At 9 PM, I’m alone at my desk with a blank document open. Bree is outside, at her own desk, her back to me.
Thank you for being here when I need you most, Bree.
The cursor blinks. The building is silent except for the hum of the HVAC system.
Itype.
Delete.
Type again.
The words are harder than I expected. Honesty is a muscle I haven’t exercised in years.
By 11 PM, I have something. Three paragraphs. Two hundred words. The most terrifying thing I’ve ever written.
The story is true.
Ten years ago, I attempted to manipulate my brother into leaving the woman who is now his wife. I used his guilt over a childhood trauma to pressure him into ending his relationship because I wanted what he had. Because I wanted him to experience what it felt like to be abandoned and betrayed.
It was cowardly. It was cruel. It was wrong.
I was in my early twenties, angry, and drowning in grief I hadn’t processed. None of that excuses what I did. Dom and I reconciled years ago. He forgave me before I could forgive myself. I carry the shame of that choice every day.
I can’t change who I was. I can only choose who I am now.
And I choose to stop hiding.
I read it three times. Looking for weaknesses. Exit ramps. Ways to soften the blow.
There aren’t any. It’s raw and ugly and true.
I email it to Bree.
Three minutes later, she appears in my doorway, her eyes bright.
“It’s good,” she says quietly. “It’s you.”
I smile wanly. “It’ll destroy me.”
“Maybe.” She walks to my desk. Sits on the edge the way she’s done a dozen times before. But this time she takes my hand. “But so what? At least you went out fighting. And with your head held high.”
I nod. “I did. Didn’t I? Told the truth, for once. Instead of hiding behind my glass walls.”
She smiles. “You let me inside, earlier today.”
I squeeze her hand. “I did. And it’s time to let the world in, I guess.”
I schedule the release for 6 AM. Copy my PR team so they have time to prepare for the fallout. Copy Larissa so she can handle whatever legal shitstorm is coming.
Then I shut down my computer and look at the woman sitting on my desk.
“Come home with me tonight.” Not a command. A request. “Not for anything. Just. Stay. Be with me.”
She doesn’t answer with words. Just slides off the desk, collects her bag, and walks toward the elevator.
I follow.
Indira has the SUV waiting in the garage. Callahan opens the door for us, then sits in the passenger seat.
