Chapter 3

Leilani didn’t say anything the entire drive, and they'd left the prison parking lot almost three hours before their drive to the city.

Lennon didn’t push. He didn’t try to fill the silence with explanations or reassurances. He drove, every so often glancing at her through the rearview mirror.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the passing world, not with wonder, but with tension coiled into her shoulders. Every new sound outside the window made her eyes flick sharply: a bus hissing to a stop, a child laughing too loudly, the slam of a distant car door.

Once, her hand twitched, a reflex, a flinch when a motorcycle roared past.

Twelve years of surviving in a place where every sound meant something. It would take time for her mind to stop treating freedom like a threat.

When he turned into the underground lot of the restaurant, she stiffened.

“Where are we?” she asked, her voice low, rough, like she hadn’t used it in years.

“A private place,” Lennon said. “Neutral. Safe.”

Safe. He shouldn’t have used that word.

Her eyes narrowed the moment he opened her car door.

She didn’t step out immediately. Just scanned the surroundings with a defensive precision that cut him more deeply than he expected because this wasn’t paranoia.

It was training. Training she had to learn—probably the hardest way possible.

He took a slow step back, giving her room.

After a hesitant breath, she got out, clutching the white plastic bag to her side, pointe shoes still poking sharply against the thin material.

The thought that she should probably leave the bag in his car crossed his mind, but he doubted she would heed the advice. They rode the elevator up in bruised silence.

But when the doors slid open and revealed the polished interior, soft amber lights, glass displays, grand piano notes drifting like smoke she froze.

Not a tiny pause. Not a “let me adjust” hesitation.

She stopped dead, muscles tightening so suddenly Lennon saw it.

Her eyes darted everywhere, the chandeliers, the glossy floors, the towering flower arrangements, the wealthy couples laughing over wine on an evening date and he realized too late what he’d done.

He'd taken her from a cell to a world too shiny, too sharp, too loud. Too quickly.

“Leilani…” he said, gently now.

Her breath trembled. Her fingers clenched around the plastic bag so hard the handles cut into her skin.

The hostess approached with a bright, commercial smile but he was certain Leilani didn't see her.

“Reservation for—”

Lennon raised a hand subtly, stopping her. Leilani hadn’t moved from the elevator threshold.

He turned back to her, lowering his voice.

“We don’t have to go inside. We can leave.”

Her jaw tightened. He saw pride flicker across her face, brief but unmistakable.

She forced herself forward..One step.

Her foot hovered over the marble floor, as she half-expected it to crack under her weight.

Then another step. And another.

She walked like someone entering a crime scene.

Slow. Controlled. Bracing for impact.

The restaurant swallowed her whole, even though the people dining only spared her a glance; every clink of cutlery made her flinch. Every laugh from another table made her shoulders rise.

She scanned every doorway, every waiter, every shadowed corner.

Lennon kept his pace slow behind her, deliberately non-threatening, hands visible at his sides, his presence next to her was the reason the other patrons didn't pay the shabbily dressed woman any mind.

He guided her toward a booth tucked into the corner—the safest seat in the room, back to the wall, full view of every exit.

She slid into it, spine rigid, as though prepared to spring.

Only after she sat did she whisper, barely audible, “I shouldn't have followed you in at all.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have brought you here.”

Her eyes flicked up, surprised by the admission.

Before he could say more, Lennon felt it—a cold sensation at the base of his spine.

Someone was watching them. He didn’t need to turn. He already knew.

Declan Partridge wasn’t the type to sit at a table like everyone else.

And he wasn’t.

He was in the shadows near the bar, half-blocked by a column, suit jacket draped over one arm, expression unreadable, gaze fixed entirely on them.

On her.

Lennon’s heartbeat thudded once, hard.

Leilani noticed the shift in his focus, she followed his line of sight, movement subtle, cautious.

Her eyes landed on Declan, her entire body went rigid but no flicker of recognition crossed her eyes.

Lennon quickly grabbed her attention. She wasn't supposed to see or meet him just yet. “You're probably wondering what it is that I'm doing with you right now, and I'll just come out and say it without beating around the bush.”

Leilani didn’t touch the menu. If it were possible, she held her breath, fingers clutching the white plastic bag, so that her fingers would not lose circulation. She barely touched the table at all—her palms hovered above the linen surface as though afraid she might stain it, break it, or be accused of something for simply existing near it.

The waiter had left them moments ago, but she hadn't moved—still waiting for the other shoe to drop when Lennon finally told her why it was that he was there.

Lennon watched the way she breathed, measured, controlled, like each inhale was something she had to negotiate with her own body.

He cleared his throat softly, “Leilani,” he began.

Her gaze drifted away from her thoughts and slowly locked onto him. Dark. Intelligent. Guarded.

She was listening, even if she looked like she might bolt at any second.

“There are a few things you need to know about your release.”

Her jaw tensed. He saw the subtle flicker of adrenaline—her body preparing for bad news before he even delivered it.

He straightened his posture, lowering his voice.

“The parole board approved your release because I petitioned for it.”

She blinked, but not in gratitude. In calculation.

Suspicion.

“What does that mean?” she asked quietly. Her fingers were twisting under the table.

He was way too slow at delivering the killer blow.

“It means…” Lennon inhaled, pushing back his glasses, steadying himself. “Your freedom—your day-to-day movement, your ability to stay out of custody—is tied to me.”

The words felt heavier spoken aloud.

Her eyes sharpened, as if she’d suddenly felt cuffs snap back around her wrists. As if they ever left her wrists in the first place.

“Explain,” she said, voice still soft, but with steel woven through.

He shifted, clasping his hands on the table.

“I filed a private supervision guarantee,” he said. “It allows a third party—me—to take full responsibility for reintegration, work placement, housing stability, and behavioral monitoring.”

Leilani stared at him blankly for a moment.

Then the meaning landed. “So I’m not free,” she whispered.

“Legally, you are,” he said quickly. “You’re released. You’re no longer in custody. But the parole board… they wanted reassurance. After your disciplinary records, the injury incident in year six, the solitary terms—”

Her eyes dropped. Shame? No. Containment.

He continued gently.

“They weren’t going to approve your parole without someone willing to sign for you.”

“And you did,” she murmured.

“Yes.”

She looked up slowly, her expression unreadable. “Why?”

He swallowed. Because he’d seen the cracks in her case ten years ago. Because the guilt of his father's actions sat on his shoulders like inherited sin. Because Declan had told him to “fix it” without explaining what “it” was.

But he couldn’t tell her that.

He chose the truth that mattered most. “Because you deserved a chance.”

Her throat bobbed with a swallow.

A beat passed. Then another.

“Is all of this really out of the kindness of your heart?”

Her amber eyes darkened, a deep controlled fire burned in them, “Or are you trying to continue from where your father stopped?”

Lennon stilled. But Leilani either didn't notice or she didn't care.

Your father didn't fight for me as most lawyers would. He made sure to give me the highest sentence—second-degree murder—for a crime the police already ruled as an accidental death.”

Her voice raised a catch, drawing the attention of other patrons and Declan, but she didn't see them. Lennon doubted she even saw him anymore.

“He made me plead guilty, the judge was kind enough to give me manslaughter with the possibility of parole after ten years or under special circumstances. I was pregnant! That was a special circumstance!”

She was standing, now. Hands planted on the table now, veins throbbing on her forehead, I lost my child! All thanks to your father here you come, trying to play savior. So forgive me if I'm not jumping with joy at the sight of you.”