I don't move.

I just sit there on the wet hotel steps, rain soaking through my dress, through my skin, all the way down to something I don't have a name for yet. The black car idles at the bottom of the steps. The man stands beside the open door, one hand resting on the frame, not rushing me, not flinching from the rain.

Just waiting.

Get up, Ava. Get up right now.

I press my palms against the cold stone step and push myself to my feet. My heels slip slightly but I catch myself quickly. I will not fall in front of a stranger. I've already fallen enough tonight in front of people who were supposed to love me.

"I told you," I say, lifting my chin even though my voice is still raw, still cracked at the edges. "I don't know you."

"Damien Knight," he says, like that explains everything. And the thing is... it does.

Damien Knight.

Even in the state I'm in, even with rain running down my face and my entire life sitting in ruins behind me, that name lands hard. I know who Damien Knight is. Everyone in our industry knows who Damien Knight is. Ethan used to clench his jaw every time someone mentioned his name at the dinner table.

Damien Knight is a predator, Ethan told me once. He doesn't do deals. He does takeovers. He walks into rooms and he leaves with everything that wasn't his when he walked in.

I used to think Ethan said it out of competition. Now, standing here in the rain looking at the man himself, I think Ethan said it because he was afraid.

Damien is watching me with those dark eyes, and I hate that I can't read them. They look like deep water you can't see the bottom of.

He reaches into his car and pulls out a coat. Dark. Heavy. Expensive. He holds it out toward me without a word.

I stare at it. "I'm fine," I say.

"You're soaked."

"I said I'm fine."

He doesn't lower the coat. He just keeps holding it out, patient in a way that feels almost insulting, like he's already decided I'll take it and he's just waiting for me to catch up.

A flash goes off to my left, then another.

I turn. Three photographers have materialized from somewhere, cameras raised, already firing. Of course. Of course they're still here. Tonight is a story and I'm the most interesting part of it right now. Disgraced wife stands in the rain outside the hotel. I can already see the headline forming.

My stomach turns.

"Hey." Damien's voice doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. He turns toward the photographers, the three men with cameras stop moving. One of them lowers his camera halfway.

"You will delete what you just took," Damien says. "And you will leave."

"Sir, this is a public..."

"I know what it is." He looks at the man. "Delete them and leave."

The sound of rapid tapping on phone screens. The photographers back away. One of them trips over his own feet getting to the sidewalk. They're gone in under thirty seconds.

I blink.

"How did you do that?" I ask before I can stop myself.

"Money," Damien says simply. He holds the coat out again. "Take it."

This time, I do.

The coat smells like wood and something warmer underneath it. I pull it around my shoulders and slide into the backseat of his car and I tell myself it's just practical. It's just warmth. It means nothing.

Damien gets in on the other side. The door closes. The driver pulls away from the hotel without being told where to go and I stare out the window at the rain-slicked streets and I try to make my breathing even out.

Don't cry in front of him. Don't you dare.

"You remembered who I am," Damien says.

"Ethan's rival," I say. "The one he couldn't stand."

"The feeling was mutual."

I turn to look at him. He's facing forward, one arm resting along the window, completely relaxed. Like giving strange women his coat in the rain outside ruined banquets is just a regular Tuesday for him.

"So what is this?" I ask. "You saw me fall apart back there and thought it was a good opportunity to gloat?"

He turns his head and looks at me. "Interesting," he says.

"What is?"

"You're still holding your head high." He says it without warmth but also without mockery. "Most people would be on the floor right now."

"I was on the floor," I say quietly. "You saw."

"And then you stood up."

I look away. I press my lips together hard because something is moving up my throat and I don't want it to come out here, not here, not in this car with this man I don't know, but it comes anyway. The burn behind my eyes. The way my throat pulls tight.

"He planned all of it," I hear myself say. My voice is strange. "Not just tonight. He's been planning it. The messages, the board vote, getting my parents on his side. He's been building this for months and I was just... walking around. Going to work. Picking out my dress. Thinking we were going through a rough patch."

I laugh and it comes out broken. "I thought we were going through a rough patch."

The car is quiet for a moment except for rain against the windows and the soft roll of the engine.

"Your operational system," Damien says.

I blink. "What?"

"The Harrington Group's logistics restructure eighteen months ago. That was you." He says it like he's confirming something he already knows. "The cost efficiency model. The supplier renegotiations. The Q3 turnaround."

I stare at him. "How do you know about that?"

"Because I was trying to acquire the company at the time and couldn't find the weakness." He glances at me. "Then I realized the strength wasn't Ethan. It was you."

The silence that follows is heavy.

I laugh again, and this time it's even more broken, sharp at the edges, the kind of laugh that hurts on the way out. "Nobody has ever said that to me," I say. "Four years. Not one person ever said that to me."

Not Ethan. Not the board. Not my mother who told me to be grateful Ethan a chance to be a part of the company.

Be grateful, Ava. Don't make waves. Don't make him look small.

"They knew," Damien says. "That's why removing you was the first step."

My hands go still in my lap.

The first step. Like this isn't the end of something but the beginning.

"His company won't survive long without you," Damien says. Casual. Like he's talking about weather.

I turn that over in my head and I know he's right. I know it in my bones because I know every moving part of the Harrington Group's operations, every supplier relationship, every system, every risk. Ethan is charming and he photographs well and investors love his handshake. But the engine? The engine was me.

He just made sure nobody knew that.

My phone buzzes with a notification, then another. My phone starts lighting up with alerts and I make the mistake of opening the first one.

It's Chloe's social media. A post. A photo of her sitting at a table with her hands folded, eyes soft and sad, caption reading: Tonight was hard. I've tried to stay quiet and protect everyone involved but silence isn't always kindness. Sending love to all.

Below it, three thousand comments already. Stay strong, queen. She sounds terrifying. So brave of you to speak up.

My stomach turns.

"They already believe her," I say. My voice is hollow. "The internet already decided I'm the villain."

I click off my screen and shove the phone into my clutch.

Damien hasn't looked at his own phone once. He's watching me with that unreadable expression, and I suddenly feel too seen in this coat that smells like him, in this car I didn't ask to be in.

"Why are you doing this?" I ask. "Helping me. What do you want?"

He's quiet for a moment.

Then: "Do you want revenge?"

The word lands in the car like a stone dropped in water.

I feel the ripple of it move through me. Revenge. I roll it around in my head. Four years. My work. My name. My parents sitting at that table looking away. Chloe's bracelet catching the light. She was useful while she lasted.

"I want to go home," I say instead.

"Your marital home," Damien says. "The one Ethan legally owns."

I close my mouth.

Right.

I hadn't thought that far yet. I hadn't thought past getting out of that ballroom, hadn't thought past the rain and the steps and the sound of my own voice breaking in front of a room full of cameras. I hadn't thought about where I was going to sleep tonight.

"I can go to a hotel," I say.

"Your credit cards are linked to his accounts."

My throat tightens.

"I have savings."

"Do you?" He looks at me. "When did you last check them?"

I open my mouth.

When did I last check?

Cold moves through me that has nothing to do with my wet dress.

"I have somewhere you can stay," Damien says. "Temporarily."

"Absolutely not."

"You have another option?"

I look out the window. The city moves past us, lights blurring in the rain. I think about calling a friend. I think about who I would call. I think about the fact that most of the people I considered friends moved through Ethan's world, were invited to Ethan's events, were sitting in that ballroom tonight watching me unravel.

I don't answer.

Damien doesn't say anything else or push. He just looks forward and lets the silence sit, and that silence is its own kind of answer.

The building is tall and quiet and the lobby is the kind of clean that comes from serious money. Marble floors. No front desk. Just a private elevator with a panel that requires a key card. The doors open straight into a penthouse that takes up the entire floor.

I step inside and stop.

It's not the view, though the view is massive, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the wet city below. It's not the furniture or the lighting or the careful, cold elegance of everything in the room.

It's the desk.

A wide, dark desk against the far wall, and it is covered. Covered in documents, files, printed reports, photographs, printed emails. Spread out in a careful, deliberate order that tells me someone has been going through these for a long time.

I walk toward it slowly, something pulling me without permission.

I stop and look, and the air leaves my body.

Harrington Group financials. Internal memos. Board meeting transcripts. Supplier contracts. Restructuring reports. Documents I wrote. Documents I built. Documents that have my fingerprints all over them in ways only someone who really looked would understand.

Every single one of them flagged.

And my name. Highlighted in yellow, in red, circled in pen, over and over and over.

Ava Harrington. Ava Harrington. Ava Harrington.

I turn around slowly.

Damien is standing by the elevator, watching me. Still in his coat, hands in his pockets, that dark unreadable face giving me nothing.

"How long?" My voice comes out barely above a whisper. "How long have you had these?"

He doesn't answer, and that is an answer.

I don't move away from the desk.

I stand there with my hands at my sides and my eyes on those files and I try to make sense of what I'm looking at. My name, over and over, circled in red like something worth tracking. Like something worth hunting.

How long have you had these?

Damien still hasn't answered me. He's moved from the elevator now, crossed the room slowly, and he's standing on the other side of the desk with his hands in his pockets, watching me.

"You were investigating Ethan," I say.

"I was investigating the company."

"And you found me instead."

He tilts his head slightly. Not a confirmation or a denial. "Sit down, Ava."

"I'm fine standing."

"You've been standing in wet clothes for forty minutes." He pulls out the chair on my side of the desk and steps back from it. "Sit. I'll get you something dry to wear."

I want to argue. I really do. But my dress is cold and heavy against my skin and my feet ache from the heels and the truth is every part of me is exhausted in a way that goes beyond tonight.

I sit.

He disappears down a hallway and comes back with a folded grey shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that are clearly his. He sets them on the edge of the desk without making it a moment, without looking at me like he's doing me a favor.

"Bathroom is on the left," he says, then walks to the kitchen like that's settled.

I change quickly, grateful for the warmth, less grateful for the way his shirt swallows me whole and smells exactly like that coat. Wood and something warmer.

Stop noticing that.

When I come back out, there are two glasses of red wine on the low table in front of the couch and Damien is sitting in the armchair across from it, jacket off now, sleeves pushed to his elbows, reading something from a folder like I'm not even here.

I sit on the couch, pick up the wine and don't thank him for it.

"The Barlow restructure," he says, without looking up from the folder. "Eighteen months ago. Three suppliers dropped, two new contracts negotiated, logistics costs down by twenty-two percent in a single quarter."

I go very still.

"That model," he continues, "was not in any report Ethan filed. It didn't match his thinking pattern anywhere. His previous decisions before that period were reactive. Short-sighted. He chased quarterly numbers." He finally looks up. "Then suddenly, eighteen months ago, the Harrington Group starts making intelligent long-term moves. Calculated risk. Supply chain efficiency. Investor confidence climbs." He closes the folder. "That was you."

I stare at him.

"The Meridian account," he says. "You noticed the credit risk three months before their collapse. You quietly moved the company's exposure before it hit. Nobody credited you for that either."

My chest is tight.

"How do you know that?" My voice comes out careful. "That was handled internally. It was never made public."

"I have good sources."

"That's not an answer."

"No." He picks up his wine. "It's not."

I look at him across the table. This man who pulled me out of the rain and brought me into his home and has apparently been collecting evidence of my professional existence like I was a case study he never got to close.

"Why?" I ask. "Why were you tracking any of this?"

He leans back in his chair. "Because I was trying to understand why a company with mediocre leadership kept outperforming its competitors." He pauses. "And then I understood. Ethan Harrington is a man wearing another person's brain."

I blink.

"That's not fair," I say, and I hate that those are the words that come out. "Ethan built that company before I came into it."

Damien raises one eyebrow. "Did he?"

"He had the vision. The investor relationships. I just helped with operations."

"You restructured the operations. You built the systems. You held the supplier relationships together when his decisions nearly destroyed three of them." He tilts his head. "You just described a person who runs a company, Ava."

"He's my husband."

The word lands in the room and sits there, wrong and heavy, because for a second I forgot. For one stupid second, sitting in this warm apartment with wine in my hand and someone actually saying my name like it means something, I forgot what tonight was.

I forgot what he did.

My throat closes.

"Was," Damien says quietly. "Past tense."

I press my lips together and look at the window. The rain is still going. The city below is blurred and glittering and completely indifferent to the fact that my life came apart tonight in a hotel ballroom.

"You defended him," Damien says. "Just now. Instinctively."

"I know."

"After everything he did tonight."

"I know." My voice is sharp. "I don't need you to point that out."

"I'm not pointing it out to hurt you." His voice doesn't change. "I'm pointing it out because it tells me something about you."

"And what does it tell you?"

He looks at me steadily. "That you're loyal past the point of logic, and that whoever taught you that loyalty was the same person who used it against you."

The wine glass is cold in my fingers. I set it down before I squeeze it too hard. "You don't know me," I say.

"Not yet," he says.

We sit in something that isn't quite silence. He refills my glass without asking and I let him, which already tells me more about this evening than I'm comfortable with.

"How bad is it?" I ask. "Honestly. After tonight."

He considers this. "The investor reaction started within the hour. Three calls to the board already expressing concern. Not about your removal." He meets my eyes. "About the instability it suggests."

I sit forward. "What do you mean?"

"You were the consistent force in that company. Your removal doesn't signal to investors that a problem has been managed. It signals that the thing holding the structure together has been pulled out." He sets down his folder. "Ethan wanted to destroy your credibility. What he actually did was demonstrate that the company's credibility depends on you."

I stare at him.

"He doesn't know that yet," Damien adds. "He will."

I almost smile. "You're enjoying this," I say.

"I find it interesting," he corrects.

"That's the same thing."

The corner of his mouth moves, the closest thing to a smile I've seen from him and it does something irritating to my pulse.

"I want to offer you something," he says.

I go careful immediately. "What kind of something?"

"A consulting arrangement. Temporary. I have three projects in restructuring that need exactly your kind of operational thinking. You'd be paid fairly. You'd have access to resources." He holds my gaze. "And you'd have time to decide what your next move is without being financially dependent on Ethan."

I look at him. I look at the files on the desk. I think about what it means to work with the man Ethan feared most, to sit in his offices, to put my name next to his.

"That's not a neutral offer," I say slowly. "If I work with you, Ethan will see it as an attack."

"Yes."

"You want him to see it that way."

"I want you to have options," Damien says. "What Ethan sees is his problem."

"You're using me."

He doesn't flinch. "I'm offering you a transaction that benefits us both. That's not the same thing."

"It feels the same."

"Because you've been used without being offered anything in return." He leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and his voice drops just enough that I have to hold still to catch it. "You built an empire for your husband, Ava. Imagine what you could build for yourself."

The words move through me slowly. They find the place I've kept locked and quiet for four years, the place that had ideas and ambitions and strategies I handed to Ethan wrapped in his name, and they sit there and burn.

My phone lights up on the cushion beside me, just as I open my mouth and I glance at it automatically. An email notification. The sender is a law firm I don't recognize. The subject line is four words.

Notice of Divorce Proceedings.

I pick up the phone with fingers that feel numb. I open it. I read it once. Then again because the first time doesn't fully make sense.

Ethan has filed. Tonight. The same night as the banquet, which means this was already prepared and waiting, which means the lawyers were on standby before he ever picked up that microphone, which means every part of tonight was choreographed down to the final act.

And at the bottom of the email, one paragraph that makes the room tilt.

Mr. Harrington is requesting that Ms. Ava Harrington relinquish all shares, equity, and ownership interests currently held in connection with the Harrington Group and its subsidiaries, effective immediately upon signing...

My hands are shaking.

Not from grief this time. Not from humiliation.

From something colder. Something harder.

He wants me to sign away every share. Everything I helped build. Everything I poured four years of my life into. He wants my signature on a document that says it was never mine and it will never be mine and I should be grateful to walk away with nothing.

I look up at Damien.

He's watching me. He hasn't asked what the email says. He doesn't need to. Whatever is on my face is saying it for me.

"Consulting," I say. My voice is different now. Steadier than I expect it to be. "What exactly does that look like?"

And in his dark, unreadable eyes, something shifts.

Just slightly.

Just enough.

I don't sleep.

I lie in the guest room of Damien's penthouse and I stare at the ceiling and I listen to the rain slow down and eventually stop, and I think about how Ethan use to be.

Did you ever actually know him, Ava? Or did you just know who he was when he needed you?

I press my hand flat against my chest and wait for the ache to pass.

It doesn't.

...........

In the morning, Damien is already at the desk when I come out. Black coffee. Open laptop. A different folder from last night. He looks up once when I walk in, then back at his screen.

"Coffee is in the kitchen," he says.

I pour a cup and come back and sit on the couch and we exist in the same space without making it strange, which is strange in itself.

"You're quiet," he says, still looking at his screen.

"I'm thinking."

"About the divorce?"

"About before the divorce." I wrap both hands around the mug. "About how it started."

He closes the laptop. "Tell me," he says.

I look at him. "Why?"

"Because understanding what you built tells me what Ethan is about to lose," he says. "And I need to know exactly how exposed he is."

Practical. Not emotional. I can work with that.

"We met when I was twenty-three," I say. "He was building the company out of nothing. One client, two employees, a website that barely worked." I take a sip of coffee. "I was finishing my business degree. He asked me to look at his operational structure. Just to look, he said. Tell me what you see."

"And what did you see?"

"A mess," I say. "A brilliant, expensive, unsustainable mess." I almost smile at the memory. "I rewrote his entire logistics framework in one weekend. For free. Because I thought I was helping someone I loved."

Damien is quiet.

"He cried," I say, and my voice goes flat on the word. "He held my face in his hands and he said, we're partners, Ava. You and me. Forever. I will never let anyone take credit away from you."

"And you believed him," Damien says.

"I believed him." I set the mug down. "I believed him for four years. Through the office expansion. Through the Singapore deal. Through every late night and every decision I made under his name because he said it was easier that way. Investors trust me more right now, Ava. Let me be the face for a while. It's just strategy."

"And then a while became forever."

"And then a while became forever," I echo.

Damien stands up from the desk. He walks to the window with his hands in his pockets and he looks out at the city below, and when he speaks his voice has an edge I haven't heard in it before.

"He took your work," he says. "Your systems. Your strategies. He put his name on them, built his reputation on them, and then when you had served your purpose, he manufactured a reason to discard you publicly so you couldn't claim any of it." He turns from the window. "That's not a rough patch. That's a long con."

Something twists in me. Not because he's wrong, but because he's right and I'm only fully hearing it now.

"I abandoned everything," I say quietly. The words feel like pulling glass out of skin. "I had offers. Two companies wanted me in senior roles after I graduated. I turned them both down because Ethan said we were building something together." I look at my hands. "I had plans. Ideas for my own firm. I put them in a drawer and I left them there and I forgot about them and I told myself it was love."

Damien crosses back to the armchair and sits. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and he looks at me with something in his expression that isn't pity. It's sharper than pity. Colder. "That was your first mistake," he says quietly.

I nod. I don't trust my voice.

"It won't be your last," he adds, "unless you stop making decisions with your loyalty and start making them with your brain."

I lift my eyes to his. "You're very blunt."

"You've had four years of people being soft with you," he says. "Where did that get you?"

Nowhere. It got me nowhere.

.............

Ethan's office building was the same. Glass exterior. Steel and light. A lobby with a reception desk that used to smile at me by name.

Today the receptionist looks uncertain when I walk in. Her eyes flick to her phone. Checking instructions, probably. Checking whether she's supposed to let me through.

"He's expecting me," I say, and I walk past her before she can decide.

His office is on the fourteenth floor. I take the stairs because I need the climb. I need something to do with the energy moving through my body that isn't screaming.

I knock once and open the door.

Ethan is standing at the window. He turns when I come in and his face does something complicated. Irritation first. Then a quick smoothing over it. The face of someone managing a situation. "You came," he says.

"You asked me to."

"I asked your lawyer to ask you," he corrects. "I didn't expect you to show up in person."

"I don't have a lawyer yet." I close the door behind me. "We're talking directly, like people."

He sighs. He actually sighs, like I'm a problem he's tired of. He walks around behind his desk and sits down and the desk sits between us like a wall he built on purpose.

"Ava, last night..."

"Don't," I say. "Don't do the voice. I know the voice."

He looks at me. "What voice?"

"The one where you sound sad about something you planned." I sit down in the chair across from him even though I didn't come here to sit. "I want to talk about the shares, Ethan."

"There's nothing to talk about."

"There's plenty to talk about."

"You don't have a legal claim to..."

"I built those systems," I say. My voice stays even. "I restructured the operations. I saved the Meridian account. I negotiated the Barlow contracts. You know it. I know it. And apparently other people know it too." I hold his gaze. "I'm not signing anything."

His jaw tightens. A little muscle jumps near his eye.

"You're embarrassing yourself," he says. "Again."

"That's interesting coming from you."

"What you did last night," he says, leaning forward, "shouting in the middle of the banquet, making a scene in front of every investor..."

"What I did?" I stare at him. "What I did?"

"You made it worse." His voice rises slightly. "I was handling it carefully and you made it into a circus."

"You put fake messages on a screen in front of reporters." My hands press flat against my knees. "You had my parents sitting there, already on your side, before I even walked in the door. You filed for divorce the same night." I look at him. "That's not handling something carefully. That's an execution."

He opens his mouth.

The office door opens, and Chloe walks in.

She's carrying two coffee cups. She's wearing the bracelet. Of course she is. She stops when she sees me and her expression runs through a practiced sequence. Surprise. Discomfort. Concern.

"Oh," she says softly. "I didn't know you were here, Ava."

"Yes you did," I say.

She sets one coffee in front of Ethan and wraps both hands around the other and she doesn't leave. She sits on the edge of the small sofa near the window like she belongs there.

"You don't have to stay for this," Ethan tells her. His voice changes when he speaks to her. Softer. I notice it and I hate that I notice it because I used to know that voice. He used that voice with me.

"I'm fine," Chloe says gently. She looks at me with those wide eyes. "Ava, I really do hope we can resolve this peacefully. I know this is painful."

I look at her for a long moment.

"You wore his bracelet to a public event," I say. "You stood up in front of cameras and lied. And now you want peaceful resolution." I tilt my head. "That's impressive, actually."

Chloe's expression flickers. Just for a second. Something sharp underneath the softness.

"See," Ethan says, standing up, "this is exactly what I'm talking about. This is the behavior..."

"Ethan." My voice comes out quiet and it stops him. "She mocked me. Tell me you see that."

He looks between us, and then he does something I wasn't expecting. Something that lands harder than the divorce filing, harder than the fake messages on that screen.

He looks at Chloe and his voice gentles and he says, "She doesn't mean it like that. She's just... not handling this the way you would."

The way you would.

Like Chloe is the standard now. Like I'm being measured against her in my own marriage. Like he's already so far into his new life that he's comparing us out loud and doesn't even realize he's doing it.

"Sign the papers," Ethan says, turning back to me. "Walk away with your dignity. Don't drag this into something ugly."

"I built this company," I say. The quiet in my voice doesn't move. "I'm not walking away from my shares."

"You have no legal..."

"Then let the lawyers figure that out." I stand up. I pick up my bag. "But I am not signing."

"Ava." His voice drops. The warning voice now. The one with the edge underneath. "Don't make me go to court with this. You won't like what I bring out."

"What you'll bring out," I say, "or what you'll manufacture?"

His temper breaks. Finally. His hand comes down flat on the desk, hard enough to rattle the coffee cup.

"I made you," he says. "Everything you think you are came from standing next to me, and I can take it all back with a phone call. You have nothing without this company and you have nothing without my name..."

"Goodbye, Ethan," I say.

I walk to the door, open it and walk out, and his voice follows me down the hallway but I stop hearing it because something is happening in my chest. Not grief. Not the kind that's been sitting there since last night.

Something else.

Something that feels, terrifyingly, like the beginning of fury.

The lobby is bright and busy when I step out of the elevator. My heels click against the marble floor and I keep my face neutral and my stride even and I'm almost at the door when I hear the cluster of voices outside.

Reporters.

Two of them, maybe three, positioned near the entrance with cameras already up. Someone tipped them off. Of course someone did.

I push through the door and the cameras swing toward me immediately.

"Ava, have you responded to the divorce filing?"

"Do you have a statement about last night?"

"Are you contesting the share removal?"

I keep walking, keeping my chin up. I don't answer instead I focus on the pavement in front of me and I keep moving and I think, just get to the car, Ava, just get to...

A hand touches the small of my back.

Steady. Warm. Deliberate.

I go completely rigid, as I turn my head.

Damien Knight is standing beside me. Right beside me, close enough that his shoulder is almost touching mine. He's looking straight ahead at the reporters, his jaw set, his expression perfectly calm. His hand stays exactly where it is.

The reporters lose their minds.

Cameras fire like a storm. Voices overlap and climb over each other. Damien doesn't respond to a single word. He looks at me and his dark eyes are steady and the question in them is clear even without words.

Do you trust me?

I face forward.

I don't step away from his hand.