Chapter 19: Warrior's Claim
Veronica slept like stone, a deep, dreamless plunge, but her body remembered its duty. Even in the deepest trough of unconsciousness, she kept her arms locked around Stephanie, one hand splayed possessively over the dip of her waist. The girl’s back was pressed flush against Veronica’s front, skin to skin, a warm, breathing blanket. The room was dark, the blackout curtains doing their job, but the digital clock on the nightstand glowed a soft 8:47 AM.
She stirred first to the absence of weight. Then to the cold space in the bed beside her.
Her eyes flew open. The indentation on the pillow was there, the sheets still warm. But Stephanie was gone.
A bolt of pure, undiluted panic shot through Veronica’s veins, colder than any morning chill. The image of the kitchen knife, of Stephanie’s hollow eyes, flashed behind her eyes. She was out of the bed in a single, frantic movement, her bare feet slapping against the cool hardwood. She didn’t bother with clothes. She burst through the bedroom door into the living area, her heart a trapped bird in her ribs.
The scent hit her first. Not antiseptic. Not blood.
Browned butter. Crisping bacon. Coffee.
She skidded to a halt in the doorway to the kitchen, her breath caught in her throat.
Stephanie stood at the massive Viking range, bathed in the brutal, honest light of a New York morning. She was wearing one of Veronica’s old Harvard Law sweatshirts. It swallowed her, the sleeves rolled up several times, the hem brushing mid-thigh. Her incredible hair was piled in a messy, glorious knot on top of her head, a few strands stuck to her damp neck. She was humming something soft, French, as she nudged strips of bacon in a skillet with a pair of tongs.
On the central island, three places were set with Veronica’s good china. A platter held a stack of golden, perfectly round pancakes. A bowl of sliced strawberries glistened. A carafe of orange juice stood like a sentinel.
Stephanie turned to reach for a plate, and saw her.
The change in her face was like the sun breaking through a month of rain. Her light blue eyes, still shadowed but clear, crinkled at the corners. Her full lips parted. And then her dimples appeared, deep and sweet and real.
“Bonjour,” Stephanie said, her voice a little hoarse from sleep and yesterday’s tears, but unmistakably her own. “You sleep okay?”
Veronica didn’t answer. She crossed the space in three strides and wrapped Stephanie in a crushing embrace from behind, burying her face in the soft space between her neck and shoulder. She inhaled the smell of her—vanilla soap, sleep, and now maple syrup. She felt the solid, miraculous weight of her in her arms.
“You scared me,” Veronica murmured into her skin, the words muffled, raw.
Stephanie leaned back into the embrace, one hand coming up to rest on Veronica’s forearm, which was locked across her chest. “I am sorry,” she whispered. “I woke up. I was… I am okay. I wanted to do something. To say thank you.”
Verericka didn’t let go. She just held on, feeling the steady beat of Stephanie’s heart against her own. The fears of the night began, slowly, to recede.
“You don’t ever have to thank me,” Veronica finally said, loosening her grip just enough to turn Stephanie around. She cupped her face, her thumbs brushing under her eyes. “You just have to be here. That’s the only thing.”
Stephanie nodded, her eyes glassy but not overflowing. She offered a small, brave smile. “I am here.”
A throat cleared from the kitchen entrance. Jacqueline leaned against the doorjamb, dressed in loose sweatpants and a tank top, her own hair a magnificent cloud. She was trying and failing to look stern. “Smells like a diner in here. I approve. Also, you’re both basically naked. Just an observation.”
Stephanie blushed a deep, lovely pink, looking down at the oversized sweatshirt. “I borrowed. I hope it is okay.”
“It’s more than okay,” Veronica said, her voice regaining its normal timbre. She finally released Stephanie, though she kept a hand on the small of her back. “It looks better on you anyway.”
Jacqueline padded in and poured herself a cup of coffee. “So. We eating this feast or what? I’m starving. Protecting people from horrible exes works up an appetite.”
They ate at the island, sunlight streaming across the polished concrete. It was quiet, but not the terrible, fragile quiet of the night before. It was a comfortable, replenishing silence, broken only by the clink of cutlery and Jacqueline’s appreciative moans over the bacon. Stephanie picked at her food, but she ate. She sipped her coffee. She even smiled at one of Jacqueline’s stupid jokes.
Veronica watched it all from behind the shield of her own coffee mug. The relief was so profound it felt like a physical ache. But beneath it, a lawyer’s mind was already ticking forward. Alice. The legal implications. Stephanie’s visa. Her mental state. The work was not done.
As if summoned by her thoughts, the delicate chime of Stephanie’s phone cut through the quiet. It was vibrating on the counter next to her plate.
Stephanie glanced at the screen. Her already-pale face lost another shade of color. She looked up at Veronica, her eyes wide. “It is Ryiel.”
“Your brother?” Jacqueline asked, snagging another pancake.
Stephanie nodded, swallowing hard. She swiped to answer, putting it on speaker out of habit, or perhaps necessity. “Allo?”
“Stéphanie.” His voice was crisp, French, threaded with affection and an underlying thread of perpetual concern. “You are awake?”
“Oui. I am having breakfast,” she said, her eyes fixed on Veronica’s.
“Good. Listen, chou-chou, do not make plans for tonight. I am in New York.”
The silence in the kitchen became absolute. Jacqueline stopped chewing.
“You… you are in New York?” Stephanie stammered. “But you said your meetings were next month.”
“They were. I moved them. I had a feeling.” Ryiel’s tone was light, but there was steel beneath it. “I want to see you. To see how you are. How is Alice?”
Stephanie flinched as if the name was a spark. Her eyes filled with a desperate panic. She looked from Veronica to Jacqueline, a silent plea for help.
Veronica reached over and covered Stephanie’s hand with her own. She gave a single, firm nod.
“Alice is…” Stephanie began, her voice trembling. She took a breath, straightened her shoulders. “Alice is not here, Ryiel.”
A beat of silence crackled down the line from Paris—or from a hotel a few blocks away. “What do you mean? Where is she?”
“We are… we are not together anymore.” The words, once said, seemed to give her strength. “It is finished.”
The pause that followed was longer this time, heavy. “Finie? Since when? Stéphanie, what happened? Are you alone?”
“No,” she said, and her voice found a firmness Veronica had never heard before. “I am not alone. I am with friends. Very good friends.”
“Friends.” Ryiel repeated the word as if it were in a foreign language. “Who are these friends? Where are you staying?”
Stephanie opened her mouth, but Veronica gently squeezed her hand and shook her head. Not like this. Not over the phone.
“I will tell you everything tonight,” Stephanie said, echoing Veronica’s unspoken instruction. “Where shall we meet?”
“Tell me where you are. I will come to you.”
“No.” The word was quiet, but final. “We will meet somewhere public. Neutral. You choose.”
Another weighted silence. Veronica could practically hear his lawyerly mind, so like her own, reassessing, recalculating. “Bâtard,” he said, naming a popular French bistro in the West Village. “Eight o’clock. And, Stéphanie?”
“Oui?”
“You will bring these ‘friends.’ I wish to meet them.”
The line went dead.
Stephanie placed the phone carefully on the counter, as if it were made of glass. She let out a long, shaky breath.
Jacqueline whistled low. “Well. That sounds like a fun family dinner. Can I come? I promise to behave. Mostly.”
Verrick was already planning, her mind snapping into tactical mode. “He’s protective. He’s heard something, or he suspects something. He doesn’t know about last night. He would have been at the door with a SWAT team.”
“What do I tell him?” Stephanie asked, her newfound bravery seeming to waver.
“The truth,” Veronica said, standing and starting to clear the plates. “But on our terms. In our way.” She met Stephanie’s worried gaze. “He’s your family. He loves you. That’s the only reason he gets a seat at the table.” She put the plates in the sink and turned, leaning against the counter. “But I’ll be at that table too. And so will Jackie. You’re not facing him alone.”
Stephanie looked at them both, her vulnerable, beautiful face caught between dread and a dawning, tentative hope. The breakfast sat between them, a peaceful interlude already past. The day ahead promised a different kind of storm.
“Okay,” Stephanie whispered, nodding slowly. “Okay.”