I ’m in full panic mode. One minute, I was spilling my guts, confessing my worst secret to Bentley, and the next, he’s at the mini bar like it’s his life goal to get wasted right at this moment. I haven’t seen him this desolate…since that first night I met him .

Which makes me realize that his reaction, whatever is going on, isn’t about me. This is about the darkness that lingers in his eyes. The one I noticed so long ago. Some of the tension in my chest fades away .

I reach up and stroke his hair, hold him close. But he seems to not notice; he’s a rock, immobile. “Talk to me. Please,” I say. “I want to know what’s going on. I need to. Let me be here for you.” Whatever is happening in his head is important .

Bentley finally opens his eyes and looks at me, and the bleakness I see there rips my heart in two. This is a man who has lived with agony for so long, he doesn’t know anything else. And the sight shreds me into pieces. “I’m not able to do this,” he says quietly. There’s a slight hitch in his voice on the last word. “I can’t be the man you need, Samantha. I’m completely broken .”

My chest hurts at the emotion layered in his words. And in this moment, I really do understand how much he loves me. He loves me so much that he believes I’m better off without him .

That’s why he pushed me away before, back in his office. Not because I wasn’t good enough. But because he felt he wasn’t. He couldn’t deal with us getting close and me seeing this side of him .

“Shh,” I say, wrapping my arms around him. He doesn’t move, but that’s okay. He can feel me. I can be his strength. “Bentley, I love you .”

He sucks in a breath. I can tell from the stiffness in his body, the way his arms reach toward me then drop down again, that he wants to embrace me, but he’s afraid to. His hesitation speaks volumes .

“I love you,” I repeat. “I love you, even if you are broken. I love exactly who you are right now, and nothing you say is going to change that.” I pray that he can hear the earnestness in my words, because I mean it. Every fucking word of it. I want him to know that I’m here for him .

He reached out to me last week, despite him feeling broken and scared, despite the possibility of rejection. I want to be here for him too .

That’s what love is .

The realization of how strongly I feel humbles me. Floors me .

He sucks in a shaky breath and pulls back just a fraction, and then he sinks down to the carpet. I follow along with him, cradling him in my arms. This poor, poor man. I’ve never seen someone hurt so deeply. It’s killing me .

“Tell me,” I whisper through a tight throat as I press kisses to his brow, to the top of his head .

He grips me like I’m a lifeline. Closes his eyes. “I’ve never told anyone what happened. Not even my adoptive parents .”

I stay quiet to let him start talking. I can sense that Bentley needs to unfold this in his own way. At his own pacing. I won’t push him. Will just be here for him the way he needs me to. I keep him in my embrace and hold him .

“My birth mother was a single mom,” he starts. “She had me right out of high school. Some guy in one of her classes knocked her up and then bailed on her. But she never made me feel anything less than loved, despite the circumstances. We did a lot together, and though we were poor, I never really cared too much about it.” He pauses, and I hear the bittersweet pain in his voice. “She had a wonderful smile .”

“What was her name?” I ask .

“Donna. Donna Murphy.” He exhales hard. “I haven’t said her name out loud since…” After a pause, he says, “I should have, though. I never forgot her. I just tried to forget what happened. Murphy is my birth name. I’m really Bentley Murphy .”

Makes sense now—he took on his adoptive parents’ last name. I can tell what he’s revealing is a hard, painful secret. And I won’t insult him by promising to keep it to myself. The fact that he’s telling me means he trust me. So I just hold him and feel his warm body in my arms. Comforting him with my silence .

“My mother didn’t do a lot without me,” he continues. His voice is even, more like he’s relaying a story than a painful memory. “She was good to make me feel wanted and loved. But occasionally she’d go on dates, trying to find ‘the one.’ I never really liked the guys she brought home—she had terrible taste in men.” He gives a dry laugh that has no humor in it .

“When I was nine, Mom went on a blind date with a person our neighbor hooked her up with. A guy who supposedly had his shit together and didn’t mind dating a single mom. Given all the flack she got from her family and most of her friends about getting pregnant so young, she was excited that a person would be okay with it.” He pauses, gives a wistful sigh. “I remember her in the bathroom that afternoon, curling her hair. She told me I was old enough to stay at home alone for a few hours, that the neighbor would be there if I needed anything…but I didn’t want her to go .”

I can hear the dread filling his voice about where this story is going, and my own body is tightening in response to his tension. I want to ask a hundred questions, but I stay silent. This is his story to tell .

“I watched TV for a while and then fell asleep on the couch.” Now his voice sounds almost dead, like he’s reciting his grocery list. There’s no emotion at all. “I woke up to the sound of them coming home. Mom stood in the door and told her date good night. I could hear how uncomfortable she was, like the night didn’t go well. She seemed eager to have him leave .

“But he didn’t want to leave. He kept pressing her to let him inside, and when she finally told him she was tired and goodnight for real, he just shoved her away and entered our trailer anyway. I was still groggy on the couch, but I remember being scared and trying to stay quiet.” His breathing gets ragged. “Then I realized he was tying my mom up to a kitchen chair and stuffing a gag in her mouth .”

“Oh God,” slips out of my mouth. My heart is racing as he’s unfolding what happened so long ago .

Bentley keeps going, as if nothing could stop the story once it’s begun. “The man eventually saw that I was on the couch. He turned to me and told me I had to sit still and be quiet, or he’d slit my throat right then and there .”

I gasp. What the hell? My brain is reeling. How could a nine-year-old handle that situation? And yet, I know he’s not done. I know more is to come .

Bentley’s body begins to shake, and his voice is unsteady. “He…he strangled my mom right in front of me. I watched the life leave her eyes. I watched my mother die as that man stole her from me. Her face turned red, then purple, her eyes…bulging. And then, she was gone.” He’s gasping for breath now, and I know he’s reliving the moment, with the intense pain of a child, trauma he’s clearly never dealt with. Not if I’m the first person he’s ever told this to .

I’m sick. I’m furious. I’m in such pain for him .

“And I just sat there, alive. Paralyzed by my fear and dread. I didn’t try to jump on him or stop him. I didn’t do anything. I let that man kill my mother, and then he just left the trailer without another word.” Bentley’s voice cracks hard, and I realize he’s crying, tears plopping on my arms. “He left me to deal with my dead mother, and I’ll never know why .”

I’m so shattered for him that for a moment, I can’t speak. No wonder he’s so closed off. No wonder he’s in such agony. He dealt with something I could never in my life imagine. This poor man. I hurt for him, and I can’t do anything but cradle him now as he sobs and sobs in my arms .

I have a feeling this is the first time he’s let himself feel it since it happened. The first time he’s confessed the truth about what he saw .

And I vow to never let him go. To always be here for him, to love him through his brokenness and do everything I possibly can so he’ll feel whole and healed again. I’ll stay by his side, and he’ll know that he is loved .

This man needs that more than anyone else I’ve ever met. This proud, stubborn, strong man, who’s shattering apart in my arms. He needs to feel loved exactly as he is, dark trauma and all .

I rock him and soothe him in a low voice. “It’s okay,” I say again and again. “It’s okay to feel that pain, and it’s okay to hurt. You never let yourself grieve. But you need to, baby. You need to.” I kiss his brow and wipe his tears. “I’m glad you finally told your story .”

He continues to clutch me to him, and his tears eventually start to subside. I can tell when he’s starting to pull himself together; he leans away from me and looks toward the other wall, wiping his eyes. I give him the moment to compose himself .

I know the gift of vulnerability he gave me was probably harder for him than I can imagine .

“I…” He clears his throat. “I never told the police as much about it as I wanted to. As I should have. I was so scared, so mixed up. I’m the only one who knows everything about that night. Well, me and him .”

I know who he means. The murderer .

I stroke his back. “You were a child. It’s okay. It was a horrific experience .”

“My adoptive parents just wanted to move on and forget about what I’d been through,” he continues. “They knew my situation when they took me in, but we never discussed it. Not once. So the secret of my mom’s death…it was a burden I shouldered alone .”

My heart breaks anew for him. I imagine him as a young boy, trying to move on, but feeling like no one wants to hear what he saw. Even so, I can’t quite be mad at his adoptive parents. I saw the way they looked at him when I met them. They loved him, even if their idea of helping him by ignoring the murder was faulty as hell .

We sit in silence for a long stretch, and I let him be in his own thoughts. I sense that Bentley needs to collect himself in his own way. The best I can do for him right now is just to care .

I stand and stretch, then reach my hand out to him. “Let’s go lie down again .”

“In a moment. I need to wash my face.” Bentley pads into the bathroom and closes the door. I see the light switch flick on through the crack at the bottom, and then the faucet is running .

I move to the side of the bed, rolling around everything he just told me in my head. For over twenty years, he’s been bearing the burden of this, too scared to trust anyone with the truth of what he saw. Even his adoptive parents didn’t want to hear, maybe too afraid themselves of learning the extent of the truth .

Now I understand the darkness in his eyes .

The light flicks off, and he comes out .

“The day you came into the bar…” I start .

“It was the anniversary of the day she died,” he finishes as he settles onto his side of the bed. He’s sitting up and leaning against the headboard, not looking at me. “That’s the only day I let myself think about what happened .”

I remember the haunted look on his face, how he sat there quietly. “You just wanted to drink the pain away, and Chet was a dick and wouldn’t let you memorialize your mom the way you need to.” I pause. Scoot back to sit beside him. I don’t touch him, not yet. I give him the space to pull back into himself as he needs to. Because I understand that impulse. I felt it too, though obviously to a lesser degree. “I’m sorry .”

That makes him jerk his head to look at me. “Sorry? Why? Because you stood up for me, a total stranger? You opened your heart and shared your secret with me, and instead, I turned it into my own sob story .”

I frown. “Don’t do that. Don’t you dare do that .”

He huffs a sigh. “I…I’m so bad at this .”

“It’s called communication,” I say dryly. “You’ll get used to it .”

That brings a small smile to his face. “I don’t judge you about that situation you went through in college, you know.” There is a difference in his voice. An openness that wasn’t there before. I didn’t realize until now exactly how closed off he was before .

But he’s letting me see him. All of him .

That’s what Bentley’s love is .

My heart swells. I reach over and touch his hand, just for a moment. For solidarity. “Thank you. I was afraid to tell you, to be honest .”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he murmurs. When I withdraw my hand, he snags out and grabs it again. Grazes his mouth across my knuckles. “What he did…that wasn’t your fault. He took advantage of you. But I understand why it hurts .”

“Thank you,” I repeat, this time in a whisper. It feels good to have unburdened that, to let him know more about me. I just hope that in time, he’ll feel the same about what he confessed. Part of me is worried as hell that tomorrow, he’ll freak out and push me away .

And if he does, I don’t know what I’ll do. But I do know I’ll still love him. I can’t help it now .

“Are you tired?” he asks me .

I nod. “A little,” I admit. I actually am. This was a draining night. Important, but emotional .

“I want to fall asleep with you in my arms .”

The admission surprises me. I’m not used to Bentley being so open and emotional. But I like it .

We slide under the bedspread again, my back to his chest, and before long, I can hear the soft puffs of him fast asleep. It takes me a long longer to do so though. I’m plagued by images of what he saw. By the pain he feels over his mom’s murder .

I can’t imagine. I just can’t imagine. What must it have been like, going year by year with no one around you helping you process what happened? If the police didn’t know the full extent of it, perhaps his parents didn’t, either. They must have thought they were doing him a favor by not talking about it .

He was never able to grieve, never able to process what happened. To understand he wasn’t to blame. For Christ’s sake, he was a child. Petrified. Of course he was frozen. I would be too. As would most people, I’d venture .

And all these years, he’s been beating himself up for not saving her. Odds are, he would have been killed too. If that murderer was sick enough to kill Bentley’s mom right in front of him, he surely would have slit a little boy’s throat without blinking .

Fatigue finally drags me under. I tell myself right before I fall asleep that I will be here for him. I’ll help him however I can—to seek counseling, to have a safe space to express his emotions. Whatever it takes .

I won’t let my love down .

* * *

I wake up to a hand stroking my hip, a warm mouth nuzzling against my neck. Eyes still heavy with sleep, I roll onto my back and look over at Bentley .

His face is lighter than I’ve ever seen it .

“You’re still here,” he whispers .

I offer him a sleepy smile. “I’m still here.” I reach for his hand and cup the warm fingers in mine. “I’m going to be here. I’m not going anywhere .”

He draws in a slow breath, and I can see his pulse hammering at the base of his throat. “I was half sure when I woke up that you’d be gone .”

I frown and blink the sleep from my eyes. “Why? Because you opened up to me last night and shared something important about your past?” I stroke his brow, the deep worry line right above his nose. “I can’t leave you. I love you .”

“I…I was afraid I’d dreamed that part,” he confesses. “You feeling the same about me.” Then he tugs me into his arms, my cheek resting against my chest. I’ve never had a man embrace me the way he does, his arms wrapped fully around me. Like I’m small. Like I’m protected .

“You didn’t. I’m in love with you, Bentley,” I say quietly. “That’s not gonna change. If anything, I feel even more so after you opened up to me last night. That took courage. I’m so grateful you trust me .”

“I can’t believe I told you,” he murmurs against my brow. His hands clench me. “I don’t know what to do now .”

“Whatever you do, I support you. A hundred percent.” I tug him as close as humanly possible. I need to feel his body against mine. Need to memorize the warmth and strength. “But this isn’t a bad secret, and you should never feel ashamed. You did nothing wrong. If you decide I’m the only person you’ll ever tell, that’s okay. But if you think otherwise, I’ll be by your side, holding your hand .”

“You mean that, don’t you.” There’s awe in his voice, real wonder. He’s never believed someone could love him like this. Which makes my heart ache more .

“Yes, I do .”

“Move in with me,” he says. When I still in his arms, shocked, he pulls back and tilts my head to make me look at him. His eyes are earnest. “I need you with me. Live with me. Please .”

The Bentley I met for drinks last night is not the same man before me today. This man is different. The walls are down. He’s open to me, not hiding himself anymore. Letting me see the emotion on his face without filtering it .

It’s humbling. And it just reinforces that we can make this work .

“I’m going to get a job while I’m finishing school,” I tell him. “You’re not paying for everything. We’re going to share in the expenses .”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m a billionaire, but you’re worried about paying the electric bill. That makes sense .”

I shove at his chest and laugh. “Hey, I need to pull my own weight, even just a bit. It makes me feel better.” I pause. “It makes me feel like we’re…more equal. Not that I’m just living off you .”

“Oh, doll.” Bentley brushes a kiss across my lips, and my entire body warms from the sweet gesture. “The last thing I’d ever worry about is you living off me. But if it makes you feel better, I can hire you to clean my penthouse suite .”

I can’t help the laugh that rolls out of me. “You’re such a shit .”

His eyes narrow in that hot, sexy way that drives me wild. “You’d better watch how you address me, Samantha .”

Oh, he’s trying to go there. I see. Maybe I need to remind him how he has to put me in my place. It’s been far, far too long, and I’m out of control. Aching for him to take me. “Or else what ?”

His hand is in my hair, the other hand at my jaw, before I can even blink. “Or else I’ll make sure you remember protocol without question .”

“I want you to make me remember,” I whisper hotly. My entire body is on fire. I need him to light me up, to make me be a good girl for him. I crave those words coming from his lips .

His growl in my ear is enough to give me goose bumps. “Oh, I will, doll. When I’m done with you, you’ll know exactly how to please me. No questions .”

With all the sass I can muster, I turn to face him and give him a devilish grin. “ Make me .”