Chapter 5 - The Cottage on Tybee Island
The salt air of Tybee Island carries the sharp scent of ocean brine and rotting marsh grass.
The afternoon sun beat down on the quiet, shell-strewn lane where the modest white cottage stood behind a thick hedge of oleander bushes. A rusted blue sedan was parked in the gravel driveway—a car that definitely didn't belong to the wealthy elite of Savannah.
Grant parked his unmarked vehicle two houses down, cutting the engine. He sat in the silence of the car for a moment, watching the front porch of the cottage.
A laundry line strung between two oak posts holds a collection of impossibly small infant clothes fluttering gently in the ocean breeze—tiny yellow socks, a white cotton onesie with little ducks on it, and a miniature blanket.
The reality of it crashed over him with staggering force. He wasn't just hunting for a missing wife. He was looking at evidence of a life that had continued without him—a life he had been cheated out of sharing.
He opened the car door, his footsteps crunching softly on the crushed shells as he walked down the lane.
Before he even reached the front gate, the screen door of the cottage creaked open.
Jolene stepped out onto the porch.
She wore a loose gray cotton dress that could no longer hide her pronounced seven-month pregnancy. Her gray-blue hair was tied back in a messy clip, a few stray strands framing her face. She looked tired, the dark circles under her eyes spoke of sleepless nights, but her posture was unyielding, straight and proud.
She didn't run. She didn't scream. She simply stood on the top step, resting one hand on the curve of her belly, and waited for him to reach the gate.
"You took your time finding me, Grant," Jolene said, her voice steady, carrying clearly across the quiet yard.
Grant stopped at the gate. The iron latch was cool beneath his fingers. He looked at her—really looked at her—taking in every detail of the woman he had mourned for five months.
"You knew Desmond was watching," Grant said, his voice rough. "You knew he faked your death, and you walked away without telling me."
"What would you have done if I told you?" Jolene asked, her gray-blue eyes locking onto his with a fierce, heartbreaking clarity. "Would you have gone to war with your uncle? Would you have torn the syndicate apart while you were still trying to secure your position? And what happens to a baby born in the middle of a mafia civil war, Grant? Did you want our child raised in the crosshairs?"
The words hit him like a physical blow because they were entirely, brutally true. Five months ago, he hadn't had the absolute power he held now. Challenging Desmond then would have been suicide for both of them.
"You should have trusted me," Grant whispered, pushing the gate open and walking up the steps toward her.
"I trusted you enough to keep you alive," Jolene retorted, stepping back defensively as he approached. "Desmond told me the terms: either I disappear voluntarily and take the child with me, or he makes sure neither of us ever sees the sunrise. I chose survival."
Grant stopped just inches away from her. He could smell her familiar scent—lavender and sea salt. He looked down at her swollen belly, his breath caught in his throat. Slowly, almost as if he were afraid she would shatter, he raised his hand.
"Can I?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Jolene looked at his face, searching for the ruthless underboss she knew the city feared. Instead, she saw a man who had been hollowed out and put back together with duct tape and jagged edges. Slowly, she let out a shaky breath and covered his large hand with her own, guiding it to rest gently against her warm stomach.
May you like
Beneath his palm, a tiny, distinct kick met his skin.
Grant closed his eyes. For the first time in five months, the cold, heavy weight in his chest dissolved, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming surge of fierce, protective life.
