Page 121 of Without a Trace
I chose silence over sweet lies. I chose anger over apology. I chose me.
Because if they’d told me the truth back then—back when it still might’ve mattered—I would’ve stood beside them.
But they didn’t.
They waited until it was too late, until I was in too deep to run without wreckage.
They talk about protection like it’s love. But protection without truth isn’t love—it’s control.
They think love looks like sacrifice.
But I want something messier.
Something real.
I let the dress fall. Cool air kissed my shoulders, my ribs, the tops of my thighs.
The mirror caught me in slivers—shoulder, hip, thigh. Fragmented. Familiar. A girl built from fury and gold.
I pulled on the robe, leaving it untied and hanging.
The knock wasn’t loud. Just firm.
Like he already fucking knew.
I moved slowly through the villa, heart pounding in my ears. Power ached in my chest. Along with uncertainty.
When I opened the door, Trace was standing there.
His chest rose with a sharp breath. Heat rippled off him—contained, barely.
“Fuck,” he breathed.
His eyes dragged down—neck, collarbone, the parting of the robe. “Scarlett.”
The way he said my name wrecked me.
Rough. Like a warning. Like a prayer.
Neither of us moved.
And then—footsteps.
A second shadow behind him.
Alden.
He looked between the two of us, mouth set in a grim line, voice lower than I’d ever heard it.
“You gonna let us in,” he asked. “Or are we just gonna stand here all night?”
Trace turned slightly, tense as hell, like he hadn’t known Alden would follow. But Alden wasn’t here to ask permission.
Neither was I.
I stepped back, letting the robe slip down my shoulder.
“If you walk through that door,” I said, voice steady, “you don’t get to pretend this didn’t happen.”
