A Few Months Later
Alexander in the kitchen—bare-chested in grey sweats, humming low as he flipped pancakes like some domestic sex god. Bacon sizzled. Cinnamon sugar caramelized in the air. It was warm and cozy and everything I thought I’d never have.
I curled on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, hands resting over my gently swelling bump. Peace. Soft, fleeting peace. The TV murmured in the background—news, always news. He pretended it was about staying informed, but Alexander didn’t watch the world.
He tracked it. He controlled it. He didn’t notice me watching him as he stirred the batter and glanced at the screen every few seconds. But then his jaw flickered.
A tiny shift. Tight. Controlled. Enough to tell me something was wrong. I turned my head toward the TV. A woman’s photograph filled the screen. Middle-aged. Short hair. Thick glasses. A name I didn’t want to remember.
“Breaking overnight,” the anchor said, voice grim. “Margaret DeWitt, former child services social worker, was found dead in her home in what investigators describe as a violent, targeted attack—”
My breath froze. Her name. Her face. The stench of her perfume hit me like a ghost’s slap. Margaret. The woman who lied to me as a child. Who handed me off to monsters disguised in pearls and pressed suits? Who sold me like an inconvenience. And now…She was dead.
The remote slipped from my hand and thudded softly onto the couch. I didn’t realize I was shaking until Alexander was suddenly beside me—fast, too fast—cupping my cheek, turning my face away from the television.
“Breathe,” he whispered. His voice was velvet over steel. “Look at me, Evelyn. Not the past.”
“Alexander…” I swallowed hard. “What the hell is happening? Why—why now?”
He didn’t answer. Not with words. Instead, his mouth crashed onto mine—deep, consuming, as if he could erase the memory of her fingers digging into my arm, of the car door slamming shut behind me, of years I never wanted to remember.
I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve demanded answers.
But when he slid his hands under my thighs and lifted me effortlessly from the couch—when he set me on the cold marble of the kitchen island like I weighed nothing—when he dropped to his knees and worshipped my skin with his mouth like he was praying—I let go.
Because if I asked questions now, I wouldn’t be ready for the answers.
And maybe…Maybe I already knew. Maybe the man I loved—the father of my children—was capable of far more than he ever told me.
I didn’t know if that made him my salvation.
Or my ruin. But as his hands tightened on my hips and his lips pressed reverence into my skin—I stopped caring.
For one stolen moment…Ignorance felt like safety.