Chapter 4 #2
She looked like a bird whose wings had been clipped.
Standing there in pajamas that were too big—men's pajamas, I realized with a jolt, ones she'd stolen from my bag that Christmas three years ago.
Her hair was tangled and matted, pieces sticking to her face where tears had dried.
Mascara and eyeliner streaked down her cheeks in black rivers.
There were bruises already forming on her arms, dark fingerprints against her pale skin.
A cut on her lip, blood dried at the corner.
Her left eye was starting to swell, purple spreading across her cheekbone like spilled wine.
She was holding her ribs with one arm, and she swayed slightly, like standing was taking everything she had.
But it was her eyes that nearly broke me. Empty. Hollow. That thousand-yard stare I'd seen in victims of the worst kinds of violence. My Stephy, who'd always burned so bright, looked extinguished.
The words came out before I could stop them. Shredded and loaded with the ache of my crumbling heart. "Oh, baby.”
She shattered.
Her knees buckled, and I caught her before she hit the floor, gathering her into my arms as she broke apart completely. Not dramatic sobs, but these quiet, devastating sounds like something inside her was tearing. Her fingers clawed at my shirt, trying to get closer, trying to disappear into me.
"I've got you," I whispered into her hair, holding her as tight as I dared with her injuries. "You're safe now. I’m here."
I could feel her ribs under my hands, the way she flinched when I touched her left side.
The swelling in her wrists. The trembling that wouldn't stop.
My vision went red at the edges, fury so pure it was almost holy.
Someone had done this to her. Someone had hurt my Stephy, and they were still breathing.
Later. I'd deal with that later.
"Can you walk?"
She shook her head against my chest, and I realized she was barefoot, her feet cut up like she'd run across broken glass. The lamp. She'd fought hard enough to break the lamp.
"I'm going to carry you out, okay? We're leaving right now."
"My things—"
"Don't need them." I pulled back enough to look at her face, my hands gentle as they framed it, thumb carefully avoiding the cut on her lip. "We're getting you out of here. That's all that matters."
She nodded, trusting me completely, and something in my chest cracked wide open.
I found a blanket on her bed—soft cashmere in cream, the kind of unnecessary luxury that defined this whole world—and wrapped it around her. Then I lifted her into my arms, her weight nothing, her body curling into my chest like she was trying to make herself smaller, invisible.
Her room told the story of the fight—the broken lamp, makeup brushes scattered like evidence, a mirror with a crack spider-webbing from the corner where something had hit it. Blood on the white carpet. She'd fought hard. My girl had fought.
The walk back through the house felt like a gauntlet. Her team was still there, clustered in the living room like vultures in designer clothing, already on their phones, already spinning.
"Stevie, we need to discuss—" Robert started.
"No." I didn't stop walking, didn't look at them. "You don't get to talk to her. You don't get to come near her. If I see any of you within a hundred yards of her, I'll have you arrested for criminal negligence."
"You can't—"
"Try me." I paused at the door, turned back, Stephy still curled in my arms, her face hidden against my neck. "She trusted you. She paid you millions to keep her safe. And when she needed you most, you were more worried about NDAs than her life. Live with that."
The publicist was already typing, probably crafting a statement about "exhaustion" or "taking time for self-care" or whatever lie would sell best.
The security team parted as I walked through them, not one meeting my eyes. Gary started to say something, thought better of it, stepped aside.
I settled Stephy into the passenger seat of the SUV, carefully buckling her in, mindful of her ribs. She hadn't said a word since I'd picked her up, just held onto my shirt like a lifeline. Even belted in, she kept one hand fisted in the fabric, knuckles white.
I got in, started the engine. Stephy was curled toward me, the blanket pulled up to her chin, eyes huge in her pale face. In the dashboard light, I could see every injury in cruel detail—the bruising, the swelling, the way she held herself so carefully.
"Where?" she whispered.
"Home." I reached over, took her hand, careful of the bruises already blooming on her wrist in the perfect shape of fingers. "I'm taking you home."
"I don't have a home." Her voice broke on the last word.
"Yeah, you do." I squeezed her hand gently, felt her pulse fluttering like a trapped bird under her skin. "You've always had a home. You just haven't seen it yet."
The glass houses of the Hollywood Hills fell away behind us, each one a monument to false security, to the lie that money could keep you safe. As we drove toward the airport, toward Texas, toward real protection, I made a promise to myself and to her.
No one would ever hurt her again.
Not on my watch.
Not ever.
"You're safe now, sweetheart," I said quietly. "I've got you."
Her fingers tightened on mine, and she turned slightly toward me.
"I know," she whispered. "You always have."