The taxi ride to Jairo Barrett's suburban townhouse was a blur of self-loathing and confusion. Aliana huddled in the corner of the back seat, clutching a suit jacket she had grabbed blindly from the floor in her frantic escape—the stranger's too-large jacket, still carrying the clean, masculine scent of his cologne. She hadn't realized she'd taken it until she was already in the elevator, her torn dress barely covering her, and by then it was too late to go back.
She paid the driver with a crumpled bill and stumbled out onto the familiar curb. The neat iron gate, the manicured lawn, the sterile facade of the house they were supposed to turn into a home—it all felt like a violation now.
As she pushed open the gate, her eyes caught on a flash of crimson in the driveway. A red Porsche. Kylan Sutton's car. Her best friend.
A cold, heavy dread settled in her stomach. She walked up the stone path, her steps unnaturally quiet. The front door was slightly ajar.
She pushed it open.
The entryway was a disaster zone of discarded clothing. Jairo's favorite shirt was tangled with a pair of high heels. Lying in a heap by the stairs was a silk camisole, a distinctive floral pattern she knew as well as her own reflection. Kylan's.
The breath left Aliana's lungs in a painful rush. She followed the trail of clothes toward the living room, hearing them before she saw them—low, intimate laughter, the rustle of sheets. Her hand trembled as she pulled out her phone and hit record before she even stepped into the room.
Then she saw them. Jairo and Kylan, tangled together on the sectional sofa, a cashmere throw barely covering them. Kylan's bare legs wrapped around Jairo's waist, his face buried in her neck.
"So, did the plan work?" Kylan purred, tracing a finger down Jairo's chest. "Did little Miss Perfect finally get what she deserved?"
Jairo laughed, a smug, ugly sound. "Like a charm. One glass of champagne and she was putty in my hands. I walked her right to the investor's door. He'll be very happy with our... partnership."
The words struck Aliana with the force of a physical blow. The blood drained from her face. Her entire body began to tremble.
Rage, pure and white-hot, burned through the shock. She stepped fully into the doorway, the phone held steady in her hand.
"You walked me to the investor's door?" Her voice cut through the room like a blade of ice.
Jairo's head whipped around. Kylan shrieked, scrambling for the blanket.
Aliana raised the phone higher, framing their half-naked bodies in the viewfinder. "Smile for the camera. The investors are going to love this one too." The camera's flash went off, freezing them like animals caught in headlights.
"Aliana!" Jairo roared, lunging toward her. "Give me that phone!"
She sidestepped him easily, clutching the phone to her chest. "Why?" she whispered, her voice raw and broken. "Why would you do this to me?"
He stopped, his face contorted with ugly resentment. "Don't act so innocent. You knew the company needed funding. I did what I had to do."
"He did what you were never willing to do," Kylan added, her voice dripping with venom. "You're a prude, Aliana. Jairo needs a real woman."
The casual cruelty from the woman who had been her maid of honor was the final, killing blow. Aliana let out a short, humorless laugh. "A real woman? Is that what you call someone who spreads her legs for her best friend's fiancé?" She turned the phone toward Kylan, zooming in on her horrified face. "You wanted the spotlight. Here it is."
Jairo stepped closer, his tone shifting to condescending reason. "Just delete the video. If you behave, you can still be Mrs. Barrett."
Aliana looked at his face, at the insincere plea in his eyes, and felt nothing but disgust. She raised her hand and slapped him. The sound was shockingly loud, a sharp crack that echoed through the silent house. Jairo's head snapped to the side, and five angry red fingerprints bloomed on his cheek. He stared at her, his mouth agape in disbelief.
"You bitch!" Jairo snarled, his shock curdling into pure rage. His hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of her hair. "You think you can lay a hand on me? In my own house?" He raised his other hand to strike her.
"Mama!"
Three small figures thundered down the stairs. Zane, in his dinosaur pajamas, was first, his dark eyes blazing. Riley was right behind him, clutching her worn teddy bear. Mila brought up the rear, her unicorn blanket trailing like a cape. They planted themselves between Aliana and the man about to hit her.
"Don't you touch my mama!" Zane shouted, his small fists clenched.
Jairo froze. For a moment, something flickered in his eyes—surprise, perhaps, or the last dying ember of shame. Then Kylan let out a sharp, mocking laugh from the sofa. "Oh, look. The little bastards came to rescue their whore of a mother."
The insult snapped Aliana out of her paralysis. She wrenched free from Jairo's grip and shoved him backward, putting herself between him and her children. "Don't you dare speak about them that way."
Jairo straightened, his chest heaving. "That's it. Get out. All of you. Now."
"Jairo, please—"
"I said get out!" He pointed a shaking finger at the door. "Every piece of clothing on those brats, every toy in their room—I paid for it. This is my house. My money. You walk out with nothing but the clothes on your backs."
Zane looked up at his mother, his small jaw tight. "Mama," he said, his voice steady. "We don't need his things. Let's go."
Aliana felt her heart splinter and reform in the same breath. He was four years old. He should not have to be this brave. "Go upstairs," she said softly. "Get your sisters' shoes. Grab your backpacks."
Zane nodded and led his sisters back up the stairs without a backward glance.
Kylan shoved Aliana hard against the wall. "You heard him! Get out!" Aliana shoved back, harder, sending Kylan sprawling onto the sofa cushions.
"The engagement is off," Aliana said, her voice steady. "And this video is my insurance. If either of you ever comes near me or my children again, the whole world sees it."
Jairo's face turned purple with rage. "Get out of my house!"
Aliana ignored him. The children came down the stairs, each wearing their small backpacks. Zane had made sure they were dressed properly—shoes on, jackets zipped. She knelt, pulling all three of them close. "We're going on an adventure," she said, her voice bright and brittle. "Just Mama and her three favorite people."
Riley's lower lip trembled. "Is Jairo coming?"
"No, sweetheart. It's just us from now on."
"Good," Zane said quietly. "I never liked him."
Slowly, she pulled the thin silver band from her ring finger. She threw it at Jairo. It struck him just below the eye, the small setting sharp enough to break the skin. A thin line of blood welled up on his cheek.
With her back straight and her head held high, Aliana took a child's hand in each of hers and walked toward the door, leaving everything behind.
"You'll come crawling back!" Jairo shrieked. "You're nothing without me!"
She slammed the door shut, cutting off his venomous words.
The bright California sun was blinding. Aliana looked down at her three children—Zane, watchful and fierce; Riley, trembling but holding back tears; Mila, her unicorn blanket wrapped around her shoulders like armor.
"Mama, are you sad?" Mila asked.
Aliana squeezed their hands and forced a smile. "No, sweetheart. Mama's free."
And standing there on the sidewalk, with nothing but the clothes on her back and three small, precious lives depending on her, Aliana Hunt realized she had never been more terrified—or more determined—in her entire life.
