"I need you to leave." She won't look at me now, arms wrapped around herself. "Please. I just... I need space. A few days. To think."
I want to pull her into my arms and prove that we're worth fighting for. But I've already said too much, pushed too hard, thrown her ex's words in her face like weapons.
"Okay," I hear myself say. "I'm sorry, Avery. For everything."
And with that, I leave—walk out of her apartment and into the evening air that feels too cold. I sit in my car in her parking garage, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white, replaying every word and hating myself for most of them.
My phone buzzes with a text from Jake:Family dinner Sunday. Mom's making that roast you like. You and Avery coming?
I stare at the message, remembering how comfortable Avery was with my family, how natural it felt to have her there.
Instead of answering Jake, I text my father:Can I come over tomorrow?
His response is immediate:Door's always open, son.
I drive home to my too-quiet penthouse, where Avery's coffee mug still sits by the sink, and one of her legal pads is forgotten on my dining table. The space feels hollow without her in it, like all the expensive furniture and floor-to-ceiling views mean nothing if she's not here to share them.
For the first time since meeting Avery, I'm genuinely afraid. Not of losing the company or my reputation, not of the board's threats or office gossip. I'm afraid of losing her—of pushing her away with my careless words, of becoming another reason she believes love means sacrifice.
I'm afraid that in trying to fight for her, I've given her every reason to run.
Chapter eight
Avery
Days after asking Dylan for space, I'm drowning in misery and doubt. I go to work, avoid his office on the executive floor, respond to his carefully professional emails with equally professional replies, and pretend everything is fine.
But my coffee tastes like ash, my concentration keeps fracturing during contract reviews, and I've typed his name into three different legal briefs before catching myself and deleting it.
The office gossip has escalated into something uglier. Yesterday, someone left a printed blog post on my desk—anonymous, of course—titled "When Ambition Meets Opportunity: A Tale of Strategic Romance at Vance Enterprises." The author speculated about my sudden rise to prominence on the Miller acquisition and my suspected promotion to Senior Legal Counsel, questioning whether my opinions were truly objective or influenced by "personal entanglements with upper management."
I threw it in the trash, but not before memorizing every poisonous word.
Colleagues who used to invite me to lunch now have conversations that stop abruptly when I walk by. Madeline doesn’t invite me for coffee anymore. In meetings, partners ask pointed questions about my reasoning, double-checking my work in ways they never did before.
At night, alone in my apartment with only the city lights for company, I replay his parting words over and over:You're doing exactly what Oliver said you'd do. Running the second things get hard.
The accusation burns because I know—deep down, underneath all my rational justifications—that he might be right. I'm not just protecting Dylan. I'm protecting myself from the terrifying possibility that this time, love might actually work. That I might have found someone who sees me fully and wants me anyway, someone who fights for me instead of against me, someone whose family welcomed me with genuine warmth instead of calculated assessment.
I'm sitting at my desk Thursday afternoon, running on my fourth cup of coffee and stubborn pride, when my phone buzzes. The number is unfamiliar, and I almost ignore it, but something makes me look.
Meet me for coffee. I need closure. Please. - Oliver
My heart immediately starts racing, hands shaking as I stare at the message. The carefully worded text, the unfamiliar number, the calculated plea—it's all so perfectly Oliver. Manipulative even in his desperation.
I'm back there instantly—Oliver in my apartment hallway, drunk and desperate, the sound of him rattling my doorknob while I hide in my bedroom like a frightened child. The violation of my sanctuary, the space I'd built to feel safe after leaving him. Dylan's voice on the phone, calm and steady, telling me to lock the door while he drove through the night to protect me.
The coffee shop Oliver is suggesting is the one across from Vance Enterprises, the one where Dylan and I go every morning for my overpriced latte. He's been watching me. Tracking my patterns. Learning my routines. The restraining order says he can't contact me directly, but he's found a loophole using someone else's phone, and the realization that he's been close enough to observe my daily habits makes bile rise in my throat.
Panic builds in my chest, my vision narrowing to that small screen with its terrible message. The office walls feel too close, the air too thin. Every instinct screams to ignore it, to block the number, to handle this myself because asking for help means admitting I can't manage my own problems. I've always been the one who fixes things, who stays late to solve crises, who never needs rescuing.
But then I think about Dylan's words:Being strong doesn't mean facing everything alone.
My fingers hover over my phone keyboard. I could text Jessica, but she's busy with an important client today. I could call security, file another report, and add to the paper trail. Or I could swallow my pride and reach out to the one person who's proven, over and over, that he'll show up without question when I need him.
Before I can second-guess myself, I screenshot the message and compose a text to Dylan:Oliver contacted me again. Used someone else's phone. I'm okay but thought you should know.
His response comes within seconds:Where are you?
