Too Late, Guardian: I Choose Him Now

The cold October rain slapped against Alaina Spencer's face, but she barely felt it.

Her entire focus was on the brown paper bag clutched against her chest. It was still warm from the pharmacy, a small point of heat against the chilling dampness that had soaked through her thin jacket.

She punched the code into the gate's keypad, her fingers fumbling slightly. The heavy iron gates of Derrick Harmon's Bel Air estate swung inward with a silent, imposing grace. Alaina hurried up the long, winding driveway, the gravel crunching under her worn-out sneakers.

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

For a moment, she hesitated, a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in her stomach. Then she remembered the housekeeper's worried call-Derrick had a high fever, was refusing to see a doctor, and had sent all the staff home. The thought of him being sick and alone pushed her forward.

She imagined his surprise, maybe even a flicker of warmth in his usually guarded gray eyes. That sliver of hope was all she needed.

She stepped inside.

The foyer was dark, lit only by a faint, ambient glow from the second-floor landing. The air was heavy and still, but something was wrong. It was a scent. A cloying, sweet perfume she didn't recognize, something like gardenia and vanilla. It hung in the air like a foreign entity, a sharp needle to her senses that pricked at the fragile bubble of her hope.

Her heart gave a painful thud against her ribs. She took a step forward, her sneakers silent on the marble floor. The feeling of dread was a physical thing, a cold weight settling deep in her gut, making it hard to breathe.

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

It was 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 stretch of pale leg and the curve of her collarbone. She moved with a languid, self-assured grace that screamed of intimacy with her surroundings.

Alaina recognized her instantly. Ashley Vance. A model whose face was plastered on half the billboards along Sunset Boulevard.

Ashley's eyes, heavily lined in black, widened in brief surprise when she saw Alaina standing dripping in the foyer. The surprise quickly melted into something else-a cool, calculated look of amusement and disdain. Her gaze flickered down to the warm paper bag in Alaina's hands, and a small, knowing smile played on her perfectly glossed lips.

"Oh, it's you. Alaina."

Her voice was smooth, coated in honeyed condescension.

"Derrick's feeling much better now," Ashley continued, descending another step, letting the robe fall open just a little more. "I took very good care of him."

The words hit Alaina like a physical blow. The warmth from the medicine bag suddenly felt scorching, a burning brand of her own foolishness against her chest. Her blood ran cold, a freezing tide that started in her toes and rushed all the way to her scalp.

Her mind went blank. The only sounds were the frantic, useless beating of her own heart and the steady drumming of the rain against the roof.

A voice, rough with sleep, drifted down from the top of the stairs. "Ashley? Who's down there?"

Derrick.

He appeared a moment later, pulling on a dark gray bathrobe. His dark hair was damp, clinging to his forehead, and his handsome face was etched with fatigue. When he saw Alaina standing by the door, a complex emotion flickered across his features-annoyance, surprise, and something else she couldn't name. His brow furrowed.

Ashley immediately glided to his side, linking her arm through his and resting her head on his shoulder. It was a gesture of pure ownership, a flag planted for Alaina to see.

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

Alaina felt an invisible hand clench around her heart, squeezing so tightly that she thought she might double over. She forced herself to stand straight, to lift her chin. She walked to the ornate console table by the door and placed the paper bag on its polished surface.

Her voice, when she finally found it, was unnaturally calm, stripped of all emotion. "I heard you were sick. I brought you some medicine."

Derrick's gaze fell to the bag, and the complexity in his eyes deepened. He looked like he wanted to say something, but the words that came out were clipped and useless. "Thank you."

Ashley let out a little laugh, a tinkling sound that shattered the tense silence. "That's sweet of you, but it's not necessary anymore. Derrick, I'm getting hungry. Let's go find something to eat, shall we?"

Derrick looked at Alaina's pale, rain-streaked face, his jaw tight. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before turning to Ashley. "You go on to the kitchen. I'll be there in a minute."

After Ashley disappeared down the hall, the foyer was filled once again with the sound of the rain. Derrick walked closer. He still carried the scent of the shower, of his own familiar soap, but it was tainted, mixed with that sickeningly sweet perfume. The combination made Alaina's stomach churn.

He stopped a few feet from her, his expression shifting back to the one she knew best-the cool, appraising look of a guardian. "It's late. And it's pouring. Did you drive yourself over here?"

The question, so mundane, so paternal, was another twist of the knife.

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.

He shifted under her gaze, a rare sign of discomfort. He looked away, toward the rain-lashed windows. "Ashley," he began, his voice low, "is just a casual fling."

Casual fling.

The two words echoed in the vast, empty space of her chest. What she had spent years dreaming of, what felt to her like the most sacred, unattainable thing in the world, was just a casual pastime for him.

A bitter, hysterical laugh threatened to bubble up from her throat. She choked it down. All those years of quiet, hopeless devotion. All for nothing.

Derrick must have seen the shift in her expression. A flicker of something dark and conflicted crossed his face, a brief, internal war. But just as quickly, it was gone, replaced by the cool, detached mask he always wore. He had made his decision. He would offer no more.

Alaina took a deep, shuddering breath, forcing back the tears that burned behind her eyes.

"I understand," she said, her voice a mere whisper. "You should get some rest."

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

Derrick stood in the doorway, watching her small, solitary figure disappear into the storm. The muscles in his jaw worked, and his hands, hidden in the pockets of his robe, clenched into tight fists. His face was a mask of thunder, darker than the night itself.