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I step closer. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

I brush hair from her face and scan her trembling body. When she doesn’t answer, I press my thumb on her chin and tilt her head left and then right, looking for injuries, except I find something worse.

Black rivers flow down her cheeks. Her bottom lip quivers. She swipes her palms over her skin and attempts a smile, but it wobbles into a frown.

“What happened?” I place my hands on her shoulders and level my gaze.

When Sophia simply stares into space and trembles, I gather her into my arms to absorb them until they subside.

“Tell me what I can do,” I say softly as I stroke her silky hair.

“Just . . . take me home?” she whispers.

I open the passenger door and help her inside. When she’s settled, I lean over, buckle her in, and shut the door. Circling the vehicle, I take note of everyone watching. Phones are still everywhere, capturing everything.

In the driver’s seat, I rev the motor, back out, and peel rubber through the parking lot like I’m the bodyguard to a princess. Within a few quick turns, the Jeep races down the highway, headed toward the resort and back to safety.

Sophia hasn’t spoken a word since we left. She only stares out the window, appearing shell-shocked.

I recognize the expression. She’s folding into herself, living inside her head. Based on my own experience, it’s not a good place to get lost in when you’re hurting and vulnerable.

“You want to talk about it?” I grip the wheel, unsure if this is the course I should take. She may not be keen on sharing with her sworn enemy. I shift in my seat, waiting for her response.

Sophia pivots and tugs her knees to her chest. She faces me, her reddened cheek resting against the headrest.

“You already know about my wedding, don’t you?” she asks. It’s more a comment than an accusation.

“Yes,” I say, but when our eyes meet, she loses it again.

Tears slide slowly down her cheeks as she says, “I thought if I ignored it, it would go away.”

“It would,” I glance between her and the road, “if Roman wasn’t continuing to feed the narrative.”

“He was there,” she says in a far-off tone.

“If he came near you⁠—”

“No.” She cuts off my rising voice. “Someone in the crowd told me.” Her face scrunches as she holds back tears. “Why won’t he go away? Let me have my un-honeymoon in peace? Isn’t it enough that he ruined my life?”

“You’ve got it backward.” I place a hand on her knee, and she looks at it. “Not marrying that asshole saved your life.”

She gives me a funny look.

Maybe she’s surprised I’m sticking up for her. If she hasn’t figured it out, I’m smitten. We’ve had fun with our little games, yes, but from here on out, I will put her so high on a pedestal, she’ll be in the clouds with the stars where she belongs.

“Roman’s the scum of the earth. He’s worse than scum. He’s the bubonic plague on a rat, running through a mound of feces in a toxic wasteland in hell.”

“Go on.” Her lip quirks.

“He’s the one human left standing in a zombie apocalypse because his brain is too stupid for starving zombies to eat. He’s the circus peanut of zombie food.”

“Circus peanut? What’s that?” She laughs.

“It’s a Styrofoam and banana-tasting peach-colored candy that’s been shaped into a cartoon-looking peanut. Anyone who eats those is a lunatic.”

“What makes you the circus-peanut expert?”

“Because I’ve been exactly where you are.”