Dominic stood among them, listening, nodding, occasionally giving what looked like instructions.
I watched him—this man who'd somehow produced five lawyers in the middle of the night, who'd disarmed my ex-husband, who'd stayed calm while everything fell apart.
Who was he, really?
Spencer nodded at whatever Dominic had said and pulled out his phone. The other lawyers packed up their equipment with efficient precision.
Dominic looked around my house—at the kitchen where the table still sat slightly askew, at the office where Scott had pulled a gun, at the stairs leading up to where my children slept.
Then he turned to Spencer. "Get my house ready. Tell Matilda I'm coming home with my new family." His voice was firm, decisive. "We can't stay here tonight."
My house? Matilda? New family?
He crossed to me, and I saw something in his face I hadn't seen before—not just protectiveness, but ownership. Certainty. Like he'd already made all the decisions and was just waiting for me to catch up.
"Would it be okay to move the kids tonight?" Dominic asked softly. "I'll do my best not to wake them too much. But we need to leave. Now."
I looked around at my house.
The place where I'd built a life with Scott. Where I'd brought my babies home from the hospital. Where I'd cried in the shower and painted in the kitchen and slowly learned what it meant to be alone.
The place where, an hour ago, I'd been spread out on the kitchen table getting fucked while my ex-husband watched.
I didn't want to be here anymore.
Didn't want to sleep in these rooms, walk these hallways, or remember any of it.
"Okay," I whispered.
Dominic's hand cupped my face gently. "Go pack a bag. Whatever you and the kids need for a few days. My team will handle the rest."
"Where are we going?"
"Home," he said simply. "My home. Our home now."
I didn't ask what his place looked like. Didn't ask about Matilda or how big his house was or whether he had room for two children and their exhausted mother.
I just nodded and headed upstairs.
Because somewhere between fucking on the kitchen table and the police cars, between the gun and the lawyers, between his clinical calm and his protective rage, I'd made a decision.
I trusted him.
With my heart.
With my kids.
With my soul.
With everything I had left to give.
And as I pulled out suitcases and started packing J's favorite pajamas and Oliver's stuffed elephant, I realized something else.
For the first time in years, I wasn't afraid of what came next.
I was ready for it.
Chapter thirty-three
