Miles
We enter my apartment in silence. She was somber for the entire ride from the hospital, her gaze fixed on the passing city lights without truly seeing them.
My mind races back to a few hours ago when I was sitting in a business meeting in Chicago.
The second she pushed that panic button at her parents' estate, my world shifted. I didn’t hesitate; I walked out and didn't look back. The drive to the airport and the flight back were a blur of adrenaline. I nearly lost my mind trying to get in contact with her, and the moment I confirmed which hospital they’d taken her mother to, I hacked into their security and medical systems.
Seeing her through those camera feeds. I’ve never been so fucking proud.
She was strong. She was decisive. She called Tomas when her mother’s own doctor failed her.
I wish I could have been there to hold her up, but in a way, this was something she needed to confront on her own, this deep-seated fear of ending up like her mother.
It’s the reason she’s so rigorous with every checkup, the reason she panics at the slightest lapse in memory.
She also needed to prove to herself that she’s capable of being there for Abigail.
I grab her hand now, my touch firm, and lead her into the ensuite. I don't ask; I just turn on the shower, the steam quickly filling the room. I undress her gently, her body limp with exhaustion, and guide her under the spray, then I soap the sponge and wash the hospital smell away.
When I arrived at that hospital and saw her curled up in the bed next to her mother, I felt physically sick. The vulnerability of it nearly broke me.
She lifts her face to mine, the water mingling with the fresh tears on her cheeks. “I was so scared,” she whispers. Then the dam breaks.
I pull her into my arms, letting the hot water pulse over both of us as she sobs into my chest. As I hold her, the weight of my own secrets feels like lead in my veins.
I know, in this moment, that I would rather die than let her find out the truth about the photographs.
The reality of what I’ve done, of what I’m hiding…
it wouldn't just destroy her. It would destroy us. And that is a thought I simply can’t bear.
I dry her off and put her in my bed. This feels so natural, she and I.
After a few minutes, the rhythm of her breathing changes, and I know she’s finally asleep.
I take out my laptop and check on Abigail’s updated medical notes.
Gabe’s name lights up her phone. When they walked into the hospital room, I thought I’d end up getting stabbed by Miguel.
He’s not stupid; I know he sees this is more than me protecting her.
My best friend looked horrible, and Ian, well, I’m sure he wants any excuse to draw blood.
It’s late, but I pull up my email and draft a message to Becca.
Her sister owns a high-end boutique. I’ve noticed that Veronica hasn't shopped for a dress for Ian and Serena’s engagement party yet.
If I know Abigail Kayde, she will find a way to be there.
The party might be pushed back a couple of weeks, but Veronica will still need something to wear.
I hit send and glance back at her sleeping form. I'll do whatever it takes to keep her life seamless, even while I keep the darkest parts of mine hidden in the shadows.
Veronica managed a few hours of sleep, but the restlessness remains, so I drive her back toward the hospital.
As I pull out of the parking garage and navigate the morning traffic, I see a difference in her.
It’s as if a physical weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She looks lighter, steadier.
We enter the private room to find Tomas leaning over Abigail, his expression clinical.
Miguel sits motionless beside the bed. As we walk in, together, the shift in the room is instantaneous.
Miguel’s eyes narrow, but Abigail holds his hand; she’s his anchor.
She looks past her husband's fury and simply smiles, her warmth filling the space between us.
Veronica breaks away from me, her movements fluid and purposeful as she reaches her mother’s side.
“Mom, how are you feeling?” she asks, her voice soft.
The change in Abigail is noticeable; the ghostly pale complexion is gone, replaced by a faint, healthy flush that makes the sterile room feel a little less cold.
“I’m much better,” Abigail says. “Tomas has been taking great care of me.”
I catch Tomas’s eye across the bed and offer a single, silent nod. Thank you.
“She’s responding well to the medication,” Tomas announces to the room in his professional tone. “I’d like to keep her here for another day or two, just to be sure.”
“Thank you, doctor,” Miguel says. He stands, the legs of his chair scratching against the linoleum, and jerks his chin toward the door. It’s not an invitation; it’s a command.
Tomas remains with the women while I follow Miguel into the hall.
I’m prepared for a lecture, but I’m not prepared for the sudden surge of movement.
As soon as the door shuts, Miguel turns and shoves me.
My spine hits the wall with a dull thud, and he’s in my space, his forearm a heavy bar across my chest. Fuck, my ribs are still sore.
“What the hell is going on with you and my daughter?” he seethes, his breath hot against my face. “Is this how you protect her?”
I keep my hands at my sides. I owe him the restraint, for now, so I meet his dark, murderous stare with a level gaze. “You said it yourself, Miguel. She needs someone to stand next to her.”
His jaw tightens. He hates the taste of his own words. “Listen to me, you little shit. I know you, and I know exactly what you’re capable of. But I don’t think you have any idea what I’m capable of.”
I don’t flinch. I don’t pull away. I just let the silence sit between us until it turns cold. “Well, seeing as how close I am with your sons,” I say, my voice dropping with a dangerous edge, “I beg to differ.”
The standoff feels like an eternity. We are two mirrors reflecting the same capacity for violence. Finally, he exhales a sharp, jagged breath and shoves off me. He doesn't say another word as he pivots and disappears back into the room.
The door opens again, and Tomas steps out. He takes in my disheveled jacket and the tension in my shoulders but doesn't look surprised.
“How do you manage to piss everyone off?” he asks, a dry laugh escaping him.
“It’s a gift,” I mutter, adjusting my collar. I flash a grin and head back inside to find Veronica.
Two hours later, after Ian and Gabe arrive to take over the watch, we finally make our exit. The air outside is crisp, a sharp contrast to the sterile smell of the hospital. I pull up the address Becca sent this morning; the appointment is set.
The hum of the engine is the only sound for the first few miles. Veronica leans her head against the headrest, watching the city.
“She looks better,” she says softly. The relief is evident in the way her shoulders relax.
I reach across the console, my hand finding its place on her thigh. “Yes,” I say. “All thanks to you.”
We pull up to the curb where Becca is already waiting, a vibrant silhouette against the glass front of Estrella’s Boutique. Veronica’s posture stiffens instantly. She stares at the shop sign as if it’s a warning, then turns to me with wide, searching eyes.
“What’s this?”
“This is me taking you shopping,” I say, keeping my voice low and grounded.
I can see the flicker of a panic attack behind her gaze. It’s been so long since she braved a physical store; she’s spent so long hiding behind online shopping, where no one can see her and no one can invade her privacy.
I reach over and take her face in my hands, my palms framing her jaw to keep her focused entirely on me. “Becca’s sister owns this place, and I trust her,” I say, my thumbs tracing a slow, rhythmic circle against her skin. “It’s private. No crowds. And I’m not leaving your side.”
She searches my expression, her breath hitching as she weighs her fear against her trust in me. Finally, the tension in her neck gives way, and she nods. “Okay.”
“Good girl.”
I let my thumb linger on her lip for a second longer before I let go.
The fear hasn’t vanished, but I’ve given her a tether.
I step out of the car and rush to open the door for her.
We meet Becca on the sidewalk. I pull my friend into a quick, familiar hug before she shifts her attention to Veronica, wrapping her in a warm embrace that seems to settle some of her remaining nerves.
We push through the heavy glass doors, and the scent of expensive perfume and high-end dresses meets us. The boutique is quiet, private, just as I promised. Estrella, Becca’s sister, approaches us with a bright, genuine smile that matches the elegance of her shop.
“Camilo! It’s great to see you!” she exclaims, closing the distance to pull me into a welcoming hug.
I return the gesture, then step back to place a hand on the small of Veronica’s back, drawing her forward. "Estrella, I’d like you to meet Veronica."
“Veronica, it’s such a pleasure to meet you,” Estrella says, her warmth filling the space.
She gestures toward a curated rack near the center of the store.
“I have an array of dresses set out for you, just as Camilo requested. Every color except red. There’s water, coffee, flan, and chocolate cake, as requested. ”
Estrella reaches for her handbag and hooks her arm through Becca’s, steering them both toward the front door.
“You aren’t staying?” Veronica asks, her voice hitching with a touch of uncertainty as she looks at the empty, elegant space.
Estrella pauses at the door, flashing a friendly smile. “No, the shop is closed for the day. It’s all yours. Take your time. Camilo has the keys.”
“Thank you for doing this, Estrella,” I say.