Chapter 2
Kade's car was a black Maybach parked at the curb with a driver waiting.
He opened the rear door himself and guided me in. The leather interior was warm and smelled like cedar. I was dripping all over the seat and couldn't bring myself to care.
He slid in beside me and closed the door.
The rain drummed on the roof. The driver pulled away from the hotel without being told.
"Where do you live?" Kade asked.
I laughed — a terrible, hollow sound. "With Marcus. In his house. That he just told me to vacate in front of half the city."
Kade was quiet for a beat. Then: "My place, then."
"Kade — I can't just—"
"You can. You will. You're bleeding, you're soaking wet, and you have nowhere to go tonight. End of discussion."
His tone left zero room for argument. The old Kade — the boy who'd bring me ramen in the studio at 2 a.m. — would have asked permission. This version didn't.
I looked at my hands in my lap. The cut had mostly stopped bleeding, but my fingers were still trembling.
"He's been sleeping with my sister." It came out flat. Like a news report. "I don't know how long. She's pregnant."
Kade didn't offer platitudes. He didn't say "I'm sorry" or "you deserve better." He just reached over and took my injured hand, examining the cut in the low light.
"This needs cleaning."
His thumb traced the edge of the wound. Gentle. Precise. The warmth of his skin against my frozen fingers made something crack inside me.
I pulled my hand back, fast.
"I'm fine."
He let me have the distance. He sat back and watched the city lights blur past.
"You left me for him." Not accusatory. Just a fact.
"I know."
"Was it worth it?"
I turned and looked at him — really looked.
Six years ago, Kade had been a senior with nothing but talent and ambition. My mother had called him a "dead end." Marcus had been the safe bet — MBA, family money, five-year plan.
I'd made the practical choice.
Now Kade was in a car worth more than Marcus's entire portfolio, and my practical choice had just gutted me on live television.
"No."
The single syllable hung in the air between us.
Kade's penthouse was the top three floors of a waterfront tower I'd read about in architecture magazines.
Floor-to-ceiling glass. Clean concrete. The kind of space that was more sculpture than home.
He gave me a towel, a dry t-shirt, and a pair of his sweats. I changed in the guest bathroom and caught my own reflection — swollen eyes, ruined makeup, his oversized shirt swallowing me.
When I came back out, he had a first-aid kit open on the kitchen island.
"Sit."
I sat on the barstool and let him clean the cut. His hands were steady and sure. Architect's hands.
"Kade. Why were you at that hotel tonight?"
"Business dinner. I'd just walked out when you hit me."
He placed a butterfly bandage across the deepest part of the cut.
"Your turn. How long has he been with your sister?"
"I don't know. Months. Maybe longer." I swallowed. "She moved to our city eight months ago. Said she needed family support after her breakup."
"And you took her in."
"I took her in. I got her a job. I introduced her to our friends." I let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in my lungs for months. "She repaid me by fucking my husband in our bed."
Kade's jaw tightened. He finished bandaging my hand in silence.
Then he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
"Drink with me. Then sleep. Tomorrow you figure out what you want. Tonight, you're safe."
I looked at this man I'd abandoned six years ago. The man who had every reason to hate me, who instead was standing in his kitchen at midnight, bandaging my wounds.
"Why are you being this kind to me? After what I did to you?"
Kade poured two fingers of whiskey and slid the glass to me.
"Because you being in pain has never been something I can watch."
"Even when you're the one who walked away from me."
His phone rang then. He glanced at the screen, silenced it.
"Get some rest, Elena. Guest room's down the hall."
I took the whiskey and went. But I didn't sleep.
At 3 a.m. my phone lit up with seventeen texts from Marcus.
*Come home. We need to sort the finances.*
*Don't be dramatic about this.*
*Naomi is sorry. Call her.*
And one from Naomi herself: *Sis, don't hate me. The heart wants what it wants. *
I turned the phone face-down and stared at the ceiling until dawn.
He opened the rear door himself and guided me in. The leather interior was warm and smelled like cedar. I was dripping all over the seat and couldn't bring myself to care.
He slid in beside me and closed the door.
The rain drummed on the roof. The driver pulled away from the hotel without being told.
"Where do you live?" Kade asked.
I laughed — a terrible, hollow sound. "With Marcus. In his house. That he just told me to vacate in front of half the city."
Kade was quiet for a beat. Then: "My place, then."
"Kade — I can't just—"
"You can. You will. You're bleeding, you're soaking wet, and you have nowhere to go tonight. End of discussion."
His tone left zero room for argument. The old Kade — the boy who'd bring me ramen in the studio at 2 a.m. — would have asked permission. This version didn't.
I looked at my hands in my lap. The cut had mostly stopped bleeding, but my fingers were still trembling.
"He's been sleeping with my sister." It came out flat. Like a news report. "I don't know how long. She's pregnant."
Kade didn't offer platitudes. He didn't say "I'm sorry" or "you deserve better." He just reached over and took my injured hand, examining the cut in the low light.
"This needs cleaning."
His thumb traced the edge of the wound. Gentle. Precise. The warmth of his skin against my frozen fingers made something crack inside me.
I pulled my hand back, fast.
"I'm fine."
He let me have the distance. He sat back and watched the city lights blur past.
"You left me for him." Not accusatory. Just a fact.
"I know."
"Was it worth it?"
I turned and looked at him — really looked.
Six years ago, Kade had been a senior with nothing but talent and ambition. My mother had called him a "dead end." Marcus had been the safe bet — MBA, family money, five-year plan.
I'd made the practical choice.
Now Kade was in a car worth more than Marcus's entire portfolio, and my practical choice had just gutted me on live television.
"No."
The single syllable hung in the air between us.
Kade's penthouse was the top three floors of a waterfront tower I'd read about in architecture magazines.
Floor-to-ceiling glass. Clean concrete. The kind of space that was more sculpture than home.
He gave me a towel, a dry t-shirt, and a pair of his sweats. I changed in the guest bathroom and caught my own reflection — swollen eyes, ruined makeup, his oversized shirt swallowing me.
When I came back out, he had a first-aid kit open on the kitchen island.
"Sit."
I sat on the barstool and let him clean the cut. His hands were steady and sure. Architect's hands.
"Kade. Why were you at that hotel tonight?"
"Business dinner. I'd just walked out when you hit me."
He placed a butterfly bandage across the deepest part of the cut.
"Your turn. How long has he been with your sister?"
"I don't know. Months. Maybe longer." I swallowed. "She moved to our city eight months ago. Said she needed family support after her breakup."
"And you took her in."
"I took her in. I got her a job. I introduced her to our friends." I let out a breath that felt like it had been trapped in my lungs for months. "She repaid me by fucking my husband in our bed."
Kade's jaw tightened. He finished bandaging my hand in silence.
Then he pulled out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
"Drink with me. Then sleep. Tomorrow you figure out what you want. Tonight, you're safe."
I looked at this man I'd abandoned six years ago. The man who had every reason to hate me, who instead was standing in his kitchen at midnight, bandaging my wounds.
"Why are you being this kind to me? After what I did to you?"
Kade poured two fingers of whiskey and slid the glass to me.
"Because you being in pain has never been something I can watch."
"Even when you're the one who walked away from me."
His phone rang then. He glanced at the screen, silenced it.
"Get some rest, Elena. Guest room's down the hall."
I took the whiskey and went. But I didn't sleep.
At 3 a.m. my phone lit up with seventeen texts from Marcus.
*Come home. We need to sort the finances.*
*Don't be dramatic about this.*
*Naomi is sorry. Call her.*
And one from Naomi herself: *Sis, don't hate me. The heart wants what it wants. *
I turned the phone face-down and stared at the ceiling until dawn.