Chapter 49 Chapter 49
Liana's POV
I hadn't even noticed I'd turned the car on.
I was staring at Rainer's words still, my body language shaking—Dominic unleashing all his power as a whirlwind storm that claims legal custody—when I was gripping the steering wheel with everything I had in a deserted restaurant parking lot, tensed to the extreme. My mind was racing in my ears, muffling the world out.
I gazed down at my fists on the steering wheel—white knuckles, shaking fingers. I breathed deep and concealed my face in my hands.
> Dominic wants to settle. No court filing. A meeting tomorrow morning. Neutral ground.
My heart squeezed like a vice. The whole sound of the word—settle—was an offer concealed as a threat.
The engine growled as I backed out of the parking space, streetlights and signs whizzing by behind my steamed windshield. Panic and terror crashed through me like waves in a tempest.
My phone buzzed on the seat beside me, jerking me into a sitting position. I stared at it before it slipped somewhere on the floor under my seat:
Stanley
Vibes?
I swallowed. I didn't know how to say this. Everything was too fresh. Too huge.
I answered, my voice a harsh whisper:
"Hey."
"Liana? You sound awful. What's wrong?" His tone was gentle, worried—centering—already wrapping me in a shroud.
"I… it's Dominic." My voice cracked. The tears I'd fought to keep all day spilled over again. ". he's going legal. He says he has rights to Cam." My breathing trembled. "He's suing me. I don't… I can't breathe, Stan."
"Where are you?" His tone changed at once—serious, controlled.
"Inside my car. I don't… I pulled over. I have no idea where."
"Go to the nearest restaurant or diner. Name it. I'll be there."
I stalled. Guilt flared—he didn't owe me this. But I couldn't stop saying I needed him.
"I. all right. Thanks."
—
Ten minutes since I was huddled anxiously in a warm booth in a small restaurant—frosted glass partitions, vinyl booths, indistinct restaurant chatter in the background. I pushed my phone into my pocket and looked through the frosted glass partition at my reflection, rumpled, tear-streaked, broken.
Then the door opened.
He came in. Stanley—in frayed jeans and scuffed leather jacket—halted when he saw me. His face relaxed immediately. He did not hesitate.
He left the door ajar.
Without a word, he slipped into the booth across from me. And then—
He leaned forward, with the fingertips of one hand grasping my chin, and pulling my face toward him. He drew me into the strong arms of him, and something deep within me—something torn and bruised—fell into that embrace.
I let the tears start over, stinging and quiet, my cheek pressed against his chest. The scent of cedar and something clean washed over me, and I didn't need to gasp quite so hard—because he was breathing for me.
"It's all right," he whispered. "You don't have to get through this alone."
He kissed the top of my head as I locked my arms around him, holding on like my anchor.
We sat there awhile, me clinging to him and him holding me up, just holding me, not moving, not pushing.
Finally, I sniffled, coming loose a little.
"Do you need some food?" he said softly.
I nodded. "I. might eat."
He grinned crookedly. "Good. Let's start with something nice. I'm thinking fries and a milkshake. Unless you want to steal my fries."
I laughed—real, shaking but it came. "I'll fight you for them."
He grinned and signaled the waitress over.
We had hot comfort food: a sloppy cheeseburger, chunky fries, a shared vanilla milkshake.
We talked--gently, carefully--about anything but Dominic. About Cam's silly new dinosaur-print pajamas, the terrible pilot episode he'd tried watching last week, how I fried the best plantains (but only he devoured them).
He got me to laugh. Deep laugh, the kind that makes you ease your shoulders after squeezing them too tight. The tears turned into quiet smiles.
When our food came, the grease and warmth brought me down to earth.
He inched his plate over so I could swipe a fry.
"Steal away," he teased, eyes soft.
We ate and spoke, peeling away the layers of the day bit by bit. Nothing heavy—just harmless moments that were safe.
When the check arrived, he reached into his jacket.
"I'm getting it," he said.
I opened my eyes to lean forward and protest.
He gave me that look he has—the one that keeps me from reaching in.
"Let me," he said. "My turn."
I gave in, saying, "Thanks."
Going out, I breathed cool air full of the smell of rain. Clouds consumed the moon.
I pulled my coat closer around me.
"Where is your car?" I asked.
He looked surprised. "I sent my driver on ahead with it. I wanted you to get home safe. I wanted to drive."
A wave of emotion surged through me—gratitude, kindness, relief.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He didn't say anything. He led me to the passenger side, opened the door.
Then he climbed into his seat.
The ride was serene but still. I remained silent as he drove carefully, headlights cutting through darkness.
When we pulled in front of my house, porch light shining like a beacon.
He turned off the motor.
"You okay?" he breathed.
"I. better." My throat ached. "Thanks for tonight."
He smiled, a flicker of pride—and something softer.
He leaned in and brushed a curl away from my ear. Electric shocks darted where his fingers touched my skin.
He leaned in closer.
Our gazes were fixed.
That instant stretched beyond time itself.
Then he kissed me.
Nothing was hurried, nothing frantic. Deliberate, gentle. A promise in the pressure of his lips. A question I longed to answer.
When we separated, I exhaled. He rested his forehead against mine.
"I should go."
"I already sent my driver."
He started to step back—but I found my voice before reason.
"Stop."
Slowly, he turned, confusion playing in his eyes.
I swallowed and said the words I've been carrying since this night began—words half hope, half desperation.
"You should stay the night."
The world hung there between us.
His lips parted.
My heart pounded in the silence.
Then—