"Please, Avery. Stay with me tonight." His voice brooks no argument, but there's gentleness underneath the command. "I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay here by yourself."
I want to argue, want to insist I can handle this myself, but the thought of Oliver who can be back any minute, makes my chest tighten again.
"Where exactly?" I ask instead.
"My place. Guest suite."
Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in Dylan's car with a hastily packed overnight bag at my feet, watching the city lights blur past. He hasn't said much since we left my apartment, just made sure I had everything I needed and guided me to his car with a protective hand on my lower back.
His penthouse is exactly what I expected and nothing like it at all. Modern and sophisticated, yes, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city below. But there are personal touches, too—photographs of family, books scattered across surfaces, a throw blanket that looks soft and well-worn draped over the couch.
"The guest room is this way," he says, leading me down a hallway. The room is spacious and neutral, clearly designed for visitors but comfortable rather than cold. "Bathroom is through there. I'll get you something to sleep in."
He returns with a soft gray sweatshirt and pajama pants that will be too big but smell like him—expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely Dylan.
"Thank you," I say, taking the clothes. Our fingers brush, and that electric current that's always between us sparks despite everything.
"You can stay for as long as you need. No pressure," he says, and my heart stutters. No one has ever been that concerned with my problems. Why does he care so much?
"Only for tonight," I mumble. I don't want to be his burden.
"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
How is hethatcaring?
"Maybe some wine?" I ask.
"I can do that."
I change quickly, Dylan's sweatshirt hanging loose and comfortable, making me feel oddly safe. When I emerge, he's on his balcony with two glasses of red wine and the city sprawled below like a carpet of lights.
I sink into the chair beside him, taking the glass gratefully. The first sip helps steady my nerves.
"Talk to me," he says quietly, not looking at me but at the view, giving me space to gather my thoughts.
And maybe it's the adrenaline crash, maybe it's the safety of his presence, maybe it's exhaustion from carrying this alone for so long, but the words start spilling out.
"Oliver and I were together for five years," I begin, my voice barely above a whisper. "He was charming, successful, everything my parents approved of. When he proposed to me, I had only been working for about one and a half months. But he wanted me to quit and stay at home, to cook dinners and stuff… eventually to take care of our kids."
Dylan stays silent, just listening.
"He said we're about to have a real family, and he wants me by his side as much as possible. He said his family's money meant I didn't need to work, that quitting was great, and that I didn’t need to put myself into a new exercise wheel." I pause for a moment. "He framed it as wanting to take care of me, but I didn’t really feel cared about."
I take another sip of wine, gathering courage. Dylan’s eyes narrow to slits.
"I almost listened to him. Almost gave up on my dream of being an attorney and everything I'd worked for, because I thought that's what love meant: compromise, sacrifice. But I still chose to try. I said that when we have a baby, I would quit and become what he needs me to be. He accepted it, but then something had cracked between us."
My voice catches. The memory of it all stings.
"We were preparing for the wedding, but Oliver… He changed. We fought more, although he said he was trying to understand me. But I grew distant from him. He started to control me. What I wear, where I go."
I look at Dylan then. His compassionate eyes are on me, his face serious as he listens carefully. And I don't tell him that this exact period was also when I started to grow closer tohim.
My gaze drops to the wine glass in my hands. "Then, one week before our engagement party, I came home early from a business trip. He was in our bed with someone else."
"Avery, I'm so sorry…"
"No, it's okay. I should have known I wasn't good enough for him." I drink more wine. "I'd told him from our third date that cheating was the one thing I couldn't forgive. He knew that, and he did it anyway."
