Today was particularly bad.
Chloe had emailed a finalized seating chart for the rehearsal dinner.
My name, *Ava Morgan*, was neatly printed at the head table, right next to Marcus’s parents.
A place of honor. A new, special kind of torture that made me want to be sick.
An hour later, Marcus himself had stopped by the new Gilded Sparrow site, ostensibly to check on the progress. His eyes followed me everywhere.
“You’ve been working miracles out here, Ava,” he’d said, cornering me by the bar. He brought me a coffee, his knuckles brushing mine in a way that was both possessive and gentle. It made my skin crawl with a confusing mix of revulsion and longing.
“It’s coming along,” I’d said, my voice clipped.
“I meant what I said at dinner,” he murmured, his voice low. “I’m not letting you go again. Just *think* about it. ”
By four o’clock, I couldn’t take it anymore. The knot in my stomach was a writhing serpent. His words—*think about it*—were an endless loop in my head. I couldn’t think. I *wouldn’t*.
I found Rhys by his truck, packing up his tools for the day.
He glanced up as I approached, a silent question in his gaze. He saw it all—the frayed edges of my composure, the panic in my eyes. He was the only one who ever did.
“Drive,” I said, my voice tight. It was all I could manage.
He didn’t argue. He just tossed his tool belt into the bed of the truck, got into the driver’s seat, and waited for me to climb in. He drove them out past the manicured lawns of the vineyard estate, onto a winding dirt road that led to a bluff overlooking the valley. The sky was turning a bruised purple as a storm rolled in.
He killed the engine, and the sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the first fat drops of rain splattering against the windshield.
“Talk to me, Ava,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the confines of the cab.
I shook my head, turning to face him. The desperation was a living thing inside me, clawing at my throat. “I can’t. If I talk about it, it’s real. ”
“It’s already real. ”
“Then make me forget,” I whispered, the plea raw and ragged. I leaned across the center console, my hand finding the rough denim of his thigh. “Please, Rhys. Just for a little while. Don’t let me think. ”