Page 38 of Fallen Heir

The bathroom door was shut, but I could hear her—retching violently. No faking this time. This was real. Pain. Terror. Trauma resurfacing like a body in deep water.

I clenched my jaw, phone still in my hand, blood buzzing with fury. He called herwifelike she still belonged to him.

But she doesn’t.

She’s not his.

Not anymore.

I stood frozen. The weight of her cries echoed in my ears—low, broken sounds that gutted me more than I wanted to admit.

I didn’t knock. Didn’t wait. Didn’t think. I opened the door.

The light hit first—too bright against the paleness of her skin. She was curled over the toilet, her fingers gripping porcelain like it was the only thing keeping her standing. Her shoulders trembled. Her hair was a curtain around her face.

“Savannah,” I said softly. Quiet. Careful.

She didn’t look up.

I stepped closer, slowly. Like she might shatter if I moved too fast.

“I heard him,” I said, voice low. Careful. “Who was it?”

She flinched.

“I, um…” she started, her voice frayed. Another dry heave.

“Don’t,” I said gently, cutting in before she could force the words.

I didn’t need her to say it. Because I already knew.

“I just need to know you’re okay. And you need to know that I’ll help you. However I have to.”

That’s when she looked at me. And I swear to God, something inside me splintered.

Her hair was a mess—tangled and damp around her face. Mascara streaked down her cheeks in jagged lines. She looked like she’d survived a war. Yet she was still the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen.

But beneath that beauty, I saw it—clear as day.

Pain. Deep and unrelenting.

The rage lit a fuse inside me. He did this to her…

I wanted to shred him. Tear him apart with my bare hands. Because in that moment, Iknew. He hadn’t just hurt her. He had done things to her—things unimaginable.

I reached out, brushing her hair from her face, my fingers lingering longer than they should’ve. She didn’t pull away.

So I did the only thing that felt right. I pulled her in.

She didn’t resist. Didn’t hesitate. She sank into me like it was instinct.

I wrapped my arms around her. Not like some guy trying to fix something. But as the one person who could promise her—really promise—that she wasn’t alone anymore.

She leaned into my chest, her body trembling against mine, and I held her like she was the most fragile, valuable thing I’d ever touched. No words. Just the sound of her breathing—uneven and shallow—and the feel of her fingers bunching into my shirt like she needed something to anchor her.

Then, barely above a whisper:

"His name is Bruce," she whispered. "And he's my husband."