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"Don’t be a hero," I said quietly. "Your ankle is sprained. Lean on me."

She hesitated, eyeing my arm like it was a trap. Then, realizing she didn’t have much choice if she wanted to stay upright, she wrapped her hand around my forearm. Her grip was strong, despite the shaking. "Fine."

We walked out into the wet night together. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the wind was whipping the palm fronds around the parking lot. She leaned heavily against me, her shoulder pressing into my bicep with every step. I matched my pace to hers, slow and deliberate, shielding her from the wind with my bulk.

When we reached the truck, she looked up at the passenger door. It was a steep climb.

"Okay," I said. "This isn’t graceful. Put your good foot on the running board. Use the grab handle."

She gritted her teeth and reached up. I stayed right behind her, my hands hovering just behind her waist without touching, ready to catch her if she slipped. She hauled herself up, wincing as she dragged her bad leg inside. It was a struggle, but she did it herself.

I shut the door and rounded the hood. When I climbed into the driver’s seat, the cab felt very small. It usually smelled like old leather and coffee. Now, it smelled like rain and the faint, sweet scent of whatever shampoo she used under that atrocious wig.

"Nice truck." She ran a hand over the dashboard. She sounded exhausted.

"It gets the job done." I pulled my phone out of my pocket and clipped it into the mount on the dash. I punched in my home address, angling the screen so she could see it. "That’s where we’re going," I said. "Dove Key. About twenty minutes southwest. You can watch the blue dot if it makes you feel better."

She stared at the screen, then at me. "Transparency. I like it."

"I’m not kidnapping you. I’m just taking you somewhere safe."

I put the truck in gear and pulled out of the lot. The drive down the Overseas Highway was dark, the streetlights few and far between this far south. The ocean was just a vast, black void on either side of the bridges. The tires hummed against the wet pavement, and the windshield wipers kept a steady beat.

I glanced over after five minutes. Kate-Sutton had leaned her head against the cool glass of the window, eyes closed, breathing even. She was asleep. She looked younger. The tension had drained out of her face, leaving her looking soft and incredibly vulnerable. The locket was around her neck.

I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles tightening. I knew exactly who was sleeping in my passenger seat. I knew the name, the fame, the complication she represented. But looking at her now, none of that registered.

I had spent a long time building a life that was simple—I went to work, I fixed things, I came home. I stayed on the periphery of my family’s drama, didn’t bring strays home, and didn’t get involved. Yet here I was, driving one of the most famous women on the planet, one who was running from some sort of big trouble, straight into my sanctuary.

I told myself it was just for the night, just the paramedic code ensuring I didn’t leave a patient behind. But as I drove over the bridge onto Dove Key, a heavy, familiar weight settled onto my shoulders. Responsibility. Protection. Whoever she was running from, whatever debt she owed or person she was hiding from, it didn’t matter now.

They would have to get through me first.

Chapter Five

SUTTON

Waking up was usually a production. In my real life—or the life I had been living until I left Miami yesterday—morning was a scheduled event. It began with the soft, escalating chime of an alarm programmed by Mindy, followed by the sound of footsteps on marble floors, the hiss of a high-end espresso machine, and the immediate, crushing weight of an itinerary. By the time I opened my eyes, there was usually someone standing over me with a green juice, a makeup bag, or a contract that needed to be signed before breakfast.

This morning, there was only silence.

A heavy, absolute silence that was almost physical. There was no traffic noise, no distant sirens, no ringing phones, and no polite but insistent voices. I blinked as I stared at a ceiling that wasn’t mine. It was painted a flat, stark white, and in the corner, a small water stain shaped like a cloud marred the perfection. I shifted, and the sheets rustled. They were jersey cotton—soft, worn, and definitely not the eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian percale I was used to. They smelled like cedar chips and aggressive laundry detergent.

I sat up slowly, wincing as a sharp, hot line of pain shot up my right leg and a dull throbbing sounded across my chest. The events of the previous night rushed back in a chaotic slide show—the rain, the deer, the ditch, the water rising. And the giant.

Ben.

A memory sharpened, cutting through the haze. I remembered the drive here, the truck idling in the driveway, and the moment I’d tried to step out. My ankle had buckled, a useless hinge. I hadn’t hit the gravel, though. Before I could even gasp, Ben had been there. He hadn’t offered platitudes or called for help. He had simply stepped into my space, an immovable wall of heat and muscle. He’d swept me up into his arms, holding me high against his chest like I weighed nothing. His heart had been a solid thump against my ear and his grip contained a sheer, brute competence as he carried me out of the storm and laid me on this bed. Not like a medical transport. It was being made safe.

I studied the room. It was sparse, clean, and utterly masculine. A gray dresser stood against one wall, unadorned by photos or knick-knacks, and a wooden chair sat in the corner, draped with a navy-blue towel. The blinds were drawn, but slices of gray, watery light cut through the slats, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. I was alone. Panic flared—the reflex of a woman who hadn’t been unobserved in over a decade—but it faded quickly, replaced by a strange, hollow relief. No one knew I was awake. No one was waiting for me to be Sutton Vale, the icon. I was a body in a bed, messy and hurting and anonymous.

I slowly swung my legs over the side of the mattress and tested my weight on the floor. My right ankle was wrapped in an ACE bandage, stiff and throbbing, but this morning it held. I limped toward the nightstand, where a glass of water and two pills sat on a folded piece of paper. I picked it up. The handwriting was blocky, all caps, and devoid of any artistic flair.

GOT SOME THINGS TO DO THIS MORNING. COFFEE SUPPLIES IN KITCHEN. TOAST/EGGS IN FRIDGE. STAY INSIDE. -BEN

The missive was less of a note and more of a tactical briefing, but still the words made me smile. Absently, my hand went to my throat and my grandmother’s locket. The gold was warm against my skin, and I quickly unclasped the necklace to hold it before me. I popped the clasp, relieved to see the tiny, faded photo of my grandmother holding me as a baby was still there, undamaged by the swamp water.

My throat constricted as I considered the implications. Ben hadn’t just rescued me. He had come back. He had walked into the storm and returned the one thing in my life I treasured as a grounding force. Kindness in my world was usually a transaction. People were nice because they wanted a feature on a track, a ticket to a show, or a percentage of the gross. Even Nash, in the beginning, had wrapped his control in layers of performative kindness.