Too Late, Guardian: I Choose Him Now

Freezing October rain pelted Alaina Spencer's face, but she barely felt it.

All her focus was on the brown paper bag clutched tightly against her chest. It had been warm when she carried it out of the pharmacy, a small source of heat in the cold dampness that had already soaked through her thin jacket.

She punched the code into the gate's keypad, her fingers clumsy. The heavy iron gates of Derrick Harmon's Bel Air estate-the man who had become her guardian after her mother remarried, her non-blood relative and the person she had secretly loved for ten years-swung open soundlessly with a stately grace. Alaina hurried along the long, winding driveway, the gravel crunching beneath her worn sneakers.

The heavy oak door of the main house loomed before her. She used the backup code the housekeeper had given her years ago, a number she knew as well as her own birthday. The lock clicked open.

For an instant, she hesitated. A familiar knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach, pulling taut. Then she remembered the housekeeper's worried phone call-Derrick was burning up with a fever, refusing to see a doctor, and had sent all the staff home. The thought of him sick and alone propelled her forward.

She imagined his surprise, and perhaps, a flicker of warmth in his usually guarded gray eyes. That small glimmer of hope was all she needed.

She stepped inside.

The foyer was dark, save for a faint ambient light coming from the second-floor landing. The air was heavy and still, but something was wrong. A scent. A sweet, cloying perfume she didn't recognize, a mix of gardenia and vanilla. It hung in the air like a foreign presence, a sharp needle piercing the fragile bubble of her hope, stinging her senses.

Her heart gave a painful throb against her ribs. She took a step forward, her sneakers silent on the marble floor. The dread was so real, a cold, heavy weight sinking deep into her abdomen, making it hard to breathe.

Then, a figure emerged from the shadows at the top of the grand staircase.

A woman, tall and slender, wrapped in one of Derrick's dark silk robes. The sash was tied loosely at her waist, revealing a long expanse of pale leg and the curve of her collarbone. She moved with a languid, confident grace, the kind that spoke of familiarity and intimacy with her surroundings.

Alaina recognized her immediately. Ashley Vance. A model whose face adorned half the billboards on Sunset Boulevard.

Ashley's eyes, lined with heavy black eyeliner, widened briefly at the sight of a drenched Alaina standing in the foyer. Surprise quickly melted into something else-a cool, calculating amusement and disdain. Her gaze swept over the warm paper bag in Alaina's hands, and a knowing smile curved her perfectly painted lips.

"Oh? You must be Derrick's ward. The one named... oh! Alaina?"

Her voice was silky, wrapped in honeyed arrogance. She glanced at the bag clutched against Alaina's chest.

"Did you come to take care of Derrick? Oh... don't worry, Derrick is feeling much better now," Ashley continued, descending another step and letting the robe fall open a little more. "I've taken very good care of him."

The words hit Alaina like a physical blow. The warmth radiating from the medicine bag suddenly felt scorching, branding her own foolishness into her chest. Her blood ran cold, a chill spreading from her toes to her scalp.

Her mind went blank. The only sounds were her own futile, frantic heartbeat and the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof.

A sleepy, raspy voice drifted down from the top of the stairs. "Ashley? Who's down there?"

Derrick.

He appeared a moment later, pulling a dark gray bathrobe on over himself. His jet-black hair was damp and plastered to his forehead, his handsome face etched with exhaustion. When he saw Alaina standing by the door, a complex mix of emotions flickered across his face-annoyance, surprise, and something else she couldn't name. His brow furrowed.

"Alaina, what are you doing here?" His voice was slightly hoarse from illness, and beneath the surprise lay something complicated, hard to name.

Ashley immediately slid to his side, looping her arm through his and resting her head on his shoulder. It was a purely possessive gesture, a flag planted for Alaina's benefit.

Derrick didn't push her away. He allowed the intimacy, his silence a thunderous confirmation.

Alaina felt an invisible hand squeeze her heart, squeezing so hard she nearly doubled over. She forced herself to stand straight, to lift her chin. She walked to the ornate console table by the door and set the paper bag down on its polished surface.

When she finally found her voice, it was eerily calm, devoid of emotion. "I heard you were sick. I brought you some medicine."

Derrick's gaze fell to the paper bag, and the complex look in his eyes deepened. He seemed about to say something, but the words that came out were brief and useless. "Thank you."

Ashley let out a light laugh, a brittle sound that shattered the tense silence. "That's so sweet of you, but it's not necessary anymore. Derrick, I'm a little hungry. Should we go get something to eat?"

Derrick looked at Alaina's pale, rain-soaked face, his jaw tight. He hesitated for no more than a second before turning to Ashley. "You go to the kitchen. I'll be right there."

After Ashley disappeared down the hallway, the foyer was once again filled with the sound of rain. Derrick moved closer. He still carried the scent of his recent shower, his familiar soap, but it was tainted, mixed with that cloying, sickly sweet perfume. The combination churned Alaina's stomach.

He stopped a few feet away from her, his expression settling into the one she knew best-a guardian's cool, appraising gaze. "It's late. And the rain is heavy. Did you drive yourself here?"

The question, so mundane, so paternal in its tone, twisted the knife again.

She didn't answer. She just stared at him, her eyes burning with a question she would never dare to ask, a pain she knew he would never understand.

Alaina faltered, her voice barely a whisper. "That person... she..."

Under her gaze, he shifted, a rare display of discomfort. He looked away, toward the rain-streaked window. "Ashley," he said quietly, "is just a fling."

A fling.

The two words echoed in the hollow depths of her chest. What she had dreamed of for years, what had seemed to her the most sacred, unattainable thing in the world, was nothing but a casual diversion to him.

A bitter, hysterical laugh nearly escaped her throat. She swallowed it back. All those years of silent, hopeless devotion. All for nothing.

Derrick must have seen the change in her expression. Something dark and conflicted flickered across his face, a brief inner struggle. But it passed quickly, replaced by the mask of cold detachment he always wore. He had made his decision. He would say nothing more.

Alaina took a deep, shaky breath, forcing back the burning tears behind her eyes.

"I see," she whispered. "You should get some rest."

She didn't look at him again. She turned, pulled open the heavy door, and stepped back out into the cold, cleansing rain.

Derrick stood in the doorway, watching her small, solitary figure disappear into the storm. The muscle in his jaw was tight, his hands clenched into fists inside the pockets of his robe. His face was as dark as thunder, darker than the night itself.

The windshield wipers of Alaina's beat-up Honda Civic fought a losing battle against the deluge. The rhythmic slap, slap, slap was the only sound in the car, a frantic counterpoint to the storm raging inside her.

Tears mixed with the rainwater on her cheeks, hot and useless. The cloying scent of Ashley's perfume was seared into her memory, a phantom smell that made her feel sick all over again.

An image flashed in her mind, unbidden. She was nine years old, cornered in the schoolyard by a group of older boys. They had knocked her books to the ground, were pulling her hair. And then he was there. A teenage Derrick, all long limbs and righteous fury, appearing like a god from a storybook. He'd placed himself in front of her, a solid, unmovable shield, and the boys had scattered. That was the day it had started, that quiet, secret seed of devotion.

Another thought surfaced-more distant, far less welcome-her birth mother, Erline Spencer. A woman she had almost convinced herself she no longer knew, a woman who had brought her into the Harmon family and then abandoned her without a second thought, leaving her to be bullied. This thought brought with it a profound, bone-chilling loneliness that seeped deep into her marrow. She was an island, and the tide was rising.

Her phone buzzed in the cup holder, a harsh, intrusive sound. It was a text from Cori Harmon, Derrick's niece and Alaina's reluctant stepsister.

Eclipse tonight. Don't be lame.

Alaina's first instinct was to ignore it. Cori had never seen her as anything more than a charity case, a parasite living off her family's wealth.

But the alternative was sitting alone in her small apartment, drowning in the silence and the memory of Derrick's silk robe. Right now, she craved noise. She craved the burn of alcohol, anything to numb the raw, gaping wound in her chest.

She typed back a single word. Fine.

The drive back to her off-campus apartment near Stanford was a blur. Inside, she moved on autopilot. She stripped off her wet clothes, leaving them in a heap on the floor. From the back of her closet, she pulled out a short, black slip dress she'd bought on a whim and never had the courage to wear.

In the bathroom mirror, she stared at her reflection. Pale skin, red-rimmed eyes, trembling lips. She looked broken. With a surge of defiant anger, she opened her makeup bag. She applied dark eyeliner, smoky eyeshadow, and a bold, red lipstick. She would paint a mask over the wreckage.

Hours later, the bass at Eclipse vibrated through the soles of her feet. The club was a chaotic sea of flashing lights, sweaty bodies, and music so loud it felt like a physical pressure against her eardrums. It was perfect.

She found a spot at the bar and ordered a whiskey, neat. The fiery liquid burned a welcome path down her throat. She ordered another.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in."

Alaina didn't have to turn to know it was Cori. She arrived with her usual entourage, Blair Kensington and Victoria Sinclair, their expensive dresses and perfect hair a stark contrast to Alaina's simple black slip.

Cori's eyes swept over Alaina in a deliberately insulting appraisal. "Isn't it the Harmon family's dirty little secret? What's the matter, Alaina? Did Uncle Derrick finally kick you out for good?"

Alaina took a long swallow of her whiskey, letting the burn anchor her. She met Cori's smug gaze in the mirror behind the bar but said nothing.

Blair Kensington, a blonde with a perpetually bored expression, giggled and put a hand to her mouth. "Be nice, Cori. She's a Stanford genius now, remember? Maybe Derrick's planning to leave the whole company to her."

The sarcasm was thick enough to taste.

"Oh, I don't think so," Victoria chimed in, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Not with what I heard. I heard Uncle Derrick is about to get engaged."

The words were a lightning strike in the noisy club. Alaina's hand tightened on her glass, her knuckles turning white. The low hum of her anxiety spiked into a piercing shriek.

She forced herself to look at Cori, her voice a low rasp. "What are you talking about?"

Cori's smile was triumphant, predatory. "You mean you don't know? The model. Ashley Vance. It was practically the first thing he did after you left tonight. The whole Bel Air gossip mill is buzzing. And you, living under his roof, you're the last to know. How pathetic is that?"

Engaged.

The word was a death sentence. It was worse than seeing Ashley in his robe, worse than his casual dismissal. It was final. It slammed the door on a fantasy she hadn't even realized she was still clinging to.

The symptoms she knew so well began to creep in. A low ringing in her ears. The flashing lights of the club started to blur, the edges of her vision turning fuzzy and dark. The room felt like it was tilting.

Cori saw the blood drain from her face and pressed her advantage, leaning in close, her voice a venomous whisper in Alaina's ear. "You didn't really think he'd ever want you, did you? Don't you remember what everyone used to say? The little orphan girl, trying to seduce her own guardian. So shameless."

The old rumors. The poison that had tainted her teenage years, whispered in hallways and behind cupped hands. They were rusty knives, and Cori was twisting them in old wounds.

Alaina's lungs seized. She couldn't draw a full breath. The whiskey churned in her stomach. The faces around her seemed to warp and mock her, their laughter mixing with the pounding music. She felt stripped bare, her most private, painful secret exposed under the harsh club lights.

She tried to form a denial, a retort, anything, but her throat closed up. All she could do was glare at Cori, a silent, helpless rage burning in her eyes.

Her look seemed to infuriate Cori further. "What are you looking at?" she snapped, her voice rising. "Am I wrong? Why don't you tell everyone here? Tell them you don't have disgusting thoughts about your own guardian."

The challenge hung in the air, drawing the attention of those nearby. Alaina was trapped, cornered, with nowhere to run.

Just as the darkness threatened to swallow her whole, a hand reached out and gently took the whiskey glass from her trembling fingers.

A calm, low voice cut through the noise from just above her. "Whether she does or not, what business is it of yours?"

Alaina's blurred vision swam upwards, tracing a path up a perfectly tailored suit to a strong jawline and a face she knew, but had not expected. A face that was both familiar and distant.

He stood against the chaotic backdrop of the club lights, a figure of impossible stillness and authority.

It was her cousin. Julian Rhodes IV.

Julian's presence was a sudden, solid wall between Alaina and the rest of the world. He didn't raise his voice, he didn't even look angry, but the air around him crackled with an unspoken authority. The scent of him-clean, expensive, a subtle mix of cedar and something faintly metallic-cut through the club's stale miasma of sweat and alcohol.

Cori Harmon, who moments before had been a vicious predator, visibly deflated. The sneer on her face was replaced by a look of wary resentment. The Harmon name carried weight in Los Angeles, but the Rhodes name was a dynasty.

Julian's dark eyes, however, weren't on Cori. They were fixed on Alaina's face, his expression unreadable as he took in her pale cheeks, her trembling hands, her too-bright lipstick.

Without a word, he shrugged off his tailored blazer. The fabric was a heavy, dark wool, impossibly soft. He draped it over her shoulders, covering her bare arms and the thin straps of her slip dress. It was warm from his body, and the simple weight of it was grounding, a shield against the prying eyes.

Only then did he turn his cool, measured gaze to Cori. His voice was quiet, yet it carried over the thumping bass with chilling clarity. "I wasn't aware the Harmons made a habit of letting their family be publicly humiliated."

He used the words "their family" and "publicly humiliated" like surgical instruments, simultaneously including Alaina as one of them while indicting Cori for failing to protect her.

Cori's face flushed a blotchy red. "Julian," she stammered, "this is family business."

A humorless smile touched Julian's lips. "Alaina is my cousin. Which makes this my business now."

He reached down and took Alaina's wrist. Her skin was ice-cold to his touch, and his brow tightened almost imperceptibly. He gently pulled her to her feet and tucked her against his side, a clear, non-negotiable gesture of protection.

Just then, a man with slicked-back hair and a roguish grin sauntered over, a drink in his hand. "Julian, my man. Not going to introduce me to your beautiful friend?"

It was Lance Beaumont, one of Julian's less reputable associates, known for his inherited wealth and his revolving door of girlfriends. His eyes roamed over Alaina with a practiced, predatory interest.

Julian's expression turned to ice. He shifted his body slightly, blocking Lance's view of Alaina. His voice dropped, losing all its politeness and leaving only a cold, hard warning. "She's not for you, Lance."

Lance blinked, taken aback by the sudden venom. He held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. "Hey, alright. Just asking." He quickly backed away, melting back into the crowd.

Julian guided Alaina away from the bar, his hand a firm, steady pressure on the small of her back. He led her toward a secluded booth in a quieter corner of the club.

From across the room, Julian's younger sister, Jasmine Rhodes, watched the entire exchange. She took a slow sip of her cranberry juice, her expression thoughtful.

Once they were settled in the plush leather booth, Julian flagged down a waitress and ordered a bottle of water and a warm towel, his voice a low murmur.

He placed the glass of water in front of Alaina. "Drink this. You've had enough whiskey."

Her fingers were still shaking as she picked up the glass. She kept her head down, her long hair falling forward to hide her face. She felt raw, exposed, and deeply ashamed that he had seen her like that.

Julian didn't press her. He didn't ask what had happened. He simply sat across from her, a silent, imposing guardian, giving her the space to breathe. The silence wasn't awkward; it was a comfort, a quiet room she could retreat into.

After a long time, her voice emerged, barely a whisper. "Thank you."

His gaze remained on her, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly before the cool, controlled heir to the Rhodes fortune was back in place.

"You don't need to thank me," he said, his tone even. "But you do need to learn to protect yourself, Alaina."

It sounded like a lecture, the kind of thing Derrick might say. But coming from Julian, it felt different. Beneath the stern words, she heard a note of genuine concern.

She finally lifted her head and really looked at him. She had known him her whole life, in a distant, formal way. He was the brilliant, intimidating older cousin from the East Coast, the one who always seemed to be judging her from afar. He was everything she wasn't: powerful, confident, born into a world of unimaginable privilege.

She had always assumed he looked down on her, the charity case, the troubled girl taken in by a lesser branch of the family.

But tonight, he wasn't the distant cousin. He was the only person who had stepped out of the shadows to help her. He was an anchor in the storm that had threatened to pull her under.

This unexpected sanctuary, offered by the last person she ever would have expected, was a strange and confusing comfort. Staring at his calm, handsome profile, Alaina realized that her understanding of Julian Rhodes IV was, perhaps, completely and utterly wrong.