Chapter 8
SAM
Phoenix leaves with the signed postnup in hand, promising to email me a copy. The second the door closes behind her I grab my keys. I haven’t seen my wife in days. I need to talk to her—really talk to her.
I head straight for Mackenzie’s. The house is large and builder-grade—the kind that looks impressive from the street but feels like a floor plan rather than a home once you are inside.
Jared answers the door, squinting against the late afternoon sun. “Well, well, well, look who finally came knocking.” Jared is tall and lean, always wearing glasses that make him look like he’s thinking about something slightly more interesting than the current conversation.
“Hey,” I mutter, heat rising up my neck. “Is Becca here?”
His brows lift. “She hasn’t been here since Saturday night. You mean you don’t know where your wife’s been the past two days?”
“Thought she was here,” I admit. “I … I haven’t heard from her since Sunday morning.”
Mackenzie walks in behind him, still in her scrubs, hair pulled back tight, looking like she came straight from a twelve-hour shift and did not slow down once. “So you didn’t even call her?”
I open my mouth. Close it.
“I’ve picked up the phone a hundred times,” I say finally, “but I didn’t know what to say.”
Mack crosses her arms. “Try starting with ‘I’m sorry I stole your future to prop up someone else's.’ Just a thought.”
Jared tries to defuse with a shrug. “Kenzie’s protective. Hell, you should’ve seen her at Reece’s soccer game. Kid on the other team shoved her and she almost went feral on the ref.”
“I get it,” I say, running a hand through my hair. “Thanks for being there for her.”
“Well, you’d better hope our next Zentrology meeting doesn’t involve Voodoo dolls.” Mack slaps Jared’s chest and disappears down the hall.
“Good luck, man,” Jared says, not unkindly, as I head back to my truck.
I pull up Wade’s number before I can talk myself out of it. He answers on the second ring.
“Sam?”
“Hey, Wade, is Becca with you?”
“She left early this morning. Wouldn’t take a sick day if the place caught fire.” He chuckles.
“Yeah. That sounds like her.” I pause, then breathe deep. “Look, Wade … I just wanted to say I’m sorry. I said some things about your family that weren’t right. That’s not the kind of man I want to be.”
There’s a long pause on the other end. I brace for impact.
“Well, Becca told us you had a fight,” he says slowly. “But she never mentioned you saying anything like that.”
I blink. “She didn’t?”
“Nope. Not a word.” A beat. Then a low chuckle. “Hell, we were over here defending you.”
My chest tightens.
“She’s a class act, my girl is,” he adds, pride threading through his voice. “Always has been.”
Silence settles between us for a second before he continues.
“That’s loyalty, son. Even when you're blowing things up, she’s still protecting you. Not dragging your name, not turning us against you. Just letting you mess it up on your own.”
Another pause.
“Make sure you deserve that kind of loyalty.”
My throat tightens. “I’m trying. I really am.”
“You may not think much of our family, but Becca grew up watching two people love each other when they had nothing. She learned to expect everything—honesty, respect, trust. She’s not going to settle for less just because you mean well.”
“You’re right,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “She’s lucky to have you.”
Wade huffs out a soft laugh. “We did what we could. Sometimes that wasn’t much.” A beat passes. “Money comes and goes, Sam. It always has for us.”
My grip tightens on the phone. It’s only money.
My words hit harder coming back to me through Becca's Dad.
Wade keeps going, easy, like it’s nothing. “You learn not to hold it too tight. You take care of your people, and you figure the rest out.”
I swallow, something sharp settling low in my chest. Because to him, money was something that moved. To Becca, living through that, it was something she needed to stay, to feel grounded.
Something she could hold on to and rely on. Something that meant she’d never have to wonder if the lights would stay on or if there’d be food in the fridge.
And I didn’t just take it. I took the one thing that made her feel safe. Hell, worse than that—she walked out of our house. And I signed a postnup that made damn sure it stayed mine. What have I done?
I grab my phone pulling up Phoenix's number. One call, that is all it would take to undo it. Fix my mistake, put things back where they belong.
My thumb hovers over the call button … and I stop myself. But this wasn't a mistake; this is what she asked for. What Becca needed to feel safe again.
I set my phone down and sit in my truck, hands gripping the wheel. My stomach growls, loud enough to echo in the quiet cab. Of course I’m starving. There's no food at the house because Becca usually handles the meal planning and groceries on Sundays. Another thing I took for granted.
I drive to the store, pulling up our banking app before heading inside. After signing that postnup, I figure I’ll need to move things around to cover the bills this month. Hell, I wouldn’t trust me with money either.
I scroll through the account. Her direct deposit hit—less than usual—but when I do the math, my chest tightens. She left enough to cover all our bills, knowing I wouldn't receive the final payment for my last job until next week. Even padded it with a buffer.
She took herself off the house, and she still made sure I wouldn’t fall behind. God, this woman is too good to me.
I can’t just keep taking. I need to make her feel like she’s safe again. Like she’s seen. Where would she be?
I won’t show up at her job. She deserves better than that. Then it hits me—Becca’s calendar. Well, it’s a shared calendar, but I rarely check it. She made it early in our relationship, color-coded and organized down to the hour. Another thing she built that I took for granted.
Becca might be my passenger princess on the road. She never worries about gas, directions, or traffic. But when it comes to our life? I’ve been the one along for the ride.
I open the calendar. There it is: “Watch Bernard Rothschild” I almost laugh. Of course.
The Rothschilds often invited her to stay at their house.
But after weeks of photos showing Bernie’s luxury dog bed and home-cooked chicken in our guest room, they were glad to let him stay with us.
So if Becca’s watching him there, it means she’s safe.
Somewhere familiar. Somewhere she can breathe and live in some luxury she deserves.
A quiet relief settles into my chest. Becca is staying in a house with top of the line security. Cascadia is a safe place, but I never want my woman to fear for her safety.
What about her financial safety, asshole?
I sigh to myself and drive to the grocery store. I grab what I can for the meals I know how to make. My version of Sunday grocery shopping is a lot more “wing it” than Becca’s spreadsheet-style prep.
At checkout, the woman behind the counter rings me up. “That’ll be $98.59,” she says.
I blink. What the hell? Becca feeds us all week for way less than that—and somehow makes it look easy.
I swipe my card and bag the groceries, shaking my head as I head home. Every little thing I touch has her fingerprints on it. Every corner of our life runs smoother because of her.
Back at the house, I’m halfway through unpacking when my foreman calls.
“Hey Sam, we were shorted a box of the White Oak planks. I already called Timber she brought him up late last year. She’s moving forward on building on the lot. Without me.
I don’t know if I want to yell or beg.
Becca leans over the sample counter, pointing at a display.
“So,” she asks Bennet, “which one of these is, like, the idiot-proof version? I want something I can install myself without ending up on TikTok for it.”
I smirk. Becca is many things, but she’s never been handy. That was always my domain.
Bennet laughs a little too warmly. “You’ll want luxury vinyl plank. Affordable and really forgiving to install. I can stay late one night and show you how, if you’d like.”
Before she can answer, I step behind her.
“That won’t be necessary,” I say flatly.
Becca jumps slightly, turning to look at me. Her mouth opens in surprise. “Sam?” She pauses. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” she says, tone colder this time.
“I’m picking up a box for a site. Short shipment.”
“Oh. Right.”
Bennet claps his hands awkwardly. Becca straightens and clears her throat, shifting her attention back to the task at hand.
“So, when exactly do I need the floors by?” she asks Bennet. “And when are we installing?”
His eyes widen in excitement. “Is this a yes, you're in?!"
Becca beams. "Yes, thanks for walking me through some options. I watched some YouTube tutorials last night and ran my projected numbers. I think I can do this."