Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Stella looks at me over the rim, her voice softer but still edged. “I can’t lose his respect, Hunter. I can’t.”
It hangs there. The unspoken: I can’t lose his money, either.
She doesn’t say it. But the words linger in the air, a phantom at the table.
I decide to force it. “You don’t need to worry about finances, Stella. You know what I do for a living. I’m a billionaire. You don’t need him when you have me.”
She stiffens, like I’d slapped her. “I didn’t mean—”
I cut her off, not unkind. “I know you didn’t. But I meant what I said. If you need to walk away, I’ll handle it. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart. In fact, I want to.”
Her eyes flicker, quick and fragile. “You mean it.”
“I do.”
She blinks twice, and I know she’s fighting tears. I almost reach for her hand, but she has her arms folded tight, elbows sharp as fence posts.
Lachlan clears his throat. His hands are steady now, folded on the table. “Before anyone tells anyone anything, we need to have a plan for whatever happens next. Otherwise we’re just inviting disaster.”
I snort. “You’re afraid of Thomas?”
He looks at me, dead-on. “No. I’m afraid of what happens if he tells Pastor Pam.” The name is a missile, and he fires it straight at me.
I hadn’t considered it. I let that hang, then nod once. “You’d be out.”
He shrugs, but it’s not casual. “I’m out anyway if this keeps up.”
Stella’s voice is small, but she jumps in. “We can stop. If you want.”
He doesn’t smile. “No, that’s not what I want. And no, you won’t.”
“No, I won’t stop,” she echoes, and this time she almost laughs. “I’m so addicted to the two of you. To us. God, I’m pathetic.”
“No, you’re not,” Lachlan says, but it’s rote, and he doesn’t push. “But we need a story. Or at least a fallback position.”
I look at him, then at Stella, then back. “Here’s the story: we’re adults. We’re in a consensual relationship. There’s no shared DNA. The only people who would care are already sitting here.”
Lachlan lifts his chin, as if weighing the option. “That doesn’t protect me.”
“Then quit the church,” I grunt. “Or find another one. You have a degree. You can get a job.”
The silence after that is thick and brittle, as if we’re all waiting for someone to break a glass.
Stella is the one. “What about me?” Her voice is hoarse, and I realize she’s clutching the wineglass hard enough that the stem could snap. “I can’t go to my dad. I can’t go to the church. I can’t—” she stops, breathing fast. “You both have somewhere to go if this blows up. But what about me?”
I look at her, and for the first time all night, I feel the bite of something real: fear, maybe, or guilt. “You have me, and that’s all you need, sweetheart,” I say, which is true, but not what she wants to hear.
She shakes her head. “That’s not enough.”
I don’t know what is.
Lachlan sits up, wipes his mouth with a napkin he hasn’t used all night. “We can stall. Say it’s nothing. That you were just friends, or planning a surprise birthday party for someone, or whatever. But the next time he comes home early—”
“There’s not going to be a next time,” Stella says, voice gone glassy and hard. “I’m done. I can’t keep doing this.”
The words shock me. Even Lachlan flinches, just a little.
She stands up, abrupt, chair scraping the floor. “I need to go. I can’t—” She grabs her purse, jacket, then stops at the door, hand braced on the frame beneath the crucifix.
I watch her, waiting for the breakdown, the reversal, the quick apology.
Instead, she leaves. The door closes so soft it doesn’t even click.
For a full minute, neither of us moves.
Lachlan is first to speak. “You pushed her too hard.”
I stare at the empty seat, the glass still marked with her mouth. “No. She just finally saw it coming.”
He doesn’t argue. He stands, clears the table, stacks the plates in the sink, runs the water. The sound is gentle, almost a lullaby.
I sit there, fingers drumming on the table, the taste of wine sour in my throat. There’s a heat in my chest, a pressure I can’t name.
“You want another glass?” he asks, voice a little softer now, a little human.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I do.”
He pours, and we drink in silence, just the two of us in the shitty church apartment, the ghost of our girl’s perfume hanging in the air.
Neither of us says it, but we both know: This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Above us, the crucifix gleams in the faint light, and I swear to god, the face on it is smirking at us.
19
A MUTED WARNING FROM MY DAD
Stella
It’s almost midnight when I remember how to breathe again. The hour is half-strangled between today and tomorrow, and I’m cross-legged on my queen-sized bed, in comfy pajamas with cartoon dogs on them. My Nicolette name tag sits on the vanity, discarded in a way that feels permanent. The dress and tights I wore home are in a heap by the door. There are two lavender candles on the nightstand, their wax in long, obscene rivers across the marble. The air smells like spa day mixed with sweat and something human.