“God, I’m going to miss you,” I murmur against his shoulder.
He hugs me back, strong and sure, like he’s been holding me together longer than I realized.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Me too. But you know where I am if you need anything.”
I nod, but I don’t look back as I walk away. If I do, I might fall apart.
The apartment feels hollow when I arrive home. Gracie’s gone — off chasing California sunsets before college ties her down. The silence creeps into everything. No music. No half-drunk icedcoffee abandoned on the counter—just me and four walls and the crushing weight of what’s left.
I sit on the edge of the couch, the box still by my feet, untouched. My hands are shaking. My chest aches.
I was in love with him.
The thought hits like a brick to the ribs. Not lust. Not infatuation. Love. I was falling, and he was never there to catch me. He didn’t even try.
A sob claws its way up, but I gulp it back down. The world doesn’t stop just because your heart does.
Rent’s still due. Bills don’t pause for heartbreak.
I click open my phone, fingers hovering over the search button, and start scrolling through job listings. Mind numb. Eyes dry. The same mindless cycle of ‘entry-level but five years’ experience required’ and ‘competitive salary’ that never means what you want it to.
An hour passes before I click into my email. I almost miss it, tucked between bank statements and spam.
A reply.
The application I sent, when Chase started pulling away, when something inside me had already known this was coming, even if I didn’t want to admit it.
They don’t have a position locally. But they have one.
London.
The city I’ve dreamed about since I was old enough to pin maps on my wall. A place I never thought I’d go.
I stare at the email, my heart skipping once, then twice, and before I can second-guess myself, I hit reply.
I’ll come for the interview.
When I finally swipe out of my phone, the silence doesn’t seem quite so suffocating. For the first time all day, it feels like maybe—just maybe—the world hasn’t completely closed in.
I glance at the photo still sitting on my shelf. My mother, her smile wide and bright, frozen in time.
It feels like her. Like she’s still here. Like she sent me the sign I needed, just when I couldn’t see past the ruins.
People always think of grief as loss, which it undoubtedly is. But with the loss comes strength.
The strength of knowing someone is watching over you. Guiding you. Ready to step in when you reach your darkest moments.
And I think — maybe this is her.
Maybe this is her saving me.
Chapter twenty-seven
Chase
“Not now, Austen,” I snap, storming past a wide-eyed Bethany, and slamming my office door so hard the entire building seems to shake.
Austen must have a death wish as he follows me, anyway. I rip off my suit jacket and toss it over my chair, pinching my temples, tension coiling so tight, I feel like I might explode.
