unkind. Not exactly. But every time I visited home, more staff had been replaced. She’d inserted herself into more of my father’s business decisions.
And she watched me. Not out of affection.
More like I was a loose thread she intended to pull. ”
My spine stiffens.
“One day,” Sadie continues, “I was at a café near campus when Harry showed up. I’d seen him around the estate before. He was hired after Clarissa married my father. Security, supposedly. But he reported to her, not him.”
A shadow crosses her features, the kind born from hindsight. “That should have been my first warning. He told me that my father was sick. Very sick. And that I needed to come home immediately.”
She draws a shaky breath. “When I got there, the whole house felt wrong. New faces. Staff who wouldn’t meet my eyes. Clarissa waiting on the stairs like she was about to receive an award. When I asked to see my father, she hesitated. Clarissa never hesitates.”
Her voice cracks with grief. “Dad was barely conscious. Gray. Sweating. Confused. I’ve worked enough with vets to know when organs are shutting down. And he was shutting down.”
Her eyebrows pinch. “Then, he grabbed my wrist. Hard.” Her fingers curl as if she’s remembering the pressure.
“He made me lean close and whispered numbers. Long strings of numbers. Told me to memorize them. Told me not to write them down. I didn’t understand.
I didn’t want to understand. But I memorized them. ”
My fists curl before I can stop them. A dying man shouldn’t have to spend his last breath protecting his kid from his own household.
Sadie glances at me, reading how tightly I’m holding myself. I force my hands open. She needs to know I’m listening, that I’m here for her.
“When I left the room, Clarissa was waiting in the hall,” Sadie continues. “She asked what my father said. Not how he was doing. Not if he was in pain. Just what he said.”
“I told her he needed real medical help. Specialists. Something was wrong. Clarissa smiled and said grief was making me imagine things. I realized then how alone I was. How much power Clarissa must have already claimed. How fast.”
“That night, something felt wrong.” She draws her knees up and rubs her palms on her leggings. “I kept replaying my father’s symptoms. The new staff. The way Clarissa looked at me. Like she was already calculating how to remove me.”
My jaw hardens. If Clarissa poisoned him—and I’m already betting she did—I’ll make damn sure she never gets close to Sadie again.
“I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t.” She shakes her head. “I kept thinking about the numbers he made me memorize. I didn’t want them. I didn’t want any of it.”
She swallows, the movement tight and painful. “And then my phone buzzed.”
She lifts her gaze to mine, and for the first time since she started talking, fear cracks through her composure. “Unknown number. No greeting. Just a message. ‘Your father is dead. She’s sending men to get the numbers from you. Get out now.’”
Cold sweeps through my body.
“I didn’t believe it at first,” Sadie continues quietly. “I thought it was a prank. Or a threat. But then another message came. ‘She won’t ask nicely. She won’t stop.’”
I force air into my lungs. “Jesus, Sadie…”
“And the final message. ‘Keys in the black town car. Cash in the trunk. They’re coming. GO!’ I didn’t know who sent them,” she whispers. “Still don’t. Someone inside that house, I think. Someone who was trying to help me.”
She wraps her arms around her knees as if holding in the memory. “I opened my door to leave, but two guards were already coming down the hallway with guns. And behind them…” Her breath catches. “Clarissa. Smiling. Like she’d already won.”
Every muscle in my body tenses.
“They didn’t see me,” Sadie says. “I slammed the door, locked it, and ran for the balcony. Climbed down the trellis.” She lets out a breathless, humorless laugh. “Vet school should offer a course on adrenaline-assisted stupidity.”
She looks up then, right at me, like she’s stepping out onto ice that might crack under her weight.
“And I ran,” she whispers. “I ran from state to state. Shelter to shelter. Job to job. I tried to vanish on my own. Changed names, burned phones. I never stayed more than a few days. Not until I got to Montana. But Clarissa knows I have those numbers. If she finds me…”
Sadie’s shoulders lift like she’s trying to hold in her whole life. The fire paints warm color across her cheeks, but she looks pale beneath it. She curls inward, as if making herself smaller might make the memory quieter.
“I thought about going to the Feds,” she says, voice low. “Tip lines. Anonymous hotlines. I even emailed an agent listed on a public corruption task force. No one replied.”
She shakes her head. “And if they did trace anything back to me… I was terrified Clarissa would know before they did.”
That tracks. Criminal organizations have reach. Bureaucracies have backlogs.
“I couldn’t risk walking into a field office,” she continues. “If I was wrong, if they were compromised, or if someone recognized me, I wouldn’t make it out. They’d hand me right back to her, Wyatt.”
Her eyes lift to mine. Wide. Clear. Exhausted.
“And what would I say?” she whispers. “‘Hi, I’m the estranged daughter of a man who built half his life on bribes and offshore accounts, and here are some numbers I memorized while he was dying in front of me’? They’d think I was unhinged. Or involved.”
She’s not wrong.
“I didn’t want to be arrested,” she murmurs. “Not when I’ve spent my whole life trying to be nothing like them. I just… wanted to disappear clean. Let whatever storm Clarissa stirred up crash without me in the middle of it.”
Her gaze drops to her hands.
“And then,” she says softly, “I saw Shay’s wedding photo in an old newspaper in a library. It felt like…” She searches for a word. “…providence.”
“Shay and I went to the same school for a while. We weren’t close, but… she was kind.” Sadie’s voice gentles. “She looked safe in that photo. Happy. Loved. And I thought maybe—just maybe—she’d believe me.”
A tiny laugh escapes her—brittle, self-deprecating.
“Shay sent me to Marlie. Marlie sent me to the auction. And the universe sent me”—her eyes rise to mine—“you.”
Something shifts under my ribs. Something as heavy as a promise.
She’s trembling now. Barely noticeable—unless you’re watching her as closely as I am.
“That’s the whole story, Wyatt,” she whispers.
I nod. Not because the story is finished, but because I understand what she’s really offering.
Her life.
Her fear.
Her trust.
“You’re safe,” I tell her quietly. “Not because you ran. Not because Shay sent you here. Not because of the auction.” I shake my head. “You’re safe because you’re with me.”
Sadie exhales shakily, as if the words cost her something to receive.
“That woman—your stepmother—she doesn’t get to write the rest of your story.” I lean forward slightly. “And she’s not stronger than what we have here.”
Sadie lifts her chin. There’s steel under the softness. “I know that now.” She hesitates, then: “Why were you at that auction, Wyatt? Was it really just to fulfill a favor?”
I won’t lie to her.
I meet her eyes. “I didn’t go looking for this, Sadie. But the second I saw you—saw the way you watched the exits, the way you stood there without flinching—I felt it.” I shake my head slowly. “Not pity. Not an urge to save you. Just… recognition.”
Her lips part. Shock, denial, and hope flicker through her expression like storm light.
“You,” I finish.
Yeah. That lands.
She blinks rapidly, chest rising unsteadily. She’s not used to being wanted for anything but what she can provide, or what she knows.
“Sadie,” I murmur, “you were strong before I ever stepped in. But I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”
She doesn’t answer. Instead, she shifts hesitantly, closing the gap between us inch by careful inch. When her shoulder brushes mine, she goes still, like she’s waiting to be told she’s misread the moment.
I don’t move. Don’t breathe.
Finally, her body leans into mine. Her temple presses against my shoulder. My arm moves around her carefully, like if I touch her too fast, the spell will break.
She melts. Not dramatically. Not fully. Enough to tell me she’s letting me in.
She fits against me. Completely. Like she was built for this exact place beneath my arm, above my heart.
Her breath shivers against my shirt. “I don’t…” She stops. Starts again. “I haven’t had much of this. People. Affection. Not since I was a kid.”
I tighten my hold. Not trapping. Supporting. “You don’t have to explain,” I say softly.
“No,” she whispers, lifting her face, “I do. Because I don’t know how to be this. I don’t know how to be close. Or ask for what I want.”
She swallows. Hard. “But… I want you to kiss me.”
My pulse jumps hard enough to bruise bone.
“Sadie.” I brush my thumb along her cheekbone. “I won’t take more than you’re ready to give.”
“I know,” she says. “That’s why I want you to. Because I trust you. And… it feels like the first true thing I’ve said in years.”
Christ. I was already halfway gone for her. Now I’m fucking done for.
I lean in slowly—slow enough she can stop me with a breath, fast enough she knows I want her—and cradle the back of her neck. When my lips brush hers, the world goes quiet.
It’s not hunger or possession. Not a claim.
It’s a vow.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, anchoring herself. I deepen the kiss just enough to show her she’s wanted, that I’m here, that she’s not alone in this.
She trembles.
I pull back, resting my forehead against hers. “I’ve got you,” I whisper. “Whatever this becomes, whatever we build, you don’t have to do it alone.”
Her breath stutters. She nods.
And when she kisses me again—this time her leading—I let her.
Because a woman choosing the chance to hope again?
That’s the kind of miracle you don’t rush.