My eyes snapped open. Drake Alexander was on top of Julien Stephens, his fists a blur.

Where had he come from?

The ruckus brought the neighbors and Julien's mom charging in, and they finally wrestled Drake off.

Drake shrugged off his suit jacket, draping it over my shoulders like a makeshift shield as we made a break for the door.

"She's my wife!" Julien, clutching his busted lip, yelled after us. "I can do whatever I damn well please with her!"

Drake froze, turned, and strolled back. He snagged Julien by the collar. "Fine," he growled, his voice low and menacing. "Let's play your game."

A chilling grin flickered across his lips, shutting Julien up instantly.

Back in the car, Drake reached for the jacket. I flinched.

He’d saved me again. It was a cruel joke. Every time I thought I’d found a safe harbor, the biggest storms seemed to blow in from those very people.

I couldn’t do this anymore. Drake retracted his hand, his brow furrowed. "Let's just go home."

Silence stretched between us as we drove. I stared blankly out the window, the city lights a smear of color. My life, a twisted, painful movie reel, played on repeat in my head. I was so damn tired.

The car purred to a stop in front of the Alexander mansion. Drake parked, then quickly circled around, scooping me out of the passenger seat. He found some of my old clothes stashed away. After a much-needed shower and change, I sank onto the living room couch.

He appeared with a first-aid kit, kneeling before me. His eyes, raw with pain, were fixed on my wounds as he began to tend to them.

"I didn't send those messages," I blurted out, not even thinking.

"I believe you," he said, his voice firm.

A jolt of surprise cut through my numbness. I hadn’t heard him say that since before he turned eighteen. Once he inherited the family fortune, he’d shut everyone out, including me.

After dabbing antiseptic on the cuts on my face, his gaze dropped to the angry scrapes and bruises blooming across my arms and knees. He drew a sharp breath, his voice tight with emotion. "This is gonna sting. Try to hold still."

"Okay."

He worked with painstaking gentleness, each touch deliberate as he swabbed antiseptic onto every inch of broken skin.

Finally, he was done. He set the kit aside and sat beside me, burying his face in his hands. A long moment passed before he spoke, his voice muffled. "Don't worry. He's not gonna get away with this."

Seeing his distress, a warmth spread through me, despite myself. I reached out, my fingers gently stroking his hair. "It's okay. Let it go."

I knew what his family was capable of. If Drake pushed them too hard, they’d only retaliate with more venom. He didn't need to tank his reputation for a dying woman, not even after he’d hurt me so badly with his distrust.

As I pushed myself up to leave, a searing pain shot through my abdomen. I doubled over, hands clutching my stomach, and sagged back onto the sofa.

He was instantly at my side, steadying me. "Which wound is it?"

Gritting my teeth, I managed, "Can I just stay here for today? I’ll leave tomorrow."

"You can stay as long as you need to," he said softly. "I'll handle the divorce. Just focus on healing."

He carried me to the bedroom. Nothing had changed. The sheets still held the faint, sweet whisper of lavender. He smoothed my hair from my forehead, murmured for me to rest, and then left.

The pain must have finally dragged me under, because I woke the next morning to find the sheets clinging, damp with a cold sweat. I scrambled to strip the bed. Drake appeared, taking the bundle from my arms.

"I'll do it," he said.

He used to wash my sheets himself, all because I loved that lavender scent. He’d always bragged about some "secret method" for infusing the fragrance. For years, I’d known it was just him hand-washing them with lavender extract.

After I cleaned up, he handed me the divorce papers. Money definitely greased the wheels. He told me Julien was already in the slammer. He'd been skimming from the company for ages; Drake had turned a blind eye because he worked hard. After Julien and I got married, Drake had considered burying him completely, but he'd held back. Now, knowing how Julien had treated me—how he'd used me for the baby I'd been carrying—Drake had no mercy.

Then, Drake took my hand. "Cecilia, I'm so sorry. This is all my fault."

A single tear tracked down his cheek. I’d never seen him cry before.

He confessed that if it weren’t for his paranoia, we might have been married years ago. If he’d trusted me, he never would have believed the kid was Julien’s the second he saw the report.

He admitted the messages had been sent from my phone—by Julien. He’d bribed the cleaner on the yacht.