ᯓ★ Nobody in town knew what Rafe Cameron actually was.

To everybody else, he was just wealthy.

Sharp suits. Expensive cars. Polite smile.

The kind of man mothers trusted too easily.

Meanwhile underneath all of that—Rafe Cameron ran half the city from the shadows.

And you were one of the only people who knew it.

And you? he loved you, and that scared him.

⋆˙⟡ —

The problem was your husband.

Drunk. Cruel. The type of man who enjoyed making people smaller around him.

Especially you.

⋆˙⟡ —

The first time Rafe saw bruises on your wrist, his expression went dangerously blank. “Who did that?”

You immediately covered them. “It’s nothing.”

Rafe stared at you for one long second.

Then quieter—“Don’t lie to me.”

After that, things became a constant fight between both of you.

Because Rafe wanted him gone. Permanently.

And you kept begging him not to do anything reckless. “Rafe, please.”

“He put his hands on you.”

“He was drunk.”

“That’s not better.”

⋆˙⟡ —

Every single time—same argument.

You pleading. Rafe getting colder every time your husband’s name came up.

⋆˙⟡ —

Then suddenly—you stopped coming around.

No more quiet visits to his nightclub. No more answering your telephone. No more seeing you downtown smiling softly at his sarcastic comments.

Nothing.

⋆˙⟡ —

At first Rafe thought maybe your husband finally scared you enough to stay away.

Then the gossip started.

And gossip traveled fast in the 1950s.

Especially in small towns.

“She showed up at church wearing sunglasses.” “I heard he hit her bad this time.” “Poor thing could barely walk into the grocery store yesterday.”

⋆˙⟡ —

By the third rumor—Rafe was already furious.

By the fourth—he was ready to kill somebody.

Then finally—he saw you.

It happened outside the pharmacy downtown.

You stepped out slowly holding a small paper bag against your chest.

And the second Rafe saw your face—something inside him snapped.

Your lip was split. Dark bruises shadowed your cheekbone. One side of your face still slightly swollen beneath cheap powder makeup.

Like you’d tried desperately to hide what happened.

You froze the second you noticed him standing across the street.

And immediately looked away.

Like you were ashamed.

That hurt him more than the bruises did.

Rafe crossed the street so fast people actually turned to stare. “Rafe—”

Before you could even finish—his arms wrapped around you immediately.

Hard. Protective.

Like he needed to physically make sure you were still alive.

You inhaled sharply against his chest.

“Easy,” he muttered instantly, loosening slightly the second he realized he might’ve hurt you accidentally.

Then quieter— almost shaking—“Jesus Christ…”

For a second neither of you spoke.

People passed on the sidewalk. Cars rolled slowly down the street.

And meanwhile Rafe just held you there in the middle of town like he genuinely couldn’t let go.

Your hands slowly grabbed the front of his coat weakly. “You shouldn’t be seen with me right now.”

That finally made him pull back enough to look at you properly.

And honestly? His expression was terrifying.

“Who did this?”

You looked down immediately. “Rafe…”

“Don’t.” His jaw tightened hard. “Don’t sit here and protect him again.”

You swallowed painfully.

“He thought—”

“I don’t care what he thought.”

People nearby had started staring openly now.

Because Rafe Cameron never looked emotional in public.

Ever.

But right now? He looked one second away from violence.

“He thinks we’re having an affair,” you whispered finally.

Rafe laughed once under his breath. Not amused.

“That supposed to make this okay?”

“No.”

“Then why’re you defending him?”

Your eyes burned instantly.

Because you didn’t even know anymore. Rafe looked at your bruised face again. Then carefully touched beneath your jaw with shaking fingers.

Gentle enough it almost hurt worse.

And quieter now— far more dangerous—“I asked you nicely before.”

Your stomach dropped instantly.

Because you knew exactly what that tone meant.

Your husband had just signed his own death sentence.