Page 86 of Dirty Mechanic

He steps out of the hallway slowly, hair damp, clean clothes clinging to broad shoulders. But there’s no softness in his eyes, just a storm he’s barely containing.

He looks at me like I’m the reason he can’t breathe.

“I saw him,” he says, voice rough. “In the pit, before the race. Mike.”

My chest cracks.

“He told me you’re married.”

I can’t speak. My lips part, but nothing comes.

“Tell me he’s lying,” he says.

But he knows. I see it in his eyes.

I press a hand to my mouth as a sob escapes. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like this.”

My voice cracks, but I can’t stop now. “You weren’t there when he said I could marry him or go to jail. When he threatened to send you to prison just to make me comply. When he burned down my parents’ house to prove he meant it.”

The words spill faster.

“He told me he’d use me for a green card, then shoved a pen in my hand and said if I didn’t sign, I’d disappear. You didn’t see the bruises, Derek. The swelling. The way he hit me—over and over—until my vision blurred.”

My hand shakes. “You weren’t there when he told me I’d never leave alive.”

His eyes go glassy, but he doesn’t blink.

I drag a breath through my stuffed nose. “I had no choice. I forged divorce papers and prayed they’d go through. I just wanted to be free.”

I think back to the barn dance. The breeze that kicked up, the banner tearing free. We were swaying beneath fairy lights and laughter. I remember the exact beat—the way he looked at me like I was his whole damn world. I opened my mouth. I had the words. They were right there, crowding my throat:

There’s something I need to tell you…

But then he kissed my forehead and jogged off to help Sheriff Simon, and I let the moment pass.

I let all the moments pass.

Because how do you shatter someone’s joy when they’re finally breathing easily? How do you look the love of your life in the eye and say, “Everything you think we are might be a lie”?

And I swallow it again now, because the truth is, I should’ve told him that first night at Rusty Lantern. When he looked at me like I was still his. Because I see it now—in the way his eyes go wide, the way something inside him splinters—I was his.

“You… You forged divorce papers?”

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out. “I panicked. I just wanted him gone. I just wanted to be free.”

He steps back, jaw slack. “Jesus Christ, Annabelle.”

Not a big movement, just the smallest recoil, like my confession hit a nerve buried deep in his chest. Like the words physically struck him. His eyes shutter. His jaw flexes. His hand curls into a fist at his side.

And in that heartbeat, I see it.

The grief.

The betrayal.

The way his mind must be spinning, replaying every kiss, every promise, every whispered vow now tinged with doubt.

My lip trembles. The tears come harder now, burning tracks down my face.