Grace's pov
I dreamed of him again.
In the dream I wasn't in my tiny attic room with the cracked ceiling. I was back in that hotel bed, sheets twisted around my legs, city lights bleeding through the curtains. Dayton stood at the foot of the bed, shirt gone, belt hanging open. His eyes were dark, hungry, fixed on me like I was the only thing in the world.
I crawled toward him on my knees. My nightgown slipped off one shoulder. He didn't speak. He just grabbed my waist, flipped me onto my stomach, and yanked my hips up. I felt the cool air on my skin, then the hot press of him behind me.
His hand tangled in my hair, pulling just hard enough to make me gasp. With the other hand he spread me open. No teasing. No gentle words. Just the thick head of him pushing in, stretching me wide. I cried out into the pillow as he slammed home in one hard thrust.
He didn't wait. He never does in the dreams.
He fucked me like he hated me and needed me at the same time. Fast, deep strokes that shook the bed. His grip on my hips bruised. Every slap of skin echoed loud in the quiet room. I pushed back, meeting him thrust for thrust, begging with my body because my voice was gone.
"Say my name," he growled against my ear.
"Dayton," I sobbed. "Dayton, please—"
He flipped me over, hooked my legs over his shoulders, and drove in so deep I saw stars. His hand slid between us, fingers rubbing my clit in rough circles. I came hard, clenching around him, screaming into his mouth as he kissed me like he wanted to swallow the sound.
He followed right after, burying himself to the hilt and spilling inside me with a broken groan. I felt every pulse, every hot spurt, and I held him tight, legs locked around him, refusing to let go.
Then the dream started to fade. His face blurred. The warmth turned cold.
I woke up gasping, thighs slick, heart racing. My hand was between my legs without me remembering putting it there. I yanked it away like I'd been burned and curled into a ball. Tears burned my eyes.
A week. Seven whole days of pretending he didn't exist. Seven mornings of scrubbing floors until my knees bled so I wouldn't think about him. Seven nights of the same filthy dream that left me shaking and empty.
I hated him.
I missed him.
I hated that I missed him.
I dragged myself out of bed, washed my face with cold water until the flush left my cheeks, and went downstairs to start breakfast. Same routine. Same cage.
But today wasn't the same.
I was flipping pancakes when the front door opened and Lilian's excited voice rang through the house.
"Dayton's taking me to lunch! He's here early!"
My stomach dropped so fast I nearly dropped the pan.
I turned slowly. There he was, standing in the doorway in a dark blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, looking too good to be real. His eyes found mine instantly. Held. Burned.
I looked away first.
Mrs. Henderson came rushing in, all smiles and perfume. "Grace, bring fresh orange juice to the living room. Quickly."
I carried the tray in with my head down. Lilian was already hanging off his arm, laughing at something he said. But he wasn't laughing. He was watching me. Every step I took, I felt his stare on my skin like fingers.
I set the tray down. Our eyes met again. This time I didn't look away. I let him see the ice I'd built around my heart.
Lilian didn't notice. She dragged him toward the door. "Come on, babe, let's go."
He let her pull him, but his gaze stayed on me until the very last second.
The moment they left, Mrs. Henderson's smile vanished.
She grabbed my arm hard enough to bruise. "I saw that."
"Saw what?" I tried to pull free.
"The way he looked at you. Like you're something worth looking at." Her nails dug in. "You think you can steal my daughter's fiancé? You little whore."
"I didn't do anything—"
She slapped me across the face. Hard. My ears rang.
"You think I'm blind? You've been flaunting yourself ever since he started coming around. Wiggling your hips when you serve. Bending over tables. Disgusting."
Another slap. Then a shove. I hit the counter, pain shooting up my spine.
She kept going. Shoving, slapping, screaming words I couldn't even hear over the buzzing in my head. My knees buckled. The room tilted.
Everything went black.
I woke up on the kitchen floor. Cold tiles under my cheek. Mrs. Henderson's face above me, twisted with rage. The family doctor knelt beside me, shining a light in my eyes.
"She's awake," he said.
"What happened?" I croaked.
"You fainted," he answered. Then he looked at Mrs. Henderson. "We need to talk. Privately."
They stepped into the hallway. I heard whispers. Then silence. Then footsteps coming back.
The doctor looked uncomfortable. "Grace… you're pregnant."
The air left my lungs. My mind went back to Dayton and the hotel.
Mrs. Henderson's face turned purple. "Who is it?" she screamed. "Who's the father?"
I pressed my lips together.
She grabbed my hair and yanked my head back. "Tell me!"
I stayed silent.
She slapped me again. And again. Blood filled my mouth.
Mr. Henderson came in, took one look, and joined her. "You'll tell us, girl. One way or another."
They took turns. Questions. Threats. Hits. I curled into a ball on the floor and protected my stomach with my arms.
I never said his name.
Hours later, they gave up. My face was swollen, lip split, ribs aching. Mrs. Henderson stood over me, breathing hard.
"Pack your things," she spat. "You're out. Tonight."
They threw my small bag onto the doorstep. Rain poured down, cold and hard. I stood there in my thin dress, shaking, one hand on my belly.
I had nowhere to go. No money. Nothing.
But inside me, something tiny was growing.
His baby.
I looked back at the house one last time. Lights glowed warm through the windows, like nothing had happened.
I turned and walked into the rain.
I didn't cry. Not yet.
I just kept walking, one hand cradling the life I hadn't planned, the other clenched into a fist.
They thought they broke me.
They had no idea what they just started.