The thing about her is that people think they can take.

And they’re right.

She makes it easy—too easy. She hands out generosity like it costs nothing, like it won’t leave her with nothing. And maybe it won’t. Maybe she’s rich enough, kind enough, naïve enough to believe she’ll never run out.

But I’ve seen the way people look at her. Not like a person, but a resource. A never-ending well of yes, of course, whatever you need.

It makes me sick.

So when I hear her name slip through the air in that tone—the kind that drips with expectation, with entitlement—I’m already turning.

It’s some guy. Forgettable face, sharp suit. He’s smiling that I know you’ll say yes kind of smile, talking fast, laying it on thick. Some charity event, some investment, some small favor. She’s listening, nodding, already reaching for her checkbook, and I swear to God—

Not again.

“Don’t,” I say, stepping in before she can even lift the pen.

She blinks up at me, eyes wide, caught between confusion and something softer—something that always makes my jaw clench. Trust.

“Kendall—”

“No.” I don’t even look at the guy, just pluck the check from between her fingers and tuck it into my pocket. He starts to protest, but I cut him off with a look. Try me.

She sighs, exasperated, but I can see the relief under it. She won’t admit it, but sometimes, she wants someone to say no for her. To be the bad guy so she doesn’t have to.

“I was going to help,” she mutters, crossing her arms.

“No, you were going to let yourself be used. There’s a difference.” I lean in, dropping my voice, letting my fingers skim her wrist. “You can’t save everyone, sweetheart.”