Chapter 21
Stephanie
Three days had passed since the hospital. Three days of existing in a bubble where nothing mattered except being alive, being together, being safe.
The ranch had become our cocoon. Liam hadn't let me out of his sight for more than minutes at a time—he'd watch me sleep, his fingers tracing the fading bruises on my wrists like he could erase them with touch alone.
Sometimes I'd wake to find him propped on one elbow, just staring at me in the moonlight, his hand resting on my ribs as if confirming with each breath that I was real, alive, there.
We'd whispered "I love you" a hundred times—in the morning over coffee when he'd pull me into his lap at the kitchen table, in the afternoon while feeding Poet, her golden coat gleaming in the sun as she nickered for treats, at night when his body curved around mine like armor against the world.
The words had become a litany, a prayer, a promise repeated until they wore grooves in our hearts.
"You sure you're okay?" had become his refrain, asked while he brushed my hair with infinite gentleness, while he watched me write in my notebook at the kitchen table, while I laughed at something someone said at dinner.
He'd search my face each time, looking for cracks, for damage he might have missed.
"I'm okay," I'd answer every time, and meant it.
Because I was. The kidnapping hadn't broken me—it had crystallized something I'd been discovering for months.
All those weeks before, healing at the ranch, finding my voice again, remembering who I was beneath the manufactured pop star—they'd made me strong enough to survive Marcus.
Strong enough to know with bone-deep certainty that Liam would come. Strong enough to hold on until he did.
The clarity was almost startling. For the first time in a decade, I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted.
Now, sitting on the porch in the late afternoon, wrapped in a worn ranch jacket that smelled like hay and leather and Liam, watching the pasture glow gold under the setting sun, I knew what I had to do.
The air was perfect—that sweet spot between day's heat and evening's cool, when the light turned everything magical.
Somewhere in the distance, cattle were lowing, and the oak trees whispered secrets to each other in the breeze.
This place had healed me, saved me, shown me what life could be.
Now I had to fight for the right to keep it.
"Lee," I said quietly, watching Poet graze in the distance, her tail swishing lazily at flies. "I need to talk to you about something."
His body went rigid beside me, that instantaneous tension that came whenever I started a serious conversation now. Like he was bracing for impact, waiting for me to fall apart or disappear. His hand found mine immediately, fingers interlacing tight enough to hurt.
"I need to take my life back," I said, threading my fingers through his before he could pull away. "Really take it back."
"What does that mean?" His voice was carefully neutral, but I could feel the fear radiating off him like heat from a forge.
"It means I need to go back to LA."
I felt him flinch, his whole body jerking, like I'd struck him. His breathing changed, got shallow, and I knew he was fighting not to grab me, not to argue, not to lock me in the house and never let me leave again.
"Not to stay," I said quickly. "Not to return to that life. But to end things properly. Face the lawyers, break the contracts, pack up my house. Sell it, probably. Close that chapter completely so it can never reach out and drag me back."
"Steph—"
"I'm coming back to you." I turned to face him fully, needing him to see my eyes, to understand.
The setting sun painted his face golden, highlighting the worry lines that had appeared since my kidnapping.
"This isn't me leaving. This is me making sure that when I come back, I'm free.
Really free. No contracts hanging over my head, no label threatening to sue, no loose ends that could drag me back into that machine. "
"How long?” The question came out rough, like gravel in his throat.
"I don't know. Weeks, maybe a month or two. However long it takes to untangle myself legally from that world. To sell the house, break the contracts, pay whatever penalties I need to pay."
He was quiet for a long moment, jaw working, that muscle jumping the way it did when he was struggling with something. I could see the war playing out on his face—his need to protect me battling with his recognition of what I needed to do.
"I hate it," he said finally, the words torn from him. "Every cell in my body is screaming to keep you here, safe, where I can see you. Where I can stand between you and anything that might hurt you."
"I know."
"The thought of you in LA, alone, dealing with those vultures..." He had to stop, take a breath. "What if another crazy person—"
I reached across the space between us, laying my hand over his. "Lee… before we go any further with this, we need to talk about something else. Something important."
His shoulders tightened—not defensive, just afraid of where I might be going.
"I'm worried about you," I said softly. "Not about us. Not about me leaving. About you. You went through hell, too. And you never talk about it. Not really."
He stared at the ground, jaw flexing once. An admission of guilt.
"Baby," I continued gently, “you’ve been carrying trauma since you were fifteen. Then what happened to me… it ripped that wound wide open again. You barely slept. You barely ate. You sat in that hospital chair like you were guarding a door between life and death. That isn’t sustainable.”
His breath hitched the smallest bit.
"Liam, I love your strength. But you're human. And you’re hurting. You think I didn’t see it? I did. I see it every day. It’s like you’re bracing for something bad to happen every second."
He opened his mouth, but I put my fingers lightly to his lips.
“Please don’t tell me you’re fine. I love you too much to let you pretend. You need help carrying this. Real help. Someone who knows how to untangle the knots you tied around your heart to survive.”
He closed his eyes, exhaled shakily. “Steph…”
“Seeing someone doesn’t make you weak,” I whispered. “It makes you someone who wants a future that isn’t driven by fear. And I want that for you. For us. For the family we’re going to build someday. I need you healthy. Whole. Not just surviving.”
He opened his eyes then—wet, vulnerable, but listening.
“I’m not asking you to fix everything overnight,” I said. “I’m asking you to try.”
Silence stretched between us, heavy but not uncomfortable. Just real.
Then he nodded—slow, reluctant, but genuine. “Okay,” he murmured. “Yeah. I’ll… I’ll talk to someone.”
Relief bloomed warm in my chest.
"But." He turned to look at me fully, and I saw it in his eyes—not just fear but respect. Recognition of the woman I'd become. The woman who'd survived, who'd fought, who'd held on. "But you're right. You need to do this. And you need to do it on your own terms."
"I do."
"I'll come with you—"
"No." I squeezed his hand, brought it to my lips, and kissed his knuckles that were still scabbed from punching walls when he'd heard I was taken. "This is something I need to face myself. To prove to myself that I can. That I'm not running from something but toward something."
His eyes met mine. “Toward what?"
"You. This life. The ranch. The music I actually want to make." I gestured at the land spread before us—the pastures going purple in the twilight, the barn where we'd made love that morning in the hay loft, the house that had become home. "Everything that matters."
He pulled me against him, and we sat in silence, watching the sun paint the sky in shades of pink and orange and impossible purple. I could feel his heart racing under my palm, the war between letting me go and keeping me close playing out in every rapid beat.
"I'll wait," he said finally, the words soft but certain. "Doesn't matter how long it takes. I'll be right here. On this porch. Waiting."
"I know you will."
"I'll probably be unbearable. Clay and Wyatt will hate me. I'll be checking my phone every five minutes, calling you every night."
"Good. I'll need to hear your voice."
"Every night," he repeated, like a vow. "Even if it's just for a minute. Just so I know you’re ok.
Relief hit me so hard I leaned forward and kissed him—soft, grateful, full of love. He kissed me back, cupping my cheek gently, like he still wasn’t sure I wouldn’t break.
When I deepened it a little—testing, wanting—he froze just slightly.
“Your ribs,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over my side.
“They’re fine,” I insisted, trying to climb into his lap.
He caught me with a laugh. “Steph—slow down.”
“No,” I groaned, tipping my head back dramatically. “I’m trying to have a moment here. A sexy moment.”
He laughed harder. “You just guilt-tripped me into therapy, and now you want porch- sex?”
“Yes,” I said shamelessly. “I’m a complex woman.”
He leaned in, kissing me once—slow and warm. “Tonight,” he promised against my lips.
“But I want you now,” I muttered, tugging at his shirt.
He nudged his forehead against mine, laughing more. “You are impossible.”
“And you love me.”
“Yeah.” His voice softened. “I really do.”
Hours later, after a bubble bath and a glass of wine Liam insisted on, my body was humming like a live current. I couldn’t take it anymore. I wanted—no, I needed him.