WHEN LOVE FOUND US

Also By Claudia Burgoa

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When Love Found Us is also available in Audio.

Standalones

Before We Break Again

The Sound of Forever

The Fault in Forever

Famous Last Words

Chasing Fireflies

Until I Fall

Finding My Reason

Something Like Hate

Someday, Somehow

The Timberbridge Brothers

Pretend We Are Us

Under the Same Sky

Where Love Found Us

Midnight Between Us

The Last Call Home

The Baker’s Creek Billionaire Brothers Series

Loved You Once

A Moment Like You

Defying Our Forever

Call You Mine

As We Are

Yours to Keep

Collide with Me

Paradise Bay Billionaire Brothers

My Favorite Night

Faking The Game

Can’t Help Love

Along Came You

My Favorite Mistake

The Way of Us

Meant For Me

Finally Found You

Where We Belong

Against All Odds Series

Wrong Text, Right Love

Didn’t Expect You

Love Like Her

Until Next Time, Love

Something Like Love

Accidentally in Love

Decker Family Novels

Unexpected Everlasting:

Suddenly Broken

Suddenly Us

Somehow Everlasting:

Almost Strangers

Strangers in Love

Perfect Everlasting:

Who We Are

Who We Love

Us After You

Covert Affair Duet:

After The Vows

Love After Us

The Downfall of Us:

The End of Me

When Forever Finds Us

Requiem for Love:

Reminders of Her

The Symphony of Us

Impossibly Possible:

The Lies About Forever

The Truth About Love

Ice, Love, & Other Penalties

Second Chance Sinners Duet

Pieces of Us

Somehow Finding Us

Chaotic Love Duet

Begin with You

Back to You

The Spearman Brothers

Maybe Later

Then He Happened

Once Upon a Holiday

Almost Perfect

Luna Harbor

Finally You

Perfectly You

Always You

Truly You

My One

My One Regret

My One Desire

The Everhart Brothers

Fall for Me

Fight for Me

Perfect for Me

Forever with Me

Kentbury Tales

Christmas in Kentbury

Fall in Kentbury

Love in Kentbury

Summer in Kentbury

Harvest Season in Kentbury

Winter in Kentbury

New Year in Kentbury

All my books are interconnected standalone, except for the duets, but if you want a reading order, I have it here ➺ Reading Order

IMPORTANT NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Dear Reader,

I write highly emotional romances that include thought provoking subjects. If you would like to see a list of them, please check the link below with more information.

The Way of us is the #5 in the Paradise Bay Billionaire Brothers series.

TW Website

Happy Reading,

Claudia

Dedication

To every adult who grew up too fast, who scans every room for exits, who thinks about running even when they’re safe—we are not broken.

We’re just learning what safety and love are supposed to feel like.

Epigraph

“Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.”

— Rumi

Prologue

Henrietta

Some cages don’t come with locks. They’re built from control—subtle, suffocating. You don’t see the walls closing in until your world feels smaller, your choices no longer your own, and freedom is just a memory.

I know this because I’ve lived it.

Though, it didn’t start as a prison.

It never does.

In the beginning, it felt like safety. Like love. He was charming and attentive and knew exactly how to make me feel like I was the only person in the world. I believed it—believed him—convinced that his devotion meant something that would become my happily ever after. Love. Forever.

I should’ve seen the signs. The way his hold lingered a little too long when I tried to step away. How his voice was gentle in public but sharp behind closed doors. The rules started small—skip that dress. It’s too revealing. Don’t stay out so late. Maybe avoid talking to him. Warnings wrapped in concern, slowly closing in until there was no room left. Until I was trapped.

Then came the first time.

Not a punch. It never starts that way. It was his fingers tightening around my wrist, squeezing until I wondered if something might break. Then, there was a rough tug of my hair when I said something he didn’t like. A shove against the counter, his voice dripping with venom. And, of course, there were the apologies, the gifts, and the whispered promises that it would never happen again.

But it did.

Again and again, until I stopped counting the bruises hidden beneath long sleeves and carefully blended makeup. Until, I learned to recognize the warning in his eyes, and the shift in his mood before he lashed out. Until I started believing it was my fault.

Because that’s what he told me.

If you didn’t provoke me, I wouldn’t have to do this.

If you just listened, I wouldn’t get so angry.

If you didn’t push me, Henrietta, I wouldn’t have to remind you.

Last night, he reminded me.

That I was nothing.

That he owned me.

That my fate—whether I lived or died—was his decision to make.

My jaw aches where his palm struck, a dull throb matching the bruise blooming beneath my collarbone. My skin stings where his fingers wrapped around my throat, squeezing just long enough to prove how easily he could take everything.

And that was it.

That was the moment something inside me fractured beyond repair. Because if I stay, one day, he will take everything.

Which is why I’m standing on the edge of something terrifying. Something I never thought I’d be willing to do. But I have to. There’s no other choice.

This might be my only chance to escape, to . . . survive.

Long ago, I used to be someone else. I don’t know if I can be her again, but I can build something new. A life where I get to decide who I am.

But can I?

His words still play on repeat in the back of my mind. You won’t make it without me, Henrietta. You’re nothing without me.

I used to believe him, believe that I was nothing.

Not anymore.

Leaving is my only option. I have to escape because the alternative . . . I refuse to consider it. I don’t know if I’ll succeed, but I’d rather fail trying than die standing still.

I stare at the duffel bag lying open on my bed. What does a lifetime of control look like when you strip it down to the essentials?

Not much.

Two pairs of jeans. A few shirts. Tossed in without thought, practical, forgettable. No fancy makeup, just the essentials. A few pieces of jewelry my parents gave me when I was young—reminders of who I used to be. I’m taking them not because I want the memories, but because maybe they can be pawned to help me start a new life.

My grip tightens on the zipper because they were the ones who pushed this marriage. Did they really believe this was good for me? That this was love?

The only time I told my mother what was happening, she brushed it aside. He’s your husband, Henrietta. You should be asking yourself what you’re doing wrong for him to have to teach you how to behave.

The closet smells like him. His expensive cologne lingers in the fabric of tailored suits and designer dresses, all hanging in perfect rows—curated for a life that was never mine. But behind them, tucked away for months, is my secret.

A jar stuffed with cash. Fake IDs—Freedom, waiting.

My escape plan.

My chance.

I shove the closet doors shut. Walk away without looking back.

In the bathroom, I grab a small bag of toiletries. My reflection in the mirror stops me. The woman staring back looks composed, poised, polished. A stranger in her own skin. Someone who has spent years perfecting the role she was forced to play.

Fear presses in, testing the limits of what I can hold together. And then, the questions swirling inside my head: What if he finds me? What if I fail? What if⁠—

No.

I refuse to think like that. Not now. Not when I’m finally choosing to fight.

In the corner of my room, a worn, oversized hoodie peeks out from a pile of forgotten clothes. The only thing I ever bought for myself—an impulsive purchase from a lifetime ago, when I still believed in small freedoms. Soft, comfortable, unremarkable.

I pull it on, and for the first time in years, I feel like me.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand.

I don’t need to look to know it’s him. Winston, checking in. He’s been calling nonstop since this morning’s argument—when I said I wanted a job, a life beyond the walls of this house. When I told him no, I wouldn’t spend another holiday pretending, wouldn’t smile while he disappeared on business.

Business. His excuse. His permission slip. The reason his mistress gets to live unburdened while I play the role of devoted wife.

He thinks I’ll always be here when he comes home.

He’s wrong.

The only time I confronted him about it . . . well, I ended up with a broken arm. After that, I tried hard not to disagree with him. Not to argue about the other woman. I’ve been trying hard to be who he wants me to be, thinking that I’ll survive.

That was until today.

Today, everything will change. He’s supposed to be gone until tomorrow night, which makes this my only chance to leave.

I silence the phone, tossing it onto the bed and grabbing a small notebook from the drawer instead. It’s old, the cover worn from years of handling. Inside are scribbled dreams, memories—fragments of who I used to be, someone who felt safe and whole once upon a time.

I tuck it gently into the duffel, my hands trembling.

Footsteps echo down the hallway, sudden and unmistakable. My body goes rigid. My heart crashes into my ribs, every muscle tenses, and my breath stills in my throat. Thankfully, I locked the door so the nosy maid wouldn’t be checking on me. She gets a kick out of my misery.

“Henrietta?” His voice is deceptively calm, controlled—but I recognize the hidden warning beneath the velvet tone. He doesn’t knock. He never does.

My gaze darts to the packed bag, pulse surging.

What is he doing here? He shouldn’t be home. Not yet.

I haul the duffel up, muscles straining against the ache and urgency flooding through me. Trembling fingers shove the window open, the old frame groaning in protest. The warm night air brushes against my skin, thick and humid, grounding me in the reality of what I’m about to do.

One leg over the sill. Then the other.

“Henrietta, I know you’re in there. Open the fucking door.”

The handle rattles hard, violently—metal clanging against metal, a brutal warning of his anger, his impatience. Another jolt, harder this time. He’s done waiting.

My pulse spikes. There’s no turning back.

I shove the duffel through the window and follow, hitting the ground with a jarring thud. My knees absorb the impact, but the weight of the bag yanks me forward. I catch myself, breath coming fast and uneven as I press low to the earth. The scent of damp soil clings to the air, thick and heady, but it does nothing to steady me.

Inside, a loud thud—a fist slamming against the door. Then his voice, loud and seething.

“Henrietta, I swear you’re going to pay for this.”

Inside, the pounding at the door grows louder, more furious. But I don’t dare glance back.

The car I arranged waits several houses away, engine idling softly. I sprint toward it, bag bouncing painfully against my hip. My breath catches as I yank open the passenger door, startling the driver.

“Ms. Owens?”

Now I’m Silvie Owens, and if that doesn’t work, I have a few other names to spare. Hopefully he won’t find me.

“Just drive . . .” It was supposed to be the bus stop, but Winston is here, and he might look there first. He’ll find me. I slide into the seat, thoughts racing wildly. The car is booked under another name, which is anonymous enough. No one saw where I came from. Nobody will know where I’m going—at least, not yet.

“Yes, but where am I going?”

“Maryland,” I say abruptly. “Head toward Maryland.” My voice quivers, but my grip tightens fiercely on the bag, as though clinging to this new life will make it real.

As the car accelerates, leaving the neighborhood behind, I risk one final glance at the neighborhood. Towering windows glow with deceptive warmth, a facade promising a happiness I’ve never felt. A place filled with wealth, power, and the absolute control of assholes who think we’re objects and not people. The house that trapped my silence, the doors that kept me locked away, the floors that absorbed my quiet desperation.

Pain pulses through my ribs, and I press a careful hand against my side, feeling the fresh bruises bloom beneath my fingertips. That was the last time. After that . . . no more. My wrist is stiff where he wrenched it too far—just enough to remind me who he thinks I belong to.

But I’m leaving all of that behind now—his expectations, his demands, the suffocating blueprint he designed for my life, shaping me into something convenient, obedient, and small.

The further I travel from him, from that life, the lighter I become, though my body still aches and my breath trembles. Fear clings to the broken parts of me, whispering uncertainties. But beneath that fear, something else begins to rise—faint, unfamiliar, and beautifully fragile.

Freedom.

For the first time in years—maybe ever—I can almost believe I’ll finally learn how to breathe again.

Chapter One

Atlas

The hum of the tattoo gun fades into the background as Keiffer, one of the owners of the Ink Art Gallery, finishes up with his last client of the night.

I lean back against the counter, rolling the tension out of my neck. It’s late—past closing—but the shop still carries the scent of ink, antiseptic, and the faint trace of aftershave from the guy I worked on earlier. Outside, the rain has settled into a mist, streetlights flickering against the slick pavement. Seattle never really sleeps, but the shop is quiet now, just Sanford and me at the worn wooden counter, a half-empty bottle of whiskey between us.

He’s here for one reason—to convince me to go back to Birchwood Springs. Not because my brothers need me. They don’t. But because there’s a lot happening in that tiny town in Vermont. The one I swore I’d never set foot in it again. I meant it, too. And yet, I couldn’t stay away. Therese Smith had a way of making me do things I swore I wouldn’t. I don’t know if stepmother is the right word for what she was to me, but she sure as hell acted like one—bossing me around, making sure I didn’t entirely fall off the rails. And I let her because the fuckers she actually birthed were too busy being assholes all over the world.

When she died, I told myself that was it. I was done. No more Birchwood Springs. No more family obligations.

However things changed when, Nysa, my best friend, got herself in trouble, and there I was again, making sure she didn’t get herself killed. Once I knew she was safe, I left. But Sanford isn’t letting this go.

“You need to go back.” He exhales, tipping his glass toward me.

I grunt. “I’m good here. In fact, I can head to New York if Seattle doesn’t want me anymore.”

“Bullshit.”

I don’t look at him. Instead, I focus on the way the whiskey catches the dim light, swirling in my glass like it holds some kind of answer. It doesn’t.

“I go back, and what?” I say finally. “Nothing’s changed. I just want them to sell the fucking Old Birchwood Timber company. I could use that money to actually do something with my life.”

Sanford scoffs. “Everything’s changed, kid. You just haven’t been paying attention.”

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. “You talk like you’ve got a lifetime of wisdom when you’re, what? Six, seven years older than me?”

He doesn’t react, just takes a slow sip of whiskey, like he’s the picture of patience. He’s been on me about this since we left Birchwood Springs.

And yeah, I could handle whatever mess is brewing in town. What I don’t want is to deal with my brothers.

Malerick, the oldest, is now the sheriff. Who goes from FBI agent to small-town cop? Apparently, my dumbass brother. Then there’s Ledger, whose hockey career went up in flames after an injury. Now, he’s pretending to run the family business.

Hopper is the town vet and, somehow, engaged to my best friend. So even though I’d rather not deal with him, I don’t have a choice. The only way to keep the peace is to stay far away.

And thank fuck Keir is . . . well, I don’t even know what he’s doing, but at least he’s not my problem.

This is why I live out of a duffel bag. A guest in someone else’s tattoo parlor, in someone else’s city. No roots, no expectations, no past clawing at my heels.

Sanford watches me, rolling his glass between his hands. The man is built like a brick wall, sleeves pushed up to reveal ink-covered forearms. He doesn’t just talk—he follows through. I met him years ago, back when I was trying to pay my way through college. The trust fund Therese kindly created for me covered tuition, but I had to figure out the rest. He got me odd jobs and introduced me to Kevin and Anderson Hawkins, the original owners of this tattoo parlor.

Sanford and his friends have this tight-knit crew that operates like a family—some of them are family. They take strays like me and make them their own. I’ve worked for all of them. And I mean all of them. At one point, I was even a roadie for Sanford’s band—Too Far From Grace.

From everything I’ve done, I chose to stick to being a tattoo artist. That’s the closest I can get to publishing comic books. Sometimes, I wonder if I will ever finish something so I can publish it or if I’m just attached to an idea that doesn’t fit into who I am anymore.

“You’ve been floating for too long,” Sanford says. “Drifting from one shop to the next, never staying long enough to put your name on the goddamn door. You’re good, Atlas. One of the best I’ve seen. People fly to other states and countries just to get a tattoo from you. But you’re wasting your talent playing guest artist year after year.”

I huff a laugh. “I like the freedom. Not everyone is like you, wanting stability, a house, and the family.”

He doesn’t flinch. “You like running because you haven’t found your home. I was there once. I might’ve had a place to live, but I was running because I was missing the pieces of my heart.”

My jaw tightens, but I don’t argue. He’s right. I don’t have a fucking heart.

Sanford leans forward, elbows on the counter. “Listen. I’ve got money to invest. And I don’t throw my cash at just anyone. But you? You’re worth it. You set up shop in Birchwood Springs, and I’ll back you. Equipment, lease, whatever you need to get started.”

I stare at him. “Why?”

He shrugs. “Because I believe in you. And because you’re too damn stubborn to believe in yourself.”

I rub a hand down my face. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is, but also, we need eyes there,” Sanford counters and there it is . . . they need a someone to watch around. “Your brothers need more help than they want to admit. And Cassian just bought the bar. You got people there. People who give a fuck about you.”

“Yeah, I still don’t get why Cassian is suddenly a bartender,” I state. “And in Birchwood Springs of all the places.”

He shrugs. “You could give him a hand while you’re setting up shop.”

I let out a slow breath. Cass is probably doing more than just bartending. I know he’s an agent for the high intelligence company his brother-in-law owns. This is probably a nice way to ask me to be there, keeping an eye on the town. We know bad people are hanging out there, trying to take it over.

Fuck, I really hate that everything always ends up having to do with Birchwood Springs and me being stuck there. Even from the beginning. I was born and raised in Boston. Mom was sweet and one of the best people in the world. Dad was absent, but when he visited, he was loving. That’s how I remember my life up until I was six and Mom died.

Things all of a sudden went from a happy average life to a fucked-up nightmare where I was dragged away from my home into a small town where I had four older brothers who hated me. Their mother was cold with me. Until one day she took pity on me and decided to feed me, and treat me better than anyone else in that home.

“Give it a couple of years,” he insists. “If it doesn’t work, then we sell it.”

I shake my head. “Something tells me this is more than just about the shop.”

He nods.

“Of course it is. What else do you need?”

“Me?” He shakes his head. “Nothing. I saw how even when you pretend not to give two fucks you care about them—your brothers. It’s family. You didn’t have a great childhood, but maybe you can have a good relationship now that you’re adults.”

I laugh. I seriously laugh at his logic. He’s not the only one obsessed with my relationship with my siblings. Everyone who knows me swears things can get better. Doubtful.

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