Page 65 of Make You Mine

I blink, frozen in the entryway like an afterthought, the edges of my vision going tight.

He walks straight past me. Just walks past like I’m invisible.

I follow him into the sitting room where Emmett is already stretching his arms from the playpen, wailing until Declan crouches down and lifts him into his chest with fatherly devotion that leaves me burning.

It isn’t right, that a man can hold such tenderness in his hands and still be so cold to the woman who’s made it all possible. I fed them. I bathed them. I kept the whole house together while he whimpered over his wife.

“Is she… better?” I ask, tempering my voice into a gentle lilt. I approach him from behind, placing a light hand on his shoulder.

He flinches.Actuallyflinches from me, shrugging off my touch.

His tone is clipped, his words vague. “She’s awake.”

Willow gasps, spinning on the balls of her feet. “Mommy’s awake? When can we see her?”

“Soon,” he says. “She’ll be home today.”

Today.

That word lands like a heavy stone, pressing down on my chest. So she’s coming back. She’s actually coming back.

I swallow the scream that wants to rise and force out a bright little hum instead. My hand smooths over the apron I’ve put on.

“You must be knackered. And starving. I’ve made a proper meal for you—roast beef, gravy, roasted potatoes, steamed veg, bit of crumble for after. Let me sort you out, you’ll feel right again in no time.”

My fingers brush his elbow as I try to guide him toward the kitchen.

He pulls away like my touch scalds.

“I appreciate it, really,” he says, eyes finally meeting mine, but there’s no affection. Only polite dismissal. “But I can manage now. You’ve done enough.”

Done… enough?

He doesn’t stop. He keeps talking, as if he hasn’t just pulled the rug out from under me.

“We’ll pay you four times the usual rate, of course. For the trouble. But you can head off now, Chelsea. Amerie will be home in a few hours. I’ve got it from here.”

The knife turns in my gut.

I smile, the muscles in my face twitching.

It takes every ounce of control not to let it crack.

“Of course,” I say sweetly, my voice syrupy with calm. “I’ll just pop upstairs and gather my things.”

I pivot on my heel and march out of the room, wearing my mask until I’ve rounded the corner. And then… and then once I do it slips, and I can feel it happening again. I can feel myself dropping into the dark well I promised never to go down again.

I climb the stairs with shaking hands and a buzzing energy coursing inside me. They think I’ll go quietly, but they’re sorely mistaken.

They’ve left me no other choice…

Fifteen minutes later, Declan has sat the children down for lunch and come upstairs looking for me, likely expecting to find me tidying up in the guest room, slipping my bag over my shoulder like the good little nanny I’ve always been—quiet, helpful, invisible. But I’m not in the guest room. I’ve already packed, zipped my things neatly, placed the bag right on the bed like a dutiful exit cue.

He pushes the door open and pauses. I can imagine the furrow in his brow as he sees the empty space, hears the silence. The bag confirms I haven’t just wandered off. I’m still around somewhere.

“Chelsea?” he calls, his voice echoing down the corridor. “Chelsea?”

I listen to the pad of his footsteps as he moves from one room to the next. The hallway bathroom, the children’s bedrooms, both his and her offices. Each door opens with a gentle creak, then closes again with a soft snick. It’s only when he pauses that I know he’s realized the last place he hasn’t checked.

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