Chapter 1: The Girl He Protected

Jackson Whitfield has always been loyal. Fiercely loyal. The kind of loyalty that grabs you by the throat and never lets go.

Even as a kid, Jackson was like a guard dog on a short leash—ready to bite if you even glanced at someone he cared about the wrong way. He could make you feel like you were the only person in the world. And then, in the next breath—remind you how replaceable you really were. Loyalty, for him, wasn’t gentle or forgiving. It was sharp-edged, fierce, something that cut both ways.

I mean, I only went to see that girl once—just once—and he nearly ran me down with his car.

I’d just stepped out of the building, the late afternoon sunlight barely warming my shoulders, when his black Chevy came barreling down the street. Like a heat-seeking missile. The tires screeched, and for a split second, I wondered if he’d actually go through with it. Only Jackson could turn a near-miss into both a declaration of war and loyalty at the same time.

So I couldn’t help myself. I asked, “Do you really like her that much?”

My voice came out more amused than hurt, like it felt watching a rerun of some old Friends episode—familiar drama, nothing new. I crossed my arms, raised an eyebrow, daring him to admit something real for once.

Jackson replied coldly, “She’d take a bullet for me. Would you?”

He didn’t blink. The words hit like a slap—sharp. But with that weird, clinical calm he always had when he wanted to hurt you just right.

His eyes were flat. Unreadable. I almost laughed.

Instead, I let out a short, dry chuckle.

Of course not.

The laugh came out hollow, echoing in the little space between us. I shrugged. Pretended it didn’t sting. It was the kind of answer you give when you want to seem above it all, even if you’re not.

For half a year, Jackson hid a lover from me.

He kept her stashed away for six months, and I didn’t have a clue.

Sometimes I look back on those months and wonder how I missed it. I prided myself on reading him—on knowing every twitch of his jaw, every shift in his tone. But he played it cool, never slipped, not even once. I guess when you stop looking for lies, you stop seeing them altogether.

Until a week ago, when I was curled up with cramps, he suddenly said, “You never seem to get much pain, do you?”

We were sitting on the couch, TV flickering with some late-night rerun, and I had a heating pad pressed to my stomach. He was standing in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, eyes a little too focused. It was such an odd thing for him to notice—too pointed, too out of character. And that’s when it hit me. Damn. He was worried about someone else.

I froze for a second, then it hit me again. This bastard must be worried about someone else who gets bad cramps.

My fingers paused on the remote, and I glanced over at him. There was a heaviness in the air, like we both knew the conversation was about to veer off a cliff. Trouble.

So I shrugged and said, “Dr. Carter’s always helped me regulate it. I just take some Advil and I’m fine.”

I tried to keep my voice light. Like we were just two old friends, swapping health tips. Not two people circling the ruins of something that used to be love. I even flashed him a practiced smile—the kind you give to a nosy neighbor.

Jackson’s face didn’t change. Not a flicker. He just replied, “Mm.”

That non-answer was classic Jackson—never letting you in, never giving you enough to work with. He just turned away, as if the subject bored him. But I saw the tension in his shoulders. He was hiding something. I knew it.

Three days later, I flew overseas, and he was back here taking care of some girl.

I spent those three days pretending to care about meetings, about the taste of overpriced hotel coffee, about anything but the gnawing suspicion in my gut. Meanwhile, Jackson was here, playing caretaker to a girl I’d never even met. The irony didn’t escape me.

When I got the photo, it was so blurry you couldn’t even make out her face.

The email pinged in the middle of the night, the image grainy and dark. Still, there was no mistaking the way he stood—shoulders squared, body angled protectively in front of someone. The details didn’t matter. The way he stood told the whole story.

But the way Jackson stood was obvious.

Even pixelated, he looked like a man ready to throw down for someone. I’d seen that stance before—just never aimed at someone else.

I wasn’t surprised Jackson would cheat.

It was almost expected. He was always too restless, too hungry for something more. But what caught me off guard was the tenderness—the way he hovered, the way he shielded her. That was new. That was the part that hurt.

What surprised me was how much he actually cared.

It was like seeing a stranger wear his face. Jackson, the guy who’d never let anyone close, was suddenly someone’s protector. I felt a weird twist in my chest—a mix of jealousy and relief and something else I didn’t want to name.

What kind of girl was she?

The question gnawed at me. Was she sweet? Fragile? The kind of girl who needed saving? Or was she just someone who made him feel needed again? I had to know. Curiosity is a hell of a drug.

That curiosity sent me flying back to the States without telling Jackson.

I booked the red-eye, heart pounding with every mile closer to home. I told myself it was just to see for myself, to get closure. But deep down, I knew it was more than that. I needed to see the girl who’d turned Jackson into someone I barely recognized.

I had Mr. Turner drive me straight to where Jackson was keeping her.

The car ride was silent, tense. Mr. Turner, always the professional, didn’t ask questions. He just drove, eyes fixed on the road, hands steady at ten and two. I watched the city blur by, nerves jangling with every stoplight.

By pure luck, Jackson was just coming out of his warehouse on the south side, tossing his expensive blazer into the car and pulling on a worn hoodie.

The sight almost made me laugh—Jackson, always so put-together, now trying to blend in with the locals. He looked like he was playing dress-up in someone else’s life. But even the old hoodie couldn’t hide the sharp lines of his jaw, the restless energy in his movements.

Then he put on a pair of glasses. Raked his hand through his hair. Grabbed his laptop bag.

I watched from the car, biting back a grin. The glasses were too clean, the laptop bag too new. He was trying so hard to disappear, but he still stood out like a sore thumb.

I let out a low laugh.

“Is this supposed to be the new Jackson?”

I said it half to myself, half to Mr. Turner, who just tightened his grip on the steering wheel. The absurdity of it all made the tension in my chest loosen, just a little.

“A programmer now?”

I snorted, picturing Jackson hunched over a keyboard, cursing at code. The image was so ridiculous, I almost forgot why I was here.

Mr. Turner kept his eyes on the steering wheel, silent as a stone.

He’d been with our household long enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. But I caught the quick glance he shot me in the rearview mirror—a flicker of worry, maybe even pity. I ignored it.

When Jackson went upstairs, I pushed open the car door.

The city air hit me, cool and sharp, as I stepped out. I squared my shoulders, bracing myself for whatever mess waited upstairs.

“Wait here. I’m going up.”

I didn’t wait for a response. I was already halfway to the door, my heart thudding in my chest.

“Miss Harper…”

Mr. Turner’s voice was low, hesitant. He almost never called me by my first name, and the formality made me pause.

“What, you think he’s going to kill me?”

I tried to sound flippant, but there was a nervous laugh in my voice. The truth was, with Jackson, you could never be too sure.

…

“He won’t kill you.”

His reassurance was thin, unconvincing. We both knew that going up there meant crossing a line we couldn’t uncross. I just flashed him a quick, crooked smile and kept walking.

Anyone could see that once I went up and confronted him, things between me and Jackson would never end well.

It was like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing the ground was about to give way. I couldn’t help myself. The need to know, to confront, was stronger than my fear of the fallout.

Especially these past two years—constant silent treatment, shouting matches, broken glasses—just part of daily life.

We’d turned fighting into an art form.

The latest was two weeks ago.

I can’t even remember what started it.

Maybe it was something stupid—a forgotten anniversary, a careless remark. The details always blurred together, lost in the heat of the moment.

In the end, I hurled a water bottle at him.

It was the cheap kind, the plastic crumpling in midair before it even reached him. Still, the gesture was enough. It was always about the gesture.

He could’ve dodged, but he didn’t.

He just stood there, letting it hit him square on the forehead. The sound was dull, anticlimactic. But then blood started to run down, and everything got very real, very fast.

He let the blood drip down his forehead.

The red ran in a thin line, catching on his eyebrow. He didn’t flinch, didn’t even reach up to wipe it away. He just stared at me, eyes colder than I’d ever seen.

His eyes were cold as ice.

The kind of cold that makes you shiver, even in a heated room. I almost wanted to apologize, but pride held my tongue.

“Is there even a shred of the old you left?”

His voice was rough, raw. For a moment, I saw a flicker of the boy he used to be—the one who’d patch up my scraped knees and sneak me candy when my mom wasn’t looking. But that boy was long gone.

How absurd.

I’m not who I used to be, but is he?

I wanted to scream at him—to tell him he wasn’t the only one allowed to change. But the words stuck. Heavy. Bitter.

He changed, and that’s just accepted.

But if I change, it’s the end of the world?

The double standard stung. I clenched my fists, swallowing down everything I wanted to say. It didn’t matter. Not anymore.

Knock, knock, knock—I rapped on the apartment door.

The hallway was dim, the air thick with the smell of old carpet and takeout. My knuckles stung from the force of my knock. I waited, heart pounding, for the door to open.

The one who opened it was Jackson.

He still had that gentle smile on his face as he glanced back into the apartment, like he was looking at someone inside.

For a split second, he looked almost happy—like he was expecting someone else. But then he saw me, and the smile froze, cracked, and fell away.

“Leave it, wait for me.”

He spoke over his shoulder, voice soft. I could hear the warmth in it, meant for someone else. It made my stomach twist.

He turned. Our eyes met. The smile vanished.

His expression shifted so fast, it could be a masterclass at NYU’s drama school.

Seriously, if they gave Oscars for emotional whiplash, he’d have a shelf full of them. The transformation was almost impressive—if it hadn’t hurt so much.

“Who is it?”

A girl peeked out from behind him—petite, with big brown eyes and a nervous smile. Her hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, and her sweater looked two sizes too big. She looked like she belonged in a college brochure, not in the middle of my personal soap opera.

Meeting her eyes, I paused.

For a second, neither of us moved. There was a flicker of recognition—maybe just the shared awkwardness of two women caught in someone else’s mess.

Jackson shifted his body, blocking her just a bit more.

He tried to be subtle, but I caught it. Always the protector, even now.

“You go on inside.”

His low, steady voice made the girl hesitate a second.

She looked up at him, uncertain, then back at me. I could see the questions in her eyes, but she nodded and stepped back.

A smile crept onto my lips before I even realized it. Ridiculous.

The situation was so absurd, I couldn’t help it. If this was a movie, I’d be rooting for the other woman, just to see how it all played out.

I reached out my hand first.

“Hi, I’m Jackson’s colleague. Just here to talk work.”

I lied through my teeth, but my voice was smooth. Years of family drama had made me an expert at pretending everything was fine.

Jackson gave me a cool glance, saying nothing, but letting my lie stand.

He didn’t correct me, didn’t even look surprised. Just that same flat stare, daring me to push further.