We’ve missed the fight.
We’ve missed the clarity of it. The certainty. The justice. Nothing steadies your soul quite like taking the life of a man who deserves to lose it.
My gaze drops to my knuckles again. The skin is split. Angry. Throbbing. The pain is grounding, something real to focus on when everything else feels like it’s slipping through my hands.
Eden.
I drain half the glass in one swallow. Diesel’s right, I’ve got to make shit right before we get in too deep with Nathan Cole. I need her now more than ever.
“Jet,” I mutter, clearing my throat. “Eden back yet?”
Jet blinks, then slaps her forehead. “Fuck, knew I forgot something.” She digs into her back pocket and pulls out a crumpled envelope. “Sorry, it got a little battered.” She smooths it on the bar, but it doesn’t help. She gives a sheepish shrug and pushes it toward me. “She asked me to give this to you.”
I stare at my name scrawled across the front. My frown deepens. “When?” I ask. She stares at me blankly. “When?” I bark louder, startling her.
Jet freezes, her eyes going wide. “This morning,” she says slowly. “Just before she left.” She glances around nervously. “Are you okay, Pres?” Her voice fades under the rushing in my ears.
This morning.Before she left.
Left.
The word slams into me like a blade, sharp and merciless.
I pick up the envelope with hands that suddenly don’t feel like they belong to me. And for the first time in my life, I’m terrified to open something with my name on it.
I make my way to the office on autopilot, limbs heavy, chest tighter with every step. I slam the door hard, then twist the lock until it clicks.
Silence.Just me and the fucking envelope.
I drop into my chair, the leather sighing beneath me, and the envelope sits there on the desk like a ticking time bomb. My name staring back at me in her handwriting—soft curves, neat letters.
Eden’s never written me a letter. If she had something to say, she said it. Or shouted it. Or cried it. But she neverwroteit.
My stomach churns.
I reach for my phone, anything to delay opening the damn thing.
The screen lights up. There are no texts, no missed calls, not even a voice message.
She left at half past eight this morning. I remember because I checked my watch when she rushed out the door for her appointment. She wouldn’t even look at me properly.
It’s now gone seven. And the sun’s disappearing behind the rooftops, casting long shadows across the yard.
And she isn’t home.
I rest my elbows on the desk and press my fingers against my temples, trying to breathe past the rising panic. She wouldn’t just walk away. Would she?
My chest tightens. I’ve spent the last few weeks telling myself we’ll work things out, that we’ll figure it out once I’ve sorted the club and Jimmy, once I’ve sortedeverything.
But what if she got tired of waiting?
The answer is in front of me. I know that. But I’m too much of a fucking coward to open it.
I grab a bottle of Vodka from my drawer and unscrew the cap. I take a large gulp, wincing at the bitter taste, before forcing myself to swallow it down. And then, I set the bottle down and snatch the letter, ripping it open before I can change my mind.
Kade,
I don’t know how to start this, so I’m just going to write the truth.
