Chapter Six Dylan
Ethan’s voice comes through the phone like a warning bell right before an avalanche.
“Is Sunny with you?”
Sunny’s eyes snap to mine—wide, terrified, silently begging me not to ruin whatever fragile grip she has on her life. I feel her fear like a live wire under my skin.
“Yes,” I say.
Sunny inhales like I’ve just cut her oxygen supply.
Ethan is quiet for a beat, long enough that I picture him in some hotel room in Los Angeles, pacing, rubbing a hand over his jaw the way he does when he’s about to tear into someone.
Then— “Why?”
I choose my words like scalpels. “She needed somewhere to stay.”
“That’s not a real answer. What happened?”
Sunny’s nails dig into her palm, shoulders curling inward. She is seconds from crumbling.
I step closer, blocking her from the world—even when the threat is only a voice.
“She’s safe,” I tell him. “That’s all you need to know right now.”
There’s a sharp exhale. “Dylan. Don’t play games with me.”
“I’ll explain tomorrow,” I say. “You don’t need to fly back.”
“Try and stop me,” he snaps, then hangs up.
Silence swallows the hallway.
Sunny lets out a shaky laugh—one of those brittle ones that hide a breakdown. “He’s going to murder you.”
“Probably,” I say. “But he’ll have to wait in line.”
She presses a hand to her forehead. “What does that mean?”
“It means we don’t have time.” I check my watch. “We leave in an hour.”
“Where? Why?” Her voice breaks. “I can’t just— my whole life— I can’t disappear and pretend—”
“Sunny.” I tilt her chin up so she has to look at me. “You’re not disappearing. You’re surviving.”
Her eyes shine. And for a moment, I let myself look. Really look. At the damage that coward Malone did to her. At the courage it takes to stand here.
Then I pull back—because if I don’t, I won’t.
The penthouse feels different now—charged, like the walls themselves know what we just agreed to. I call in my driver, fire off a text to Connor, deploy my security team.
Sunny stands barefoot in my kitchen staring at a mug of tea like she’s forgotten how to drink.
“You need sleep,” I tell her.
She laughs—humorless. “You think I can sleep?”
I reach into a drawer and toss a sleek black card on the counter.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“Insurance. Anything you need for this… arrangement, you get. Clothes. Shoes. Hair. Don’t argue.”
Her brow furrows. “I don’t— I can’t just take money from you.”
“You’re not,” I say. “You’re taking cover.”
She swallows hard. Her walls are thin—paper-thin—and I’m standing close enough to punch straight through.
I force myself to step back.
“Shopping tomorrow morning,” I say. “It’ll sell the engagement.”
Her cheeks flare pink. “I don’t know how to look like someone who belongs in your world.”
“You already do,” I say before I can stop myself.
She freezes.
I look away. “We’ll get you a ring.”
“A…” She blinks. “A ring.”
“It’s expected,” I say. “Engagement. Fiancée. Thirty-day arrangement—visual proof matters more than truth.”
“Thirty days,” she whispers, like she’s testing the shape of the sentence in her mouth. “What if I mess this up?”
“You won’t.” Because I’ll make sure you don’t.
The next morning, we’re in a private designer showroom before it opens. Sunlight hits marble floors and racks of clothing in colors that cost more than some people’s rent.
Sunny stands in front of a mirror in a silk dress—tag dangling—looking like she’s about to bolt.
“I look ridiculous,” she mutters.
“You look…” I stop. Too honest. Dangerous territory. “…fine.”
She glares. “Fine?”
“Don’t start,” I warn.
She snatches another dress and stalks into the changing room. I pinch the bridge of my nose. I could be closing a multimillion-dollar deal right now—but I’m here.
Because she needs me.
And God help me—I don’t hate it.
Seconds later—
“Um. Dylan?” she calls.
I push open the door a crack. “What.”
Her face is red, hair messy, arms tangled. “I’m stuck.”
“What do you mean you’re—” I step inside and freeze.
The zipper on the back of the dress is halfway down, exposing the long delicate line of her spine. The silk clings to her hips like it worships them. My body reacts before my brain issues the command.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she whispers.
“Like what,” I say, voice sandpaper.
“Like I’m something you want.”
Silence detonates between us.
I step closer. Slowly. Testing my own restraint like it’s a fraying rope.
“You’re not,” I tell myself aloud.
Her eyes flicker. “Then why is your pulse doing that?”
I do not touch her. I do not speak. I reach—slow, controlled—and zip the dress up.
Her breath hitches.
Mine damn near stops.
“Rule four,” I say, voice low. “No… complications.”
Her lashes lower. “Aren’t we already complicated?”
I’m not answering that.
We’re walking back toward the exit when her phone buzzes in my pocket—she still hasn’t taken it back.
I pull it out.
One message. Blocked number. Still found a way through.
You can’t hide from me.
Sunny stiffens beside me like she felt it through me.
“Who is it,” she asks, voice tiny.
I lock the screen. “No one.”
“But—”
“It’s handled,” I say sharply. Too sharply.
Because the truth is—It’s not handled. It’s only getting worse.
I curl my hand around the phone, the edges digging into my palm.
Malone thinks this is a game.
He hasn’t even begun to understand what I’ll do to protect her.