Chapter 38

LIAM

I spend the early hours of Christmas morning driving.

The road is dark still, each minute dragging heavier than the last.

Every glance at the empty passenger seat tightens the weight in my chest.

I should be at my father’s by now. But I’m not ready to deal with him—not after everything he’s done.

Not after what I’m planning to do.

He’s a dead man walking and doesn’t know it yet.

Vivianne changed that in me—whatever tolerance I had for my father vanished when he attacked her.

My jaw tightens at the memory: her crying in my arms, me tucking her into bed, the way she looked at me.

I miss her. It’s been hell without her this past week.

Which must be why I’m driving to a tiny Pennsylvania town at three in the morning.

When her house comes into view, I feel a strange relief. But as soon as I step out of the car, it’s replaced by worry and a touch of nausea.

I wanted to wait until my father was out of my life completely, but I can’t stay away.

At the front door, I hesitate. The porch light is off, the windows dark. I just stand there, staring like the door might burn me if I touch it.

Maybe I should leave. Maybe she’s better off without me.

But I knock anyway, holding my breath.

No response. Just stillness.

I knock again. This time, I hear a thump inside.

A minute passes before the door swings open.

She stands there, bleary-eyed, her face pinched in sleep and irritation.

The urge to sweep her into my arms and beg for forgiveness surges through me.

“Liam,” she breathes, her cheeks flushing a stark pink.

Her lips match the shade, the fullness making it hard to focus.

Her eyes widen, and for a second, I get lost in their soft blue.

“Viv, I—”

The door slams in my face.

VIVIANNE

Liam.

Oh God.

What is he doing here?

How did he even know I was here?

I stare at the closed door, my heart pounding.

I shut it in his face—his stupid handsome face.

Why did I slam it? Why didn’t I say anything?

I pull it open again.

He’s still there, looking stunned—and hurt.

“Hey—” he starts again, but panic rises fast and hot.

I shut it again.

Shame washes over me. I open the door once more, my face burning.

“Okay,” he says gently, keeping one foot at the threshold. “I’m just gonna leave this here for a minute.” He looks at me, unsure.

I’m too caught off guard to speak full sentences.

“What are you—how?”

“I called Becca. I figured you’d come here, but I wanted to be sure. I would have been here last Sunday, but I couldn’t get away. Things were…complicated.”

He sighs, his expression tight, strained.

“Damn her,” I mutter, folding my arms and pulling my cardigan tighter.

“Don’t be mad at her. I didn’t know what else to do. I almost stopped for flowers, but it felt too cheesy.”

He glances down. “But I could make a trip to the store really quick if they’d help.”

I don’t answer.

~Nothing’s going to help you. Get off my property~ seems a little harsh, though.

Movement behind me catches my eye.

I turn to find Becca sneaking toward her room.

“Oh, no, miss thing,” I say.

She freezes, then trips and lands in a heap on the floor.

“I’m okay,” she mumbles. “Hey, Liam. Funny seeing you—” She gives a strangled laugh.

“Cut the crap,” I snap.

“We’ve been found out,” Liam mutters behind me.

Becca stands, rubbing her head.

“Well, come on in, Liam,” she says, already walking to the kitchen. “I’ll make some coffee.”

“What?” I hiss, giving her the evil eye.

But she isn’t having it. She gives me that look—the same one Momma used to give when we were back-talking.

She starts the coffee and moves around the house, turning on the Christmas tree lights. The soft glow fills the room.

I glance at Liam.

Everything in me wants to fall into him, let him comfort me while I cry.

Instead, I hold back the emotions swarming inside of me and try not to let any of it show.

He looks a little uncomfortable, like he’s bracing for something.

I want to ask him everything—why he looks like that, how we even got here.

He clears his throat. “New York has missed you.”

Becca brings over three mugs of coffee, then steps back with her own, watching like it’s a movie.

“Well, I’ve missed New York,” I say, fingers curling around the warm mug.

He meets my gaze. There’s a glint in his eyes—a question I can’t quite read.

“I’ve missed you,” he says.

My heart flutters, and I hate that it does.

I nod and sip my coffee like it might help.

“Can we”—he glances at Becca—“talk?”

She makes a small noise of understanding and hurries out before I can protest.

Traitor.

“It’s Christmas, Liam,” I say evenly.

“I know, I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Look, Vivianne, I royally screwed up, okay? I never meant—”

“No.”

“What?” He frowns.

“I don’t want to do this. Not with you. Not right now.”

“Please, just let me—”

“Why? So ~you~ get to feel better?” I stand, pacing the kitchen. “You ~should~ feel bad. You ~should~ feel like a despicable person. The other night was ~horrible~. The things she said to me. And you just ~stood there~.”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“I was there, Liam,” I say sharply. “I told you it was a bad idea.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “I should have ended things with her sooner. I—I should never have even started things with her, but—”

He stops too fast.

He’s hiding something.

I see it—regret, guilt…and something else.

He runs another shaky hand through his hair, eyes heavy.

I contemplate taking a dig at him. Something to make him feel what I felt.

But I don’t.

I don’t want to be the kind of person who ~tries~ to hurt people.

“All I can say is I fucked up bad,” he says, voice low. “I’m sorry.”

It isn’t enough.

Not for everything that’s happened.

There is too much between us. Too much to forgive and forget.

He seems to know that. He nods solemnly, retreating behind that wall of his. And I let him.

“I’m sorry I ended the contract. I’m sorry this didn’t work out better,” I say after a moment. “Will you stay for another minute?”

A bit of hope blooms in his eyes, and it takes everything in me not to lean into it.

Instead of giving in, I leave the room.

In my old bedroom, I dig through my closet and grab the manila envelope.

When I return, Liam is staring into space.

He straightens as I hand it to him.

He looks confused, then opens it, pulling out brochures and vouchers.

“What—?”

“I won them at the gala.”

“Then you should keep them. Go. Treat yourself.” He sets them on the table.

“No. I always thought you needed a vacation,” I say, then add more softly, “And…I thought maybe we’d go together.”

A small smile tugs at his lips.

My body aches to let him back in.

But my head isn’t ready—not yet.

He rises slowly. “If you need anything…” He touches my hands gently.

I nod, looking away.

I can’t.

He murmurs something I can’t quite catch, then leaves.

When the door closes, I finally let myself cry.

For him. For me.

For my mother.

For my life in New York.

“Are you okay?” Becca asks.

I shake my head, pressing my forehead to the cool wood of the table.

“Merry Christmas,” I whisper.

She sits in the chair he just left.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says.