The bar crashes back onto the rack with a metallic clang that echoes through the empty space. My phone screen blurs as I stare at those words that detonate everything I've been building toward.
Ivy knows I'm King.
I grab the phone, fumbling to call her. It rings four times.
Voicemail.
"Ivy, please. Let me explain. Just…" My voice cracks. "Please pick up."
I hang up and immediately text back with fingers that won't cooperate.
King:
Please let me explain. Meet me anywhere. I'll come to you.
The message shows delivered. Then read.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Nothing.
I send another text:
King:
I'm sorry. I know I don't deserve it, but please just hear me out.
Read. No response.
King:
Ivy, please.
No response again. Just deafening silence.
I call again. Voicemail.
The weight room suddenly feels too small, the air too thick. My chest constricts like someone's wrapped steel bands around my ribs and is tightening them slowly.
I've lost Ivy.
The realization hits like a body check I didn't see coming. I've finally, completely, irrevocably lost her. I slump onto the bench, head in my hands, the cold metal of the phone pressed against my forehead. Every text I sent as King scrolls through my memory.
Jake was right. I'm a monumental idiot.
"Hawthorne."
Gregory's voice cuts through the weight room like a blade. I don't look up.
"Go away."
"We need to talk."
His footsteps echo across the concrete floor, expensive Italian leather on industrial flooring. The sound alone makes me want to punch him.
I finally raise my head, taking in his perfectly pressed charcoal gray suit with that calculating expression he wears when he thinks he's won.
