His brows lift slightly.
“You fell into their trap,” I continue, voice low but furious. “You let them goad and twist you around, giving them exactly what they wanted.”
He swallows. “Ella—“
“No,” I cut in. “I’m talking. You’re listening.”
A muscle jumps in his jaw.
“You don’t get to act like your self-control went on break,” I snap. “Not when you know exactly how they are. Not when you had everything going for you. Not when—“ My voice catches, and his expression shifts.
“Not when what?” he asks softly.
I look up at him, at the man who defended me without hesitation, who let himself be humiliated, cuffed, dragged out… because someone insulted me.
My throat tightens. “Not when I care,” I whisper.
His eyes soften in a way that nearly breaks me. For a long moment, neither of us moves. The station feels too small, quiet, and charged. Something electric hums between us, warm and dangerous.
But then I take a breath, step back, and put space between us. “We’re not done talking about this,” I warn him. “Not even close.”
He nods slowly. “Okay.”
“And don’t expect me to congratulate you for surviving an arrest.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replies, looking like he’s fighting a smile.
I lift my chin. “But I am still inviting you for drinks.”
He blinks. “You… are?”
“Yes,” I nod, crossing my arms. “Because we’re celebrating.”
“Celebrating what?”
I stare at him, disbelief spreading through me. “Cole, you still have the job.”
His brows knit. “I… what?”
“You don’t remember? Did Toby hit you too? You were there when Dad announced it. The family agreed that you’re the contractor we need for this project,” I remind him.
He looks stunned, like someone pulled the ground out from under him. “But after the punch,” he croaks hoarsely, “after the arrest—“
“My family isn’t that gullible. They saw the footage and know you’re not in the wrong.”
His throat works.
“And Cole,” I finish gently, “your presentation was extraordinary. There is no way they changed their mind because of those stupid fools. They loved your proposal, and I did too.”
For a moment, he doesn’t speak. Then his shoulders drop, not in defeat, but in a release so deep it looks like it unravels him from the inside. Relief, disbelief, and something rawer flicker through his eyes.
He exhales shakily. “I… don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I whisper. “Not yet.”
He nods, still stunned. I walk past him toward the door, heart pounding.
“Come on, big guy,” I call over my shoulder. “Drinks are on you. You owe me for the emotional trauma.”
