They circle relentlessly.
Matthew’s words from last night echo with sickening clarity:
It’s only a matter of time.
The petition… pointless.All that effort, Lou’s passionate support, Helen’s determination… all for nothing because Bancroft simply doesn’t care?
The thought feels like a lead weight in my gut.
Then there’s James and his ultimatum.Next Friday at Hydra.A performance designed to humiliate me so he can save face while I secure… what?
A repayment plan I can barely afford, for a café that’s doomed anyway?
And beyond all that, the question I shoved down last night surfaces now with icy certainty:
Where will I even live?
The apartment is his.
One more piece of wreckage in the pile.
Last night’s drunken oblivion at Hydra solved nothing.The problems didn’t disappear; they just waited patiently for the alcohol to wear off.
I sip the coffee.The heat traces a path down my throat, but it offers no soothing comfort.
I’m backed into a corner.
I have no moves left.
Despair pulls at me, but I resist.I can’t just give up.Lou and Helen have been knocking on doors with unwavering faith.
They believe we can fight this.
But am I just in denial?Am I clinging desperately to a fantasy while the ship sinks beneath me?
There must be something else.
Another move.
There must besomething.
I stare blankly at the still surface of the water.Darkness swirls behind my eyes, dimming the bright morning sun.
How can this place feel so peaceful when my world is imploding?
I can’t afford to acknowledge how truly, completely screwed I am—
The soft click of the metal latch pulls me back.I turn my head, body tensing instinctively.
Matthew walks in, letting the gate swing shut behind him.He’s showered and changed.Dark black jeans replace the sweatpants; a light grey shirt is tucked neatly at the waist, sleeves rolled to reveal muscular forearms and the glint of a silver watch.His dark hair is still slightly damp, curling just a little at the edges.
“Enjoying the sunshine?”he asks, carrying his own mug.
As he walks toward me, the clean scent of soap and cedarwood reaches me.Fresh.Undeniably his.He looks settled, composed, while I, still swimming in his oversized tracksuit, feel like a disaster.
“It’s beautiful out here,” I say, the words a fragile whisper.
He settles onto the edge of the opposite lounger, facing me.“It’s what sold me on this house,” he tells me, setting his mug on the wicker table between us as he looks out over the yard.
