Chapter 47 - Stella #2
I want to tell her to go to hell. To take her soft voice and her glassy hazel eyes and get the fuck out of my kitchen. But I can’t shake the way her hands keep curling into fists like she’s bracing for a hit that never comes.
“That’s your time,” I say finally, but it comes out quieter than I meant.
She nods, like she expected it. “If you ever want the full truth about him… I’ve got it.”
I don’t answer. Not yet. But I don’t make her leave, either.
The silence stretches, heavy enough to bend the air. She shifts her weight like she’s ready to go, but her eyes linger on me—searching, measuring, maybe even daring me to ask. I hate that part of me wants to.
“You’re still here,” I finally say, turning toward the counter just to keep from looking at her. I busy my hands with a coffee mug that’s already clean. “That’s a dangerous choice.”
“I’m not afraid of you, Stella.”
I glance back over my shoulder, letting my stare cut into her. “You should be.”
For a second, her jaw tightens, but she doesn’t step back. She just sets a business card on the counter—plain white, no team logo, no PR title—just her name and number.
“I meant what I said,” she tells me. “About the truth. You think you know all of it, but you don’t.”
I keep my arms crossed, keep my face unreadable. “Then you’d better hope I never want to.”
She leaves without another word, the faint scent of her perfume hanging in the air long after the door clicks shut. I stand there for a moment, staring at that card like it might bite me.
Then I slide it into the drawer and lean against the counter.
“You okay?” Mac’s voice cuts through the quiet, low but steady. I turn to find him leaning in the doorway, one shoulder braced against the frame, knuckles still pink from where they met Donovan’s jaw.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice sounds thinner than I want it to.
He studies me for a beat, like he’s measuring whether to call me on the lie. “You know you don’t have to do this alone.”
My lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Funny. Alone feels a hell of a lot safer right now.”
His eyes soften, but he doesn’t push. “Safer doesn’t always mean better.” He glances toward the door where Elaine disappeared. “Just… be careful which snakes you let keep their fangs.”
I let out a quiet breath, not sure if it’s a laugh or a sigh. “Duly noted.”
He nods once, then pushes off the frame and heads toward the living room, leaving me with the quiet, the drawer, and the weight of a card I shouldn’t have kept.
The smell of acetone and fresh coffee hits me before I’ve even stepped inside. The nail studio is still half-setup—boxes stacked against the wall, a line of new pedicure chairs waiting to be unwrapped—but it already feels warmer than my own kitchen.
Blythe’s at the counter, hair twisted up in a messy bun, bent over a color wheel like it’s a life-or-death decision. She looks up when I walk in, but the smile she gives me is pale.
“You look like you’ve been through it,” she says.
I drop my bag on the nearest chair. “You have no idea.”
She makes a soft sound in her throat—I am not sure if it’s sympathy or understanding—then pushes a cup of coffee across the counter toward me. “Drink. I’d offer wine, but… well.” She pats her stomach lightly.
I blink. “Still hitting you?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Like clockwork. Mornings are the worst, but today the smell of the shipment boxes almost took me out.”
I watch her for a moment, the way she’s fighting through it, stubbornly unpacking polish swatches with hands that shake just enough to give her away, and something in me eases. This, at least, is solid. It’s not perfect. But it’s ours.
“You need to sit down,” I tell her.
“And let you open all these boxes yourself?” she teases, but she’s already easing onto the stool.
“Exactly.” I grab the box cutter and start slicing open the first carton. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep the boxes away from you until the nausea passes. I know where your loyalty lies.”
Blythe smiles faintly, resting her chin in her palm. “You’re a good friend, Slay Muffin.”
“Better than some people,” I mutter without thinking.
She tilts her head, curious, but doesn’t push. Instead, she starts telling me about a bridal party booking she just confirmed for next month. I let her voice fill the room, and for a little while, I can pretend there isn’t a business card burning a hole in my kitchen drawer.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up from the counter where Blythe’s spreading color swatches like she’s laying out battle plans. Bennett’s hauling a ladder through the front, and his tool bag is in his hand.
“Ceiling fans need to be mounted,” he says, nodding toward the corner. “Figured I’d get it sorted before Ansel shows up and starts bitching about it being hot in here again.”
Blythe smothers a laugh, but her eyes flick up to Bennett as he props the ladder. There’s the faintest blush creeping into her cheeks.
I tilt my head, a grin slowly gracing my face. “Ohhh… someone’s got a crush.”
Her head snaps toward me, scandalized. “I do not. Stella—no. I just—he’s—he’s mounting my fans.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, dragging the sound out. “And you’re just standing here watching him mount the fans like you want him to mount you instead.”
She shakes her head, color high in her face. “I just left Sinclair, remember? And I’m pregnant. The last thing I need is a crush.”
“Right,” I say, smirking. “Because crushes are dangerous. Definitely more dangerous than the comments Ansel will make.”
Her blush deepens. “Exactly.”
From the ladder, Bennett glances down at us. “You two talking about me or Ansel?”
“Yes,” I say, and Blythe groans, hiding behind the swatches.
Blythe glances at me, eyes wide, then slaps a hand over her mouth and bolts for the bathroom. I can’t help the chuckle that slips out. It’s not funny, but the way she hauls ass absolutely is.
Bennett shifts on the ladder, making small talk over his shoulder. “So when’s the infamous Ansel moving out here?” His voice has that teasing lilt, like he already knows she’s going to shake up the whole town.
Blythe reappears, pale but composed, and mumbles as she rounds the corner, “She’ll be here with her U-Haul in two days.”
I grin, already picturing Ansel in this space, dripping sarcasm and questionable commentary. “God help Agave Hills.”
My eyes flick to Blythe with a knowing smirk. “Better brace yourself. She’s… a lot, Ben.”
He states matter-of-factly, “If I can deal with your shit, I am sure I can deal with hers.” He gets back to work.
I pick up some nail polish swatches she is sorting, staring at the bubblegum pink. Ansel, Blythe, and I get to live in my big-ass house. This is the refresh I really need.
Blythe looks up from her sorting, soft but steady. “This is going to be good for you, Stella. For all of us.”
I nod, tucking the swatches back in her hand. “Yeah. Time to get my house full again.”
A notification pings. Not a text—a DM request. From someone I don’t follow.
You don’t know everything he’s done. No greeting.
No context. Just that. The profile picture is a girl in oversized sunglasses with a tagged photo of her and Elaine from last summer.
Molly Adams. Number two, bitch. Elaine’s ride-or-die since they popped out of the womb.
I swipe out of the message, pocket my phone, and wrap Blythe in a quick hug. “Don’t overdo it, babe,” I tell her. She just smiles, still pale from the sprint to the bathroom. Bennett gets a wave as I head out, ladder still in his hands.
By the time I’m in my car, the words are still burning through my mind.
I know exactly what I need to do.