Chloe
I’m finishing up the last of my work when the intercom buzzes on my desk. I press the button, and my secretary’s voice comes through, clear and professional.
“Mrs. Thorne, your husband is here. He wants to drive you home instead of you taking a car.”
A smile tugs at my lips at the thought that Tristan came to get me. He must’ve left work a bit early. It’s a little early for me to leave too, and I know my father will probably be annoyed by that, but I can’t find it in myself to care. I’ve done what I need to today, and I want to see Tristan.
He’s been so gentle with me over the past few days since I told him what happened. The fact that he cares so much about what I went through means a lot to me. It’s made the awfulness of those memories easier to bear, knowing he’s there to support me.
But at the same time, I feel a little twist in my gut when I think about how he touches me now—like he’s afraid I’ll break.
That’s not how he used to touch me. His hands, once so possessive and full of desire, now seem hesitant, as if he’s constantly worried about hurting me.
I understand why, and I appreciate it. But I can’t shake the fear that he’ll always see me as delicate now, something that has to be handled with extreme care.
“Thank you, Karen. Please let him know I’ll be right out.”
I gather my things, making sure I haven’t forgotten anything important, and stand up from my desk.
As I step out of my office, I see Tristan waiting for me near the elevator. There’s something in his demeanor I can’t quite read, a level of intensity beyond what he usually radiates.
His eyes meet mine, and he gives me a small reassuring smile, but I can sense there’s something more beneath the surface.
“Hey.” He reaches out to take my hand. “Ready to go?”
I nod, and he leads me out to his car, his grip firm but gentle, the way it’s been since I told him everything.
We climb into his Audi, and the car hums to life as he starts to drive us home—no driver today. I glance over at him, noticing the way his hands grip the steering wheel, the subtle tension in his jaw.
“Is everything okay?” I ask, unable to shake the feeling that something’s off.
He glances at me, then back at the road. “Yeah. Just had a long day.”
“Seriously, what’s going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about, dimples. Everything’s fine.”
I don’t want to let it go at that. Something’s not right. My eyes slide over him, analyzing his body language. “Are you sure? Because you seem—”
I break off as my gaze reaches his hands, tight on the steering wheel.
His knuckles are split open, all four of them, crusted over with blood, the skin torn and raw.
My heart lurches sideways and then kicks up hard and fast, and I stare at his hand as my brain starts filling with a thousand different explanations for the bloody knuckles.
“What did you do?” The words come out barely above a whisper.
He doesn’t answer right away. We go through another traffic light, and another, and I sit there with my pulse hammering in my ears.
“I took care of Spencer,” he finally says.
My jaw drops open. I have no idea what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.
“What does that mean?” I turn in my seat to face him, shaking my head. “You… took care of him?”
He keeps his eyes forward. “It means he’s leaving the country. You’ll never have to see him again.”
The air goes out of me all at once. My chest tightens as my breathing goes shallow and fast, and I press my palm flat against the cool glass of the window because I need something solid under my hand.
“Pull over,” I manage to rasp. “Please. I need you to pull over.”
He looks at me once, then takes the next exit off the freeway without a word. We end up on a wide empty road out past the edge of the city, running alongside a canyon with nothing much on either side, and he pulls onto the shoulder and cuts the engine.
I get out, gravel crunching beneath my shoes as I wrap my arms around myself and focus on breathing. My hands are shaking. My face is hot. I pace a few steps and then back, not because it helps but because I can’t be still right now.
Tristan gets out and comes around to my side of the car. He stops a few feet away and watches me, his hands at his sides, worry plain on his face.
“I’m sorry.” He grimaces. “I shouldn’t have told you like that. I know you don’t need any more reminders of him—”
“That’s not it.” I stop pacing and turn to face him. “That’s not what this is.”
He nods, running a hand through his hair. His jacket rumpled, his tie loosened, and as he drops his hand, I consider everything that his bloody knuckles actually mean. He hasn’t said it explicitly, but I’m positive they’re from whatever confrontation he had with Spencer.
I’ve spent years absorbing the message that what Spencer Noble did to me was mine to manage, mine to hide, mine to carry quietly so that nobody else had to be inconvenienced by it.
And when Tristan found out, he didn’t just offer pretty words of comfort and then move on. He went and did something about it.
He did this.
My throat goes tight, and I have to swallow before I’m able to get words past the lump there.
“You did that for me,” I whisper hoarsely.
He holds my gaze. “I’d do more.” His jaw works as he takes a step closer. “I’d do a hell of a lot more than that if I had to. Nobody is going to hurt you again, Chloe. I won’t fucking allow it.”
I look at him for a long moment, at the certainty on his face and the blood on his knuckles, and something in me gives way.
I close the distance between us, grab his collar, and kiss him.