Virgin Dot Com Novel

[Liam's POV] I've never wanted to kill my father before. The thought sits in my chest like a foreign object, sharp and uncomfortable, because I'm not built for violence. I'm the golden retriever of the family-optimistic, eager to fix things, believes every problem has a solution if you just try hard enough. But seeing Jasmine in her doorway looking destroyed, I realize I'm entirely capable of murder if it means protecting her from him. I'd watched it happen through the office glass. Saw his hand in her hair, forcing her head back.

Saw him kiss her while she stood frozen, and that stillness scared me more than anything else could have. Because Jasmine fights-that's who she is. She pushes back against everything, too stubborn to surrender. But she didn't fight him, just took it. And something vital in my chest cracked clean through. Finn had grabbed my arm when I started toward Jackson's office, reminded me that storming in would make it worse. He was right, fuck him for being right, but every instinct I had screamed to get between her and that predator wearing my last name. So I came here. Waited.

Because leaving her alone with whatever poison he'd put in her head wasn't an option. Now she's barely holding it together, and I want to fix it. Want to solve this the way I solve everything-with enthusiasm and determination and sheer stubborn belief that things work out. Except I don't know how to fix this, and that helplessness is its own kind of violence. "What did he do?" The words come out quieter than I intended, but there's something dangerous underneath that doesn't belong to my carefully constructed personality. She can't answer. Just trembles with tears sliding down her cheeks.

I cross to her, grip her shoulders. "Tell me what he did, Jasmine." Her hands cup my face, and the gentleness breaks something in me. "Everything will be fine. Trust me. It's working, Liam. One more days, and Jackson is gone." One more day. Like I can watch him touch her for one more days without losing my mind. "At what cost?" My voice cracks. "I can't watch him touch you. You're not even here anymore. You're somewhere else, and I don't know how to reach you." "Tomorrow he expects me at his apartment." The words are flat, rehearsed.

"That's the final payment." Final payment-like she's currency, like her body can be traded for corporate strategy. "What does he expect?" I already know. Can see it in how she won't meet my eyes. She doesn't answer. The silence tells me everything. I pull her into my arms-too tight, probably hurting her-but I can't loosen my grip. Can't bear space between us when tomorrow she'll give herself to him because she thinks it will save us. "I would take all your problems," I whisper fiercely. "Solve everything for you. I hate that you're doing this alone.

I hate that I can't fix it." That's the worst part. I'm supposed to be the fixer. The one who makes everything better through positive thinking and relentless determination. But this is beyond fixing. "You're precious to me." The confession tears out raw and unfiltered. "You're everything. I love you, Jasmine. I fucking love you." I've never said it before. Always held back because saying it felt like handing someone power to destroy me. But I can't let her walk into that apartment thinking she's anything less than my entire world. She starts crying harder, and I lift her without thinking.

Carry her to the bedroom because we both need somewhere softer for this breaking. I lay her on the bed and she reaches for me, desperate for distraction, but I catch her hands gently. Shake my head. "No. Not like this." She wants me to fuck the pain away, but that's not what she needs. She needs someone to take care of her without expecting anything in return. I can do that. Taking care of people is basically my whole personality-golden retriever in human form, always eager to help, always looking for ways to make things better. I go to her bathroom, start running water in the tub.

Add the bath salts she probably bought for herself but never uses because she's too busy taking care of everyone else. Test the water with my hand, adjusting until it's perfect. "Come on," I say softly, helping her up. "Let me take care of you." I undress her with careful hands, keeping my touch gentle and divorced from desire. Help her into the bath and she sinks into the hot water with a sound that's half sob, half relief. I kneel beside the tub-don't care that I'm getting my jeans wet-and find a washcloth. Start washing away the day with methodical attention. The makeup. The traces of him.

Everything that doesn't belong. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "For what?" "For putting you through this. For making you watch-" "Stop." I tilt her chin up gently. "You're not making me do anything. You're trying to save something, and I hate that you think you have to do it alone. But you're not apologizing for surviving. You hear me?" She nods, tears spilling over, and I wipe them away with wet fingers. I wash her hair next, working shampoo through with slow, careful pressure. Massage her scalp until I feel tension leave her shoulders. It's intimate in a way that has nothing to do with sex.

Like I'm being trusted with something fragile. I rinse it clean. Add conditioner. Work it through with gentle attention. The whole domestic ritual I've never performed for anyone, but for her I'll learn anything. When the water cools, I help her out, wrap her in the softest towel. Dry her hair carefully. Find her favorite worn pajamas and help her into them. Then I put her back in bed, climb in beside her fully clothed, and just hold her. No expectation. No agenda. Just presence. Just the promise that she doesn't have to be alone tonight. She cries against my chest, and I let her.

Stroke her hair. Whisper every reassurance I can think of even though I don't know if any are true. "We'll figure this out. You're not alone. I've got you. Always." And I mean it. Because that's what I do-I show up, I care, I love with everything I have even when it's not enough. Even when all I can offer is presence and stubborn refusal to let her face this alone. Tomorrow she'll walk into my father's apartment, and I'll have to let her go. But tonight, I can give her this. Safety. Warmth. The knowledge that she matters more than any company or legacy. It's not enough. It'll never be enough.

But it's all I have. Virgin Dot Com