Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
AUDRA
I wake slowly.
Not startled. Not panicked.
Just… aware.
The couch beneath me is wide and plush, the kind you sink into instead of perch on. A blanket is draped over me—not tucked too tight, not careless either. A pillow supports my lower back just right.
Thoughtful. Intentional.
I don’t remember lying down.
I remember bacon. Coffee. Laughter.
The low murmur of the TV.
A steady male voice somewhere nearby—calm, even, measured.
The way Derek stayed close without crowding—like he’d positioned himself to notice if I stirred, not to watch, but to know.
That memory settles warm and strange in my chest.
Safe, I realize.
I shift slightly, the blanket slipping, and instinctively pull it closer around my shoulders. The room remains quiet, steady. No raised voices. No pressure. Just the soft rhythm of a house lived in by someone who expects control—but offers care.
The cadence of Derek’s voice continues—professional, unhurried—then fades briefly, like he’s listening more than talking.
And for the first time since last night, my body doesn’t feel braced for impact.
Curiosity nudges me before logic does.
I push myself upright slowly, careful of the lingering fog in my head, and follow the hallway toward the far end of the house.
Derek’s voice drifts faintly from behind me now—lower, clipped in places, warm in others.
A call he’s clearly in command of. Working.
The sound of him ebbs as I move on, replaced by the quiet hum of the house.
I drift instead of decide.
The hallway opens into a small office first—Derek’s office—and it’s exactly what I expect in the least comforting way possible. Minimal personality. Everything is efficient, restrained, controlled.
Stuffy.
This room feels like armor. Like a place where emotions don’t get invited inside.
From somewhere behind me, Derek’s voice carries again—muted now through walls, steady and decisive. This room makes sense for that version of him.
I back out quietly, oddly relieved.
Across the hall, a guest room door stands open. Light spills across pale carpet, soft and inviting.
The bathroom attached to it draws me in next.
It smells clean. Neutral. Like soap and stone and nothing else.
Everything is orderly. Quiet. Unused enough to feel impersonal, which is a relief.
I take a moment there—relieve myself, wash my hands, study my reflection.
I look… tired.
Not wrecked. Not broken. Just dulled around the edges. My eyes are slower. My thoughts still lag half a step behind my body. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and exhale.
Still here, I tell myself.
Still me.
Derek’s voice rises faintly again—one word clearer than the rest. “No.” Firm. Final. Whatever the conversation is, it’s handled.
Further down the hall, I find a library.
My breath actually catches this time.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the walls, packed with books—real ones, not decorative spines.
Hardcovers mixed with paperbacks, dog-eared corners, sticky notes tucked between pages.
There’s a ladder on a rail, a deep armchair angled toward a window, a small table with a reading lamp waiting patiently beside it.
This is a room meant to linger in.
This room feels… quieter than the rest of the house. Thoughtful. Curious.
I smile faintly.
I could get lost here, I think.
Not today. But someday.
The thought settles gently, without pressure.
The man cave announces itself without apology.
A massive television dominates one wall, currently dark, flanked by built-in shelving packed with sports memorabilia. Not decorative replicas or filler pieces—real artifacts. Framed jerseys. Signed basketballs. Photographs mounted with museum-level precision.
Michael Jordan.
Not just one item—several.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
These aren’t conversation starters. They’re investments. Chosen carefully. Reverently. The kind of collection someone builds slowly, intentionally—because it matters to them, not because it looks impressive.
I step farther inside, my movements instinctively quiet, like the room might notice.
Two oversized leather recliners—La-Z-Boys, unmistakably—sit angled toward the television. They’re worn in the best way, arms softened by years of use, footrests scuffed where boots and bare feet have kicked them open without ceremony. These chairs weren’t picked to match anything.
They were picked to be lived in.
A deep leather couch anchors the center of the room, broken in and unapologetically comfortable.
A throw blanket is slung over one arm, not styled, not folded—just left there.
The low table in front of it bears faint scratches and rings, quiet evidence of intense games, late nights, and conversations that probably got louder as the hours wore on.
Off to one side, a full-size pool table commands its own space, dark felt smooth and immaculate, cues racked neatly along the wall. Nearby, a foosball table sits at a slight angle, handles worn from competitive use—this isn’t decoration.
This is where bragging rights are earned and lost.
Against the far wall, a retro Pac-Man arcade machine hums softly, lights glowing faintly even when idle. Bright. Nostalgic. Completely unbothered by whether it fits a design scheme.
I drift closer, the familiar waka-waka sound barely audible.
Then I notice the high-score list.
Three sets of initials.
D.P.
A.R.
M.F.
D.P. sits at the top.
By a lot.
I smile before I can stop myself.
I can picture it easily—Alex trash-talking, Mark insisting on one more round, Derek saying nothing at all. Just stepping up and quietly destroying them.
He doesn’t brag.
He just… wins.
A compact stainless-steel refrigerator hums beneath a shelf to my left, the door smudged with fingerprints. Above it, an open cabinet reveals bags of snacks—chips, pretzels, peanuts, trail mix, protein bars shoved in alongside junk food like they’re negotiating a ceasefire.
This isn’t a space curated for guests.
It’s a space built for staying.
Photos are tucked in among the memorabilia—Derek younger, arms slung around Mark and Alex, all three of them grinning wide.
Another where they’re dirt-streaked and laughing, maybe after something ill-advised.
One more in tuxes, jackets gone, ties loose, Derek’s smile unguarded in a way I’ve never seen at the office.
No women.
Not posed. Not clinging. Not curated.
Just his people.
Everything else in the house is precise. Balanced. Designed with intention.
This room doesn’t care about perfection.
It’s messy in a way that feels honest.
And standing here—wrapped in his blanket, barefoot on the edge of his life—something clicks into place that unsettles me more than it should.
This is Derek Pierce without the armor.
And for the first time, I don’t wonder how many women he’s brought home.
I wonder how many he’s actually let see this.