Page 27 of Shattered

“Saved me? You just attacked my boyfriend!”

Time stopped. “Your what?”

“He wasn’t hurting me! We were just arguing!” She dropped beside him, checking his face where he’d scraped it on the pavement. “Oh my god, Jake, are you okay?”

Jake. Of course his name was Jake. The universe was officially mocking me.

“But you were crying,” I said weakly. “He had you against the wall.”

“Because I was breaking up with him and he was upset! We were having a private conversation!”

“It looked like?—”

“I don’t care what it looked like!” She pulled out her phone. “I’m calling the police.”

“Wait, you’re calling the police on me?”

“You attacked us!”

“I was helping you!”

“I DIDN’T NEED HELP!”

A police patrol car pulled up—because of course it did. Because my life wasn’t enough of a disaster already.

The woman ran to them, still crying, pointing at me like I was some kind of violent criminal. Jake was getting up, holding his ribs, looking simultaneously pathetic and vindictive.

I tried to explain, to tell the officers what I’d seen, what I’d thought was happening. But it came out garbled and defensive, and the woman kept crying that I’d attacked them for no reason, and Jake was showing off his scraped face like I’d tried to murder him.

My ankle was still throbbing. I’d risked my barely-healed leg, probably set back my recovery by weeks, to save a woman who didn’t want saving.

And now I was being arrested for assault.

The universe wasn’t just laughing. It was taking notes. “Ma’am, you’re going to need to come with us,” one officer said.

“Are you serious?”

“We need to sort this out at the station.”

And just like that, Delia Santoro—left at the altar, broken ankle, unknown artist—added “arrested for assault” to her resume.

The handcuffs were cold against my wrists. I looked down at my walking boot, at the ankle I’d just abused trying to be a hero, and thought about how this would look on a résumé.

Skills:Painting, Teaching Ballet, Assaulting Innocent Couples.

Perfect.

The police station smelled like coffee and disappointment.

They put me in a room with fluorescent lights that made everything look worse, took my statement, and left me sittingthere thinking about all the life choices that had led to this moment. The list was long and depressing.

I’d been there maybe forty minutes when the door opened and Axel walked in.

He looked calm. Controlled. Wearing a grim expression, but the moment he spotted me, his eyes turned assessing, scanning like he was checking for damage.

I wanted to sink into the floor. To be literally anywhere else. Instead I lifted my chin and tried to project an aura of I-don’t-give-a-fuck.

“Ms. Santoro is free to go,” he said to the officer beside him.