Chapter 38 Stormy #2
I grip the edge of the sink, catching my reflection.
Wet cheeks. Red eyes. Messy ponytail. I look no better than the girl who had wanted to leave London.
Scared and alone. And that hurts most of all, because I thought I was finally becoming someone else.
Someone stronger. Someone who knew what she was doing. But the dream feels so thin now.
A noise echoes from deeper in the shop, something faint like a scuff, and I freeze, heart stalling for half a beat. Someone’s here.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand and step carefully into the main space.
Will stands by one of the shelves he built, hand gripping the edge tightly.
For a moment, I smile.
Relief flickers through me at the sight of a familiar face.
Maybe he came to check in. Maybe he cares.
But then I remember the look he gave me back at book club.
Cold. Blank.
Not a word when things turned sour.
Just silence.
My smile falters.
“Will?”
He lifts his eyes. His expression shifts, softening into almost something flirty?
“Stormy, I’m sorry,” he says, stepping towards me slowly. “For what happened back there. I should’ve spoken up for you. I was caught off guard. It wasn’t right.”
I let out a shaky breath, and I nod, swallowing down the lump in my throat.
“Thanks,” I say, voice quiet. “It’s okay.”
Then Will steps closer—a bit too close. He steals the space between us and places his hands on my hips.
His fingers are unyielding, pulling me in until our bodies touch, and my stomach lurches.
His gaze drops, settling low on my chest like gravity pulled it there.
Then, his eyes trace the curve of my body with the quiet entitlement of someone who thinks he's owed something.
When his eyes finally lift back to my face, they carry something slick and knowing; a twisted kind of confidence that makes my skin crawl.
“Why don’t we forget all that for a second,” he says casually, “… How about you stop making me wait?”
I stiffen. My thoughts trip over each other. Wait … what?
“I …” I blink up at him, confusion tightening my chest. “What?”
He’s still smiling, but it’s off now. It’s crooked and something a little too familiar.
“Come on, Stormy,” he says, squeezing my sides like it’s a joke. “You don’t have to play shy, not with me.”
I try to step back, but his grip holds.
I squirm, pushing at his arms.
“Will, let go of me.”
His face darkens, and he laughs, sharp and loud. It cuts through the room like broken glass, and I flinch at the sound.
Then he pushes me, hard and sudden, and I stumble as he turns and strides across the room to one of the shelves.
Before I can react, he yanks it forwards and wood splinters onto the ground.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth and tears prickling behind my eyes.
“All this I’ve done for you,” he snarls.
“Helping to build all this, listening to your plans, flirting with me left, right and centre …” He spins back towards me, storming close, and my heart kicks hard against my ribs.
He’s coming at me, and I can’t move. Can’t breathe.
Something instinctive screams at me to run, but my feet stay rooted.
I see the shift in his eyes before he’s even reached me.
The way his jaw sets. That rage behind his stare.
His hand grabs my arm, too hard.
“Come on, Stormy,” he hisses, venom wrapped around every word.
His other hand slides into the hairline at the back of my neck, and his fingers brush my skin. It doesn’t feel tender, it feels callous and cruel.
He leans in, and his breath hits my neck, hot and unwelcome. “I saw you with Ford at book club. All cosy. Laughing.” His grip tightens, and I whimper. “What about me, huh? Why not be cosy with me?”
My mouth moves helplessly.
I can't breathe. It feels like someone’s reached inside me and stolen the breath straight from my lungs. “I … I …” I whisper, unable to form the words.
My pulse thunders in my ears, louder than thought.
Then, just as the panic begins to peak, the door slams open.
Ford stands in the doorway with his chest rising as though he’s barely containing the urge to tear through the room. His eyes find mine, and they’re wild, sharp, and full of heat.
“Get your hands off her,” he growls, each word dragging. His voice is low and dangerous.
Will stiffens but doesn’t let go.
“Now,” Ford barks, taking a step forwards.
Something in Will falters, and a flicker of uncertainty cuts through his anger. His fingers unhook from my arm and around my neck with a sharpness that makes me flinch.
Ford closes the space fast, stepping between us. I stumble back, breath ragged, tears streaking down my face before I even register that they’ve fallen. My hands shake at my sides, adrenaline turning my legs to water.
“Are you okay?” Ford asks, voice gentler now, barely above a whisper, but the tension still live in his body like static. There’s urgency in the way his eyes roam across my neck, my arms, and my face.
I nod, but it’s a lie.
I glance at Will, who’s now standing by the wrecked shelves, breathing hard. His face isn’t cold anymore, it’s flushed and wild, like the act of being stopped only made the fury settle deeper.
“This is what I get?” he spits. “After everything I’ve done?”
Ford doesn’t blink.
“What you just did was enough to undo all of it.”
His voice cuts clean, low, and lethal, as he turns to face Will.
Will doesn’t back down.
He sneers at Ford.
“You think you’re her saviour?” he laughs, sharp and jagged. “She’s been flirting with me for weeks. Leading me on. Playing both of us like it’s a game.” Then he turns on me. “She acts all sweet, but she’s nothing but a tease. A whore in disguise.”
The words hit like a slap, and I flinch. The sick twist of a tornado tears through my chest, hurt and devastation strewn behind like wreckage. They’re words I thought I’d buried, words I hoped I’d never hear again.
Ford freezes, his back tense, his fists clenched at his sides.
He turns towards me, just for a second, and I see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes.
It slices through me. He’s wondering if it’s true.
My stomach drops.
But then something shifts, and his gaze hardens. He spins to face Will and takes a step forwards. His shoulders are taut, and his face is thunderous.
“Watch your mouth,” Ford snarls. “Don’t you dare speak to her like that.”
He takes another step with his fists flexing at his sides, and I lurch forwards, grabbing his arm.
“Ford, no,” I gasp, fingers gripping tight. “Please, don’t.”
Ford stops, breathing hard, the fury humming through his body like electricity. He looks back at me, and his jaw softens just enough.
Then Will scoffs, mutters something under his breath, and bolts.
His shoulder slams into the doorframe as he disappears into the street.
The door swings closed behind him, and Ford stands there, his chest heaving.
I let go of his arm slowly, tears still wet on my cheeks, staring at the broken shelf on the floor.
Ford turns to me, his voice low.
“You’re safe now, alright?”
I nod, tears clouding my vision. But the ache under my skin says otherwise. Will’s grip still lingers like a bruise that hasn’t bloomed yet.
Ford reaches for me, and I flinch. Step back.
“No, please.”
The words spill out, jagged and frantic, my hands trembling as I raise them between us.
“I didn’t flirt with him,” I cry. “I swear I didn’t. Please believe me … I didn’t. I wasn’t … I wouldn’t …”
My voice breaks and keeps breaking. The sobs come fast now, sharp and breathless, panic clawing up through my chest like it wants out.
Ford pauses, his face calm but tight with concern, and then, slowly, he reaches again.
“Stormy …”
His hand finds my arm, light as a whisper.
I jolt, and my breath catches,
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he says gently. “I believe you.” He steps closer, but doesn’t crowd me, his hand still resting lightly, like he’s there if I need him, but willing to wait if I don’t. “I’m not him,” he says quietly. “I’m not your ex. I won’t doubt you. And I will never hurt you.”
The words settle into me like sunlight after a storm. Like climbing into bed and settling under warm blankets.
“You’re safe with me, Stormy.”
My body moves before my mind catches up. One second, I’m upright, blinking through tears, and the next I’m falling into him, chest hitting his like the familiar, grounding scent I’ve come to crave is home.
Ford catches me without hesitation, arms wrapping around me tightly.
He’s not just holding me up but anchoring me. His hands press gently into my back and the curve of my shoulders. His thumb traces gentle circles, slow and comforting.
I sob into his shirt, the sound wrenching from somewhere deep, where all the cracked parts live. And he holds me tighter. His breath is steady against the top of my head.
Ford doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t have to. The silence is soft. It’s shelter. It’s enough.