Safe With You

Paper Cuts

~ Alyssa ~

It’s been three weeks since the world laughed at Mark’s lies.

Three weeks since the truth clawed its way to daylight.

And somehow, I’m more tired now than I was when everything began.

Not just tired — drained.

My bones ache, my mind fogs, my body feels heavy and uncooperative.

Every morning starts with a battle between my reflection and the woman I used to be.

She’s still there somewhere — strong, polished, unshakable — but these days, I have to look harder to find her.

Mark made bail this morning.

Pending trial.

Those two words loop through my head like static, sharp and endless.

He’s out.

He’s free.

Meanwhile, I’m still proving to the world that I survived him.

By the time the elevator doors glide open to AQ’s top floor, I’m already clutching my coffee like it’s the only thing tethering me to consciousness.

The day’s been relentless — meetings, fittings, three PR calls, and an entire lunch I practically inhaled.

I move on autopilot now. Smile. Nod. Approve. Create.

Repeat.

The press are circling again — feeding on Mark’s release, spinning speculation into stories, stories into doubt.

And because people still love a scandal, my name’s back in headlines that make me feel dirty just reading them.

So, when I step into my office and close the door behind me, I let myself exhale for the first time all day.

The mirror catches me from across the room.

The sight still knocks the air out of me.

Not a hint or a soft curve anymore — my bump is there, defined, real.

A roundness that strains against the silk of my blouse if I move too quickly or forget to adjust my jacket.

No matter how careful I am, it’s no longer something I can ignore.

I tug at the oversized camel coat draped over my shoulders, adjusting it until it hides what little evidence it can.

It’s heavier than I’d usually wear indoors, but I can’t risk the alternative.

The coat’s thick wool, cinched loosely at the waist — elegant, structured, strategically forgiving.

I can hide exhaustion behind make-up, fear behind work, but this?

This growing proof of something fragile and new — it’s getting harder.

“Alyssa?”

Greyson’s voice drifts through the doorway before I even register the knock.

I don’t look up. “You’re early.”

He steps inside, setting down a Costa cup beside my paperwork — my usual, hot chocolate with extra cream.

“Thought you could use reinforcements,” he says gently. “And sugar.”

“Saint,” I mutter, taking a sip.

He studies me with that quiet, maddening intuition of his. “You’ve been here since dawn.”

“Maybe.”

“And eaten?”

“Define eaten.”

He sighs. “Alyssa.”

“Joking. Lunch was inhaled. Scouts honour"

“You're going to raise my blood pressure woman”

I glare at him over the rim of my cup, smiling internally.“You sound like Markus.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Despite myself, I smile — but it fades when I glance at the folder on my desk.

Thick. Heavy. Filled with proof of pain.

“I have to meet with the lawyers in forty-five minutes,” I say quietly. “Another round of defending my own scars.”

His jaw tightens. “You shouldn’t have to keep proving you were a victim.”

“I’m not a victim,” I correct him sharply. Then, softer, “I’m just tired of surviving.”

That silences him.

For a moment, all I hear is the faint hum of the city below.

Then, quietly, he kneels beside my chair and takes my hand.

“Then let me help you live again,” he says.

Simple. Steady.

The words that pull the breath right out of me.

By the time I leave AQ, dusk has begun its slow descent over London.

The streetlights blur through the tinted car windows, painting the city in soft, tired gold.

My reflection stares back at me — coat pulled tight, collar raised, the picture of composure.

But my hands shake.

Every camera flash from outside the office earlier felt like a dagger — every reporter’s voice, another reminder that privacy doesn’t exist anymore.

I press a hand subtly over my lower abdomen as the car stops at a red light.

Just a reflex.

A quiet, protective motion I’m still not used to making.

Outside the law offices, the press waits like vultures.

Flashes. Voices.

Questions that sting.

“Miss Rose! Any comment on Mark Haverly’s release?”

“Is it true you fabricated the hospital photos?”

“Miss Rose, are you expecting a child?”

That one lands like a slap.

I freeze.

Greyson steps out beside me, his body a wall between me and the chaos.

He doesn’t raise his voice, but the warning in his tone cuts sharper than any shout.

“Back off.”

Security ushers us through the doors before I can even blink.

Inside, the noise fades to muffled echoes, replaced by the sterile hum of air conditioning.

I pull off my coat, my hands trembling. “They’re getting worse.”

He rests a hand against my back. “Let them talk. You’ve got nothing to hide.”

I point to my obvious bump " I kind of do." We both laugh.

The meeting feels endless.

Every page, every word, is a knife twisted in old wounds.

The evidence I’ve already bled for being examined again — for clarity, for detail, for truth.

I’m so numb by the end that I barely notice when Greyson appears at my side again, hand outstretched.

“Come on, love. You’re done for the day.”

I let him lead me out, the weight of everything still sitting heavy on my chest.

Back home, the lights are soft and warm — Melissa must’ve set the lamps before she left.

The house smells faintly of lavender and cinnamon, safe and familiar.

I drop my coat onto the sofa and curl up against the cushions.

Greyson sits beside me, quiet, giving me the space I need to unravel without falling apart.

The folders rest unopened on the coffee table, a silent reminder of everything that waits tomorrow.

After a while, he speaks. “You don’t have to keep doing this alone.”

I shake my head. “I’m not alone. I just… feel it sometimes.”

He nods, like he understands. Maybe he does.

Silence stretches — gentle, not awkward.

The kind of quiet that holds you rather than suffocates you.

Finally, I whisper, “I hate him.”

“I know.”

“I hate that he still has this much power.”

“He doesn’t,” Greyson says softly. “Not anymore.”

I look at him then — really look — and something in me unclenches.

He’s my calm in the storm.

My anchor.

The only person who’s never asked me to be anything other than human.

And for the first time all day, I let myself break.

Tears spill — quiet, ungraceful, unstoppable.

Greyson just pulls me into his arms, saying nothing, letting me cry until there’s nothing left.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper when it’s over. “You didn’t sign up for this.”

He presses a kiss to my hair, his voice steady against my skin.

“I signed up for you.”

Hours later, when sleep finally takes me, the coat I wore earlier lies folded neatly on the chair beside the sofa.

To the world, it’s just a fashion statement — a barrier between Alyssa Rose and the gossip machine.

But to me, it’s armour.

Because beneath that soft wool and silk, something new is growing.

Quickly.

Strongly.