Chapter 17

Quinn laughed. Not warmly.

Holden's expression fell.

He knew that sound. He'd come to her the last time with exactly the same words and exactly the same face — remorse, sincerity, the trembling edge of a man who believed in himself when he was suffering. And she'd watched it all dissolve again the moment Serena reappeared.

"I won't pressure you," he said, working to keep his voice steady. "We have time. Think about it."

"And don't try to tell me you've already moved on and married someone else. You've been gone a month. That's not how people work."

Quinn decided not to waste energy on it. If he wanted to believe she was bluffing, fine. She pulled the blanket up and covered her face with it. End of conversation.

"Rest," he said, through the fabric. "I'll come back later."

She heard the door close.

She lay there thinking about Julian. Would he know she was gone by now? Would he send someone?

Hours slid by. The light outside the window went amber, then deep.

When Holden came back, there was something quieter in the set of his face. The day had worn on him. He crossed the room and sat at the edge of the bed. "Are you hungry? I can stay."

"Go eat with Serena," Quinn said, without moving the blanket.

A short pause. Then a sound she hadn't expected — almost a laugh. "Still thinking about Serena. Does that mean you were jealous?"

"Quinn." Something softened in his voice. "Serena's been arrested. She's in police custody, facing a serious conspiracy charge. The evidence was solid. Whatever happens next — she won't be in our lives again."

Quinn lowered the blanket slightly.

"She'd been playing the system since the arrest — performed a mental breakdown in interrogation. But I had a separate solution. I arranged for her to be committed to a private psychiatric facility. Long-term."

He pulled out his phone and held it toward her. The image was slightly out of focus, but legible: a woman who had once been polished and precise, sitting on a cot in an institutional room, staring at nothing.

"As for Noah—" He hesitated. "He's a child. He called me his father for years, even if it wasn't true. I had him placed in a children's home, with funds set aside for his care and school. He'll be looked after."

Quinn was quiet. The cruelty had been real, but Noah had never had a say in any of it. The thought of him suffering for Serena's choices left a bad taste.

Holden was watching her. Cautious. "Is that—"

"Fine," she said. Meaning: the child is blameless.

He exhaled. The relief in his shoulders was visible. He leaned toward her, his voice going gentle and private, and brushed a kiss across her lips.

Quinn bit him.

She tasted blood.

Holden went still. For a second, the injury seemed to actually delight him. He lifted a hand toward her.

"God, I missed you," he said, his voice rough. "Do you know how long it's been—"

Quinn felt the room tipping.

The closeness of him, the smell, the pressure—

Her stomach revolted completely. She turned away and retched.

It wasn't performative. She heaved and heaved until there was nothing left, her face draining of color.

Holden was on his feet, alarmed. He was shouting for the doctor before Quinn had finished.

The physician arrived. He did a thorough examination, asked careful questions, and eventually led Holden into the corridor to speak privately.

"There's nothing physically wrong with your wife. Her body is healthy. But her psychological state—" He chose his words very carefully. "It appears she's experienced some significant trauma. My recommendation would be to keep her environment calm and comfortable. Fresh air. Activities she enjoys. And—"

He hesitated.

Holden waited.

"—to limit contact with anything, or anyone, that might be distressing to her."

The implication hung in the air.

Holden was quick. He understood immediately. "You mean me."

The doctor gave a very small, very careful nod.

Holden stood in the corridor for a moment after the doctor walked away.

He turned and looked through the window.

In the room, Quinn had stopped retching. She'd asked for something — the framed photograph from the bedside table. She was holding it, the stiffness gone from her shoulders, her face almost peaceful in the lamplight as she ran her thumb gently over the image.

Over Abby's face.

He felt the softness come for him before he could stop it. She's still there. She's still Quinn.

He'd wait. He was good at waiting, when it was for something worth it.

He was almost ready to turn away and give her the night.

Then she moved.

She kept hold of the photograph. And slowly, deliberately, with both hands, she tore the image in two — separating his face from theirs.

She looked at his half for a moment.

Then she shredded it.