Chapter 4: Breaking Point

Delilah's POV

"Oh my God, you guys!" Sarah bounced into the reception area, clutching a letter. "I got accepted for that nursing certification course in the state capital!"

I looked up from the appointment book, forcing a smile. "That's awesome, Sarah. Congrats."

"Three whole days of advanced trauma care training!" She beamed, turning to Atticus, who'd just walked in with his morning coffee. "Babe, isn't this incredible?"

Atticus paused, coffee cup halfway to his lips. Something flickered across his face—too quick to catch. "When do you leave?"

"Today! This afternoon!" Sarah rushed over and threw her arms around his neck. "I know it's last minute, but this is huge. I'll be back Monday evening."

I watched his hands clench around the cup, his jaw tightening just a bit.

"That's... great," he said, keeping his tone even. "You should go."

Sarah pulled back, studying him. "You sure you'll be okay handling everything here?"

"We'll manage." His eyes flicked to me for a split second. "Right, Delilah?"

The way he said my name sent a chill down my spine. "Of course. We'll take care of it."

Emma looked up from her coloring book on the waiting room floor. "Sarah, will you bring me something from your trip?"

"Absolutely, sweetie!" Sarah knelt and ruffled Emma's hair. "What do you want?"

"A snow globe!"

"You got it."

I kept smiling, but inside, panic was building. Three days. Three days alone with Atticus.

---

By evening, Sarah was gone, leaving a heavy silence that pressed in like fog.

Emma and I ate dinner in the upstairs kitchen—mac and cheese from a box, since I was too on edge to cook anything fancy. Every creak in the building made me jump.

"Mommy, you okay?" Emma asked, twirling orange noodles on her fork.

"Just tired, baby."

"Is Dr. Atticus mad at us?"

I paused, spoon halfway to my mouth. "Why do you think that?"

"He looks angry when he sees you. Like, really angry."

Out of the mouths of babes. "Sometimes grown-ups have complicated feelings. Nothing for you to worry about."

She nodded, seeming okay with that.

After tucking Emma into bed with her stuffed elephant, I tried to unwind in the guest room. But sleep wasn't happening. Around eleven, I gave up and headed to the kitchen to prep her lunch for tomorrow. Better to stay busy than stare at shadows.

I was slicing an apple when footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Shit.

"Working late?" Atticus's voice cut through the quiet.

I didn't turn. "Just getting stuff ready for tomorrow."

He stepped into the kitchen, his presence like a storm rolling in—oppressive and electric.

"Now that we're alone," he said, low and edged, "we can drop the act."

"What act?"

"The innocent victim bullshit. The poor refugee who just needs a hand." He moved closer, and I gripped the knife tighter. "No audience now, Delilah. No sweet Sarah to impress."

I turned to face him, apple slice trembling in my hand. "I'm not putting on a show."

"Bullshit." His eyes were ice-cold. "Remember what you said five years ago? Right before you bailed with that rich asshole?"

"Atticus—"

"'You can't give me the life I want.' Word for fucking word." He backed me against the counter. "So tell me, princess—how's that working out?"

The slice slipped from my fingers.

"You think I don't know why you're here?" His voice dropped to a whisper. "You wrecked your perfect life and come crawling back to the country doctor you tossed like trash."

"That's not—"

"What? True?" He laughed, bitter and sharp. "Enlighten me. How'd you end up homeless with a kid, begging help from the guy you ditched?"

Tears stung my eyes. "You want the truth? Fine. Bradley was a monster."

"Oh, here we go. Poor Delilah, married to Mr. Wrong."

"He hit me!" The words burst out. "He hit me, raped me, and threatened to hurt Emma if I tried to leave!"

Atticus froze.

"You think it was some fairy tale?" My voice cracked. "He put me in the hospital twice. I couldn't leave—he'd take Emma, make sure I never saw her again."

The kitchen went dead silent except for my ragged breaths.

"I've been surviving, not living." Tears streamed down as I yanked up my shirt, showing the faded scars along my ribs. "Want to see what your 'princess' life looked like?"

I pulled the shirt off completely, standing there in my bra and jeans. His eyes widened, tracing the map of old bruises and marks across my torso—from Bradley's fists and worse.

"Jesus Christ," he whispered.

"Happy now?" I sobbed, arms wrapped around myself. "Does this satisfy your revenge? I chose money over love, and look what I got."

Atticus stared, his face twisting from shock to horror to raw anguish.

"Delilah..."

"I know I hurt you. It was unforgivable." I wiped my eyes. "Seeing you with Sarah, how happy you are... there's no place for me. I'll find somewhere else—maybe Sarah knows someone—"

"How long?" His voice was hoarse.

"What?"

"How long did he hurt you?"

"The whole marriage. Worse after Emma. He said I'd gotten 'used up,' that I was lucky he kept me."

Atticus's fists clenched. "That fucking bastard. I should've—"

"What? You couldn't know. I made my choice."

"A choice I pushed you into." His voice broke. "I was immature, selfish—scared of losing you."

"Atticus, no. I was the selfish one—"

He closed the gap and crushed his mouth to mine.

This kiss was raw—five years of pain and regret flooding out. His hands tangled in my hair, and I kissed back desperately, tasting our shared tears.

"I missed you," he gasped against my lips. "Fuck, I missed you so goddamn much."

"I never stopped loving you," I whispered. "Not one day."

We stumbled into the guest room, hands and mouths everywhere. He hoisted me onto the bed, and I yanked him down.

His fingers traced the scars on my ribs—gentle at first, then possessive—his thumb circling a faded bruise near my breast. "These don't define you," he murmured, breath hot against my skin. I arched as he kissed down my neck, nipping my collarbone, his hand sliding lower to tease the edge of my jeans.

I gasped, tugging off his shirt, needing him bare. His hard chest pressed against me, his erection straining through his pants against my thigh—thick and insistent, making my core ache.

He peeled off my jeans, eyes dark with hunger as he spread my legs, fingers dipping between my thighs to find me slick and ready. "So wet for me," he growled, stroking my clit in slow circles that built the tension. I moaned, hips bucking as he slipped two fingers inside.

"Please," I begged, fumbling with his belt. He shed the rest, his cock springing free—hard, veined, throbbing. He rubbed the tip against my entrance, teasing until I whimpered.

He thrust in deep and slow, and I cried out—not from pain, but from the rush of coming home. His hands roamed my scars again, lips kissing and licking the marred skin like he was healing it.

"I love you," he groaned, pace quickening, his cock pulsing inside me. I clenched around him, the pressure shattering into waves of pleasure. He followed, burying deep with a final thrust, spilling hot inside me.

"Sarah," I gasped into the dark, the name slipping out like a guilty secret.

He stilled, arm tightening around me. "I know." His voice was rough, heavy with regret. "Fuck, I know."