Charlie cleared his throat for the third time in five minutes — low, deliberate, like the steady click of a rifle being cleaned. The air in the foyer was dense with awkward silence, the kind that stretches between two people who don’t quite trust each other but are trying — for her sake.

I stood with my hands clasped too neatly in front of me, every motion calculated to appear at ease. To him, I must have looked like a marble statue in a rented tuxedo. Still, too still. Wrong in some intangible way he couldn’t put his finger on. But he didn’t need to know what I was. Just that I would never let anything hurt her again.

Except — I already had.

Her heartbeat fluttered upstairs. I could hear the uneven rhythm in her step, the clunky drag of the orthopedic boot against the hardwood floor. The shift of weight as she balanced carefully, slower than usual, her steps laced with frustration.

And then she came into view.

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She was a vision that stole what little breath I chose to take — an apparition of blood-red silk and firelit resentment. The dress hugged her body like it had been spun onto her by magic, the deep red a bold, dangerous contrast to her pale skin. Floor-length. Sleeveless. The illusion neckline gave the faintest pretense of modesty, but the open back erased the lie. Her shoulders, bare and delicate, drew the light like a canvas brushed with moonlight. She wore that necklace I gave her — the silver one with the garnet stone tucked into the center of the knot — and it caught the light with every breath she took, like a heartbeat trapped in crystal.

Her makeup was darker than usual — smoky shadows sculpted across her eyelids, giving her a fiercer look, more untouchable. Her hair had been curled and set carefully, each lock cascading over her shoulders in elegant spirals. But none of it masked the look in her eyes.

She was furious.

Not with the dress. Not with me — not entirely.

With the boot.

With the cast that wrapped around her broken leg beneath the silk. A reminder of what she’d gone through. Of what I hadn’t prevented.

The mirror room came back to me in sharp fragments — the sickening crunch of bone, the glass shattering beneath her as she fell. James had hurled her like a doll. Her scream had torn through me like acid.

I could still hear it.

Could still feel her blood on my hands — her real blood — warm, copper-sweet, pulsing from the wound in her leg as I held her down to keep her from thrashing. Carlisle had worked fast, methodical, but my world had narrowed to one unbearable truth:

I had failed to keep her safe.

She had nearly died. And not by accident — because of me. Because I loved her. Because I brought her into my world.

My ribs still ached from where James had landed that final kick. The venom burns in my throat had faded days ago, but the guilt remained — raw and lodged like glass between my ribs.

“You don’t have to go through with this,” Charlie said, breaking the silence. His voice was a low grumble, equal parts concern and disapproval. “Prom’s not exactly worth hobbling around for.”

I answered before she could, stepping forward. “She’s going for the cake. And to prove she can.”

Her lips twitched in something like a scowl. She tried to mask it with indifference, but I could see the storm beneath the surface — her pride wounded by the cast, her discomfort tucked beneath layers of silk and stubbornness.

I offered my hand.

She hesitated. Only for a second. Then her fingers slid into mine, warm and alive.

I wanted to carry her — to shield her from every stare, every whisper, every reminder of that room and that monster and what it cost her to love me.

But she would hate that. She needed to walk, even if it hurt.

So I stood beside her.

Silent.

Watching her radiate beauty and rage and undeniable strength.

Knowing full well that I had almost lost her.

And that I still didn’t deserve to hold her hand.