Delilah had always known how to smile when she didn’t mean it.

It was something she learned at fifteen, standing next to her mother at endless charity luncheons, wearing dresses that cost more than the waiters earned in a month. “Chin up, baby,” her mother would whisper. “We’re Hayes women. We show up perfect, even if we’re bleeding inside.”

So, when Gregory Alcott slipped a diamond ring on her finger at a meticulously staged engagement party last fall, Delilah smiled.

She smiled for the cameras. For the society women clapping politely. For her mother, who looked like she’d won the lottery. For the photographers snapping photos of them under strings of golden fairy lights, perfectly timed for the sunset.

Everyone said it was like a fairy tale.

She was twenty-two. He was forty-one.

But that didn’t seem to matter to anyone. Gregory was rich. Respected. A senator with presidential potential. Handsome in the way older men on magazine covers were—salt-and-pepper hair, strong jaw, impeccable suits. He knew how to charm a room with three words and a smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“He’s going to make history,” her mother had told her, glass of champagne in hand. “And you’ll be at his side. Think of what you’ll do, Delilah. Think of who you’ll be.”

What she didn’t say was the part that echoed louder in Delilah’s head than anything else.

Think of what you’ll owe me.

It wasn’t about love. It was never about love.

It was about image. About power. About rising from the ashes of the Hayes family’s financial scandals and attaching herself to something unshakable.

Gregory made sure of that.

He proposed with a ring custom-made by a New York jeweler. It glinted like a promise she hadn’t fully agreed to. Her hand had trembled when she said yes. She told herself it was just nerves. Told herself she could learn to love him. That maybe this was what adult relationships looked like.

Neat. Polished. Practical.

But the cracks started to show before the engagement party even ended.

He squeezed her hand too tightly when a guest asked her about college—her tone just a little too flirty. Gregory smiled as he corrected the woman. “Delilah doesn’t need college. She’ll be focused on supporting my campaign, not essays.”

That night, after everyone left, she mentioned she still wanted to finish her degree. His expression didn’t change, but his voice lost all warmth.

“Your job is to make me look good. I don’t need a girl with opinions. I need a wife who understands the stakes.”

Delilah had laughed nervously. “Gregory, I’m not just a prop.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You will be whatever I need you to be.”

It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact.

The next day, she dropped her classes.

He bought her a new car as a reward. Something sleek and quiet, like a trophy.

They started appearing at more events together. Fundraisers. Dinners. Press conferences. She stood at his side, always smiling, always perfect. Her social media became a curated museum of couple photos, filtered to perfection. She lost weight without meaning to. Stopped seeing her old friends. Stopped reading in public because Gregory said it made her look standoffish.

He didn’t like when she wore red lipstick. Said it made her look “cheap.” So she stopped. He didn’t like when she stayed out too late, even with her mother. So she made excuses and stayed in.

The first time he raised his voice at her was during a photo shoot for a magazine feature.

The photographer asked her to sit on his lap. Gregory hated that idea. Said it made him look weak. Delilah had laughed, thinking he was joking.

He wasn’t.

He waited until the crew left, then slammed the dressing room door so hard the mirror cracked. He didn’t touch her. Not then. But he grabbed the chair so hard it scraped across the floor, and he told her she was embarrassing him. That people were watching. That if she made him look soft, she’d regret it.

Later, he sent flowers. A thousand-dollar arrangement of peonies and white roses. A note tucked inside:

“Be better.”

She told herself it was stress. The pressure. Politics. That he didn’t mean it.

But it kept happening. The little things. The corrections. The possessiveness. The public charm and the private control.

And she kept pretending.

Until last week.

That was when she found the phone.

Gregory had gone to bed early. His campaign manager had left an hour before. Delilah was in the study looking for her tablet when she saw his second phone—a burner—left half-buried under a folder of press notes.

Something told her not to touch it.

She did anyway.

The messages were short. Code-like. Most of it was political dirt, names she didn’t recognize. But one thread caught her eye—photos of a young woman. Bruises. Medical reports. Payments.

Delilah scrolled, numb.

There were at least three girls. All silenced. All made to go away. And Gregory… he wasn’t just aware.

He was behind it.

When she confronted him—stupid, impulsive—he smiled.

“Curiosity isn’t a good look on you, baby.”

She didn’t sleep that night. She barely ate the next day. She kept the phone hidden, made copies of everything, and stuffed them in her suitcase.

But by then it was too late. The wedding was already being planned down to the second. Her mother was in full campaign mode. Gregory was shining in the polls. And Delilah felt like she was watching her life from behind a glass wall.

So, she waited.

And when the music started, and she stood outside those ballroom doors in her white dress, she finally made her decision.

She ran.

Now, she sat on a broken couch in the corner of a dim garage that smelled like oil, rust, and cigarette smoke. Jaxon had cleared the space for her, tossing aside a leather jacket and some tools. A little corner near the stairs, beside a dusty coffee machine and an old fridge. There was a torn blanket and a throw pillow that smelled like pine and engine grease.

Delilah didn’t care. It was the safest she’d felt in weeks.

Jaxon stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her with the kind of gaze that saw too much without asking questions.

“You don’t have to tell me everything,” he said finally, voice low. “But I’m guessing that guy you ran from isn’t gonna let it go.”

She looked up, tired.

“He’s a senator.”

Jaxon didn’t blink.

“Well,” he said. “That explains the suits.”

“He’s… powerful. He’ll send people. He already has.”

Jaxon nodded like he expected as much.

“I’ve got friends who owe me favors. Some who don’t ask questions. You can stay here for a couple days. Lay low.”

Delilah swallowed. “Why are you being nice to me?”

“Maybe I like collecting broken things.”

She flinched at that, and he noticed.

“Sorry,” he said after a pause. “Bad joke.”

He turned and walked toward the stairs, but before he disappeared, he called over his shoulder.

“Bathroom’s down the hall. Lock the door. And don’t touch the fridge unless you want something that expired last year.”

She let out a tired laugh despite herself.

When she was alone, Delilah curled up on the couch, wrapping the blanket tight. She touched her left hand out of habit, surprised to find the engagement ring gone. She must’ve dropped it when she ran.

Good.

She didn’t want anything of Gregory’s near her.

She stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, sleep teasing her and then slipping away every time she remembered the photos. The messages. His voice in her ear saying she’d regret crossing him.

Eventually, she dozed off.

But the peace didn’t last long.

A loud bang jolted her awake.

Delilah sat up, heart racing.

Footsteps. Fast. Heavy.

She grabbed the closest thing she could find—a wrench—clutching it like it might help.

The garage door rattled, followed by the sound of shouting.

“Open the damn door, I know she’s here!”

That voice.

Cold. Angry. Familiar.

Delilah’s blood turned to ice.

Gregory had found her.