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"And how did he take that?"

"He threatened me with a conservatorship," she murmured. The word dropped into the room like a lead weight. "He has his lawyers drafting an emergency petition to declare me mentally unfit to manage my own affairs. He wants the court to hand him total, legal control over my life, my money, and my body. He plans to lock me in a wellness facility in Arizona until I agree to his terms."

Hot acid poured into my gut. The situation wasn’t a simple case of a celebrity avoiding aggressive paparazzi. It was a hostage situation wrapped in legal red tape.

"That’s why I ran." She lifted her head to meet my gaze. Those bright blue, famous eyes stared straight at me. "I grabbed three hundred dollars in cash. I bought that awful wig. I rented a car in Miami under an alias and drove south. I didn’t have a plan. I only knew I couldn’t be in my house when the process servers arrived."

"And then you crashed," I said, the pieces of Tuesday night finally snapping together.

"A deer stepped into the road. I swerved to miss it and hydroplaned into the ditch. When the water started rising, my purse slid out the shattered window. My ID, my credit cards, my phone. Everything sank. Then the ambulance lights came on, and I knew exactly how it would play out. They would take my picture and it would get out. Nash would use the crash as proof that I was a danger to myself. The conservatorship would be granted by morning."

“Shit. That’s pretty heavy.”

Sutton gave me a sad smile. "You didn’t just pull me out of a car, Ben. You stood in front of that camera lens and bought me time. But if I leave this house right now and walk into a hotel, Nash will find me. He’ll spin this entire week as a mental breakdown."

The tactical, logical plan I had mapped out three minutes ago dissolved. Sending her away wasn’t an extraction. It was a surrender. If she contacted her team, Nash would intercept the communication. If she went to a shelter, someone would recognize her and cash in on the tip.

"You aren’t mentally ill," I said. "You survived a crash, you navigated a strange situation with zero resources, and you kept your cover. That is survival. Not instability."

A single tear spilled over her lower lash line, tracking a clear path down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. "Try telling that to a judge who only sees the platinum records and tabloid headlines."

My instinct to protect, to build a wall between her and the danger, couldn’t be denied. I abandoned the safety of the kitchen counter, crossed the living room, and dropped into the armchair across from her. "We’ll get a lawyer. A local one. Someone completely unconnected to your label. We’ll build a defense before Nash even knows what state you’re in."

She uncurled her legs and planted her feet on the floor. "You don’t have to do that. You wanted me out by the weekend."

"The parameters changed," I countered. "You aren’t leaving until you are ready to fight him on your terms."

Sutton stared at me, her chest rising and falling with shallow, rapid breaths. Exhaustion lined her face, digging deep shadows under her eyes. She carried the weight of a multi-million-dollar empire and a predatory ex-husband on shoulders that suddenly looked too frail. "I just needed room to breathe. I wanted to feel human again." She dropped her gaze to her hands, tears welling up. "I’m sorry. I’m a mess. I need a shower, but I can’t even balance on my ankle in your tub without slipping."

The defeat in her posture cracked the last of my rigid, professional distance. She wasn’t asking for a bodyguard or a lawyer right now. She was asking for basic dignity. Before I could think about it too much, I stood up. "I think we can do something about that. Follow me to the kitchen."

She blinked, swiping a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. "The kitchen?"

"I’m hardly a celebrity stylist." Smiling now, I stepped forward to offer her my hand. "But I’m pretty sure I can manage a basic hair washing. Come on."

A hesitant, shaky breath escaped her lips, but she reached out and took my hand. I pulled her up gently, letting her lean her weight against my arm as she favored her wrapped ankle, and guided her the few steps into the kitchenette.

I pulled one of the wooden dining chairs over to the sink, turning it so the back faced the counter. "Have a seat. Just lean back against the edge of the basin."

She sat down and adjusted her position until the nape of her neck rested against the cool porcelain. I grabbed a clean, thick towel and the shampoo I’d bought at Island market from the bathroom. Returning to the kitchen, I removed a dish towel from the pantry and folded it, slipping it under her neck to cushion her from the hard rim. I turned on the faucet, testing the water temperature on the skin of my inner wrist. Warm, but not scalding. I grabbed the spray nozzle and leaned over her.

"Go ahead and close your eyes," I murmured. "Unless you want soap in them."

She obeyed, her features relaxing as her eyes fluttered closed. I directed the spray over her hair, and the blonde color darkened when wet. Working efficiently, my movements were practiced and calm. I grabbed the bottle of 3-in-1 from the counter, squeezed a generous dollop into my palm, and rubbed my hands together to lather it. Then, I reached for her head.

The moment my fingers touched her scalp, the dynamic in the room shifted irreversibly.

Until that exact second, I had successfully maintained the wall between us. She was a person to be protected. This was a hygienic task to be completed. But hair isn’t a wound you can just bandage. This was deeply personal.

Her hair was heavy and wet, sliding through my fingers like silk. As I worked the lather into the roots, massaging her scalp with the pads of my fingers, a tremor went through her entire body. She let out a soft, involuntary sigh of pure relief that traveled straight up my arms. The rigid tension left her spine.

I slowed my hands down. I wasn’t trying to be gentle. I was trying to be efficient. But the absolute vulnerability of her position—her throat exposed to the air, her eyes closed, trusting me blindly while I held her head in my rough, calloused hands—chipped away at the ice in my chest. The suds foamed up white against the golden strands. I traced the line of her hairline, my thumbs brushing lightly against her temples in slow, rhythmic circles.

I found myself examining her face. Not as Sutton Vale, the superstar running from a predator. And not as Kate Green, the lie we had finally retired. Just her. With my eyes, I traced the faint scatter of freckles across her nose. I cataloged the soft curve of her lips.

A jolt of fear hit me. I wanted to keep doing this. I wanted to wash away the fear and Nash until all that was left was the woman underneath. And I wanted to keep her.

"Is the water okay?" My voice came out lower than I intended, rougher.