It's protecting her. She's strong. She'll recover. She'll find someone better—someone who isn't broken beyond repair.
I'll go back to control and safety. Back to the life I built before she walked into it and turned everything upside down.
The logic is sound. The plan is clear.
So why does it feel like I'm about to destroy the only real thing I've ever had?
***
By the time I reach my penthouse, I've rehearsed what I'll say a dozen times. Each version sounds more hollow than the last.
It's 7:30. I have thirty minutes.
I pour a scotch I don't drink. Pace the living room. Try not to think about London. About how she looked at me when I told her about my parents. About how she didn't run.
My phone buzzes with reminders I ignore. Texts from Lottie I delete without reading.
At 7:45, I catch my reflection in the window. The man staring back looks like my father—cold, controlled, ready to hurt someone to maintain that control.
I think about my mother's face. The way she used to smile at me before my father's rage became all-consuming. The way she stayed anyway, convinced her love could save him.
It couldn't. Love didn't save her. It got her killed.
I won't do that to Bailey. I won't make her waste her life trying to save someone who's already broken.
The choice is clear: become my father, desperate and clinging, or end it now while I still have the strength.
I check my watch. 7:55.
Any minute now, she'll knock on that door. She'll look at me with those dark eyes full of hope and trust and something that looks dangerously like love.
And I'll destroy it all.
Because that's what I do. I destroy things before they can destroy me.
The knock comes at exactly 8:00.
I take one last breath. Feel the armor slide into place—cold, impenetrable, final.
I open the door.
Bailey stands in the hallway wearing a blue dress I've never seen before. Her hair is down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders.She's nervous—I can see it in the way she's gripping her purse, in the slight tremor of her smile.
"Hi," she says softly.
"Come in."
She enters, and I close the door behind her. The click of the lock sounds like a cell door slamming shut.
She sets her purse on the console table, turns to face me. "Thanks for meeting with me. I know things have been... complicated."
I don't move from my position by the door. Keep the physical distance between us. If I get too close, I'll lose my nerve.
"Daniel?" She takes a step toward me. "Are you okay? You seem—"
"Before you say anything," I interrupt, my voice colder than I intend, "I need to tell you something."
Her smile falters. "Okay..."
