Page 12 of Dallas Rivals

The place’s too damn small for the three of them.

We had to rearrange everything so Lucien could live on the ground floor with his wife—practically next to the kitchen—while upstairs there’s just one bedroom and a bath. I’m guessing that’s where Miss Saint-Clair’s staying.

“Oh, look what the Lord brought home, Lucien!” Mrs. Saint-Clair cries out, voice full of drama like always.

I shove my hands back into my jacket pockets, waiting for my old foreman to roll toward me. The sight of him like this hits me harder than I’d like to admit, so I keep it hidden behind a neutral face.

“Hey, Lucien,” I say, awkward as hell.

He looks tired. Older. Sad.

I crouch down beside him, and he pulls me into a weak hug.

“Good to see you, son,” he says with a shy smile, wheeling himself toward the small table and nodding for me to sit.

Miss Saint-Clair keeps moving around upstairs, carrying boxes up the narrow steps, making enough noise to wake the dead.

“You manage with the bed?” Lucien asks.

I open my mouth to tell him what I saw, but her voice cuts through the air from above.

“Yeah! Easy as I said!” she shouts cheerfully.

I frown. That’s a damn lie.

Far from easy.

Looks like I’m not the only one who knows how to fake a situation.

“I’ll help her carry it up,” I mutter, mostly to make him feel better.

His wife sets down a plate of food—greasy, salty, and the best thing I’ve smelled all day—then disappears behind a curtain that serves as their bedroom wall, giving us a bit of privacy.

I begin to ask Lucien about how he’s recovering, about the house, and about the everyday things that fill their lives now. Each question leaves a bitter taste, a feeling of guilt gnawing at me with every word I speak. The reality of their situation is impossible to ignore—they’re packed into this small space, barely enough room for the three of them, living on top of one another like sardines in a can. Meanwhile, I’m surrounded by empty halls and unused rooms in a mansion, the silence echoing through spaces meant for laughter and family. There are entire rooms I once prepared for my nephews, imagining the joy they’d bring. But those rooms have stayed empty for years, gathering dust instead of the life I hoped for.

Behind me, I hear Miss Saint-Clair curse. Something crashes.

Lucien looks up, startled, then glances at me, embarrassed.

When I turn, she’s kneeling on the floor, trying to gather the contents of a box that’s split open.

“Let me help you,” I say, stepping closer.

“Oh, no, please don’t⁠—”

Too late. I’ve already picked something up.

A giant tampon.

My brain freezes.

I glance down. The floor’s covered in nothing but feminine products. Hell, it’s a damn minefield.

She snatches the tampon from my hand, tosses it into a bag, and whispers, “Please… just let me handle it.”

Something in her voice—soft, pleading—stops me cold. She looks small, cornered.

I straighten up fast and take a step back, like she’s about to blow.