The rain drummed a relentless rhythm against the corrugated roof, a sound that usually soothed Vienna but tonight felt like an intruder. Cynthia had left an hour ago, leaving the house smelling of damp coats and heavy secrets. Vienna stood in the kitchen, slowly folding a dish towel, her mind replaying Isabella's smirk at the gala. She wasn't expecting anyone; the city was practically under a flash flood warning.
Then, the low growl of an engine pulled up outside. Headlights swept across her kitchen cabinets, bright and intrusive, before cutting to black.
Vienna didn't move. Her heart hammered against her ribs. If that's Jayden coming back to say 'I told you so,' I'm not opening the door, she thought. But curiosity, or perhaps a lingering instinct, drew her to the window.
It wasn't Jayden's modest car. It was the silver SUV. And the man stumbling out of the driver's side didn't look like a Washington at all.
She met him at the door before he could even raise a hand to knock. As she pulled it open, the wind drove a spray of cold rain into the hallway. Newton stood there, drenched to the bone. His expensive white shirt was a second skin, translucent and ruined. He looked hollowed out, his eyes dark with a exhaustion she hadn't seen since their final exams at LIBS.
"What are you doing here, Newton?" Vienna asked, her voice flat, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. "The 'Safety Initiative' doesn't cover midnight visits in a thunderstorm."
Newton leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, his breath coming in shaky plumes. "I didn't know... where else to go."
"Try a hotel. Or the Manor. Or one of your clubs," she retorted, though her eyes were already scanning him for signs of hypothermia. "You can't just show up here after what happened tonight. You humiliated me, Newton. You turned my career into a punchline for people like Isabella."
"I know," he whispered, his head dropping. A shiver racked his entire frame, so violent his teeth audibly chatted. "I know I ruined it. I just... I told my mother I was done. I told them to take the name and the money and give it to someone who cares. I left, Vienna."
Vienna stared at him. The billionaire architect of her life was standing in her entryway, shaking like a stray dog. She wanted to stay angry—she should have stayed angry—but the sight of him so utterly stripped of his pride made her chest ache.
"You're a fool," she said, her voice softening despite herself. "A stubborn, arrogant fool. Get inside before you collapse on my porch and give the neighbors something else to gossip about."
Newton stumbled over the threshold, his legs heavy. He stood in her narrow hallway, water pooling on the linoleum. Vienna disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a thick, oversized towel. She didn't hand it to him; she threw it over his head with a frustrated sigh.
"Dry yourself. I'm not cleaning up a puddle of Washington pneumonia," she snapped, though her hands were already reaching out to help pull the wet fabric of his shirt away from his skin.
"Vienna, I'm sorry," he muttered from under the towel, his voice muffled. "I thought if I made the world safe for you, you'd... you'd see me again."
"I see you now, Newton," she said, stepping back and leaning against the wall, watching him struggle to get his freezing fingers to work. "And I see a man who thinks he can buy his way out of being lonely. You didn't protect me. You caged me."
"Then the cage is open," he said, pulling the towel down to look at her. His face was pale, his lips tinged blue. "I have nothing left. Just... this."
Vienna looked at the mismatched furniture of her home, then back at him. He looked so small in her small house. The anger was still there, a dull throb, but beneath it was a rising tide of sympathy. He was a man who had been raised to be a statue, and he was finally breaking into pieces.
"Sit down," she commanded, pointing to the wooden chair. She went to the stove and relit the flame under the kettle. "I'm making you tea. Not because I've forgiven you, but because I'm a doctor and I don't let people die in my kitchen."
"Thank you," he whispered.
"Don't thank me yet," she said, her back to him, her voice trembling just a little. "Tomorrow, you figure out your life. Tonight... you just stay warm."
She brought the mug over and placed it in his shaking hands. As her fingers brushed his, she felt the icy chill of his skin. She didn't pull away immediately. She wasn't falling for the prince; she was caring for the wreck he had become.