He exhaled slowly. “I’m not throwing anything—”
“You are.” My voice fractured. “You think I don’t know how pathetic I am? You think I don't hate myself?” Tears threatened, and I bit back a sob, fury fueling the words. “I don’t need your pity, Cole. I don’t need saving so you can feel good about yourself.”
He stood rigid, silent, a chasm yawning between us.
“Fine,” he said at last, his voice low and cold. “You want to leave? Leave. But don’t pretend this is about me treating you like a child. It’s about you being too proud to accept help.”
I was already moving toward the bedroom where my clothes waited; Ricky had dropped off what I had at his place. I pulled them on, every thread prickling my skin. “Maybe I’d rather sleep on concrete than owe you a single thing.”
I heard him grab his keys from the counter. "I'm going to training. When I get back, if you're gone, that's your choice. But don't you dare act like I forced you out." He paused. “Maybe think about why you’re picking this fight.”
The apartment door slammed behind him, and I was alone with the echo of my own embarrassment. I stood there shaking—not from cold this time, but from the realization of what I'd just done. He was on the money because I'd picked that fight on purpose. Because somewhere in the last four days, between the careful way he'd carried me and the gentle concern in his voice when he brought me soup, I'd started to imagine that maybe someone like Cole Armstrong could see something worth saving in someone like me.
And that was the most dangerous delusion of all.
I looked around his apartment—at the soft couch and the spare bed where I'd slept better than I had in months, at the kitchen where he'd made me tea every morning without being asked. At the life I was about to walk away from because I was too damaged to believe I deserved it. When I finally couldn't put it off any longer, I found a pen and piece of paper in his kitchen drawer—expensive stationery, of course—and tried to figure out what to write.Thank youseemed inadequate.I'm sorryfelt like a lie when I was about to prove his worst assumptions right by stealing away like a thief.
In the end, I just wrote:You were right about me.
I left it on the counter next to the untouched mug of tea and let myself out of his perfect apartment, taking nothing that wasn't already mine. The elevator ride down felt like falling, each floor marking another step back toward the life I understood—cold, hungry, and alone. The January air bit through my worn jacket as I stepped onto the street. I had no money, no phone, nowhere to go. But at least now the cage was one I'd built myself.
I made it three blocks before I had to stop and lean against a building, to give myself a lecture about not crying. The rational part of my mind—the part that had kept me alive on the streets for weeks on and off—screamed that I was being an idiot. Cole had offered me safety, warmth, a chance to heal. And I'd thrown it back in his face because I was too scared to believe it could be real. But it was too late now. I'd burned that bridge as thoroughly as I'd burned every other good thing that had ever happened to me.
I pushed off from the wall and started walking, one foot in front of the other, toward whatever came next. At least this time, I couldn't blame anyone but myself.
The rational part of my brain—the part that had kept me breathing through two years on the streets—kept up a running commentary of just how spectacularly I'd fucked up. Cole's apartment had been warm. Safe. He'd beenkindto me, and I'd repaid that kindness by accusing him of treating me like a charity case.
Because that's what I did. The moment someone got too close, the moment I started to feel like maybe I could trust them, I found a way to sabotage it. Better to leave on my own terms than wait to be abandoned. The problem was, I wasn't sure Cole would have abandoned me. And that terrified me more than sleeping rough ever had.
I turned down a side street, trying to remember where the nearest shelter was. My internal map of Denver's services was usually reliable, but everything felt fuzzy around the edges right now. The concussion, maybe, or just the crushing weight ofmy own stupidity. My phone was gone—destroyed by Cole's expensive shoe four nights ago in a lifetime that felt like years. No way to call Ricky, even if I'd wanted to drag him into this mess again. No way to call anyone, because the truth was there wasn't anyone else to call.
You were right about me.
The note I'd left felt pathetic now. Cole had been right about what, exactly? That I was a con artist? A thief? Someone who'd destroy anything good that came into his life? All of the above seemed accurate enough.
I opened my eyes and tried to get my bearings. The sun was higher now, meaning Cole would be deep into training. I vaguely remembered he said training was light in season, whatever that meant. He probably hadn't even come back to check if I'd left yet. Maybe he'd be relieved to find me gone—less complication in his perfectly ordered life.The thought shouldn't have hurt as much as it did.
I stumbled forward, moisture making my vision blur at the edges, when the sleek black limousine pulled up to the curb beside me. The window rolled down with mechanical precision, revealing a man in his fifties with silver hair and cold gray eyes that reminded me uncomfortably of Cole's father.
"Phoenix," he said, not a question. "Get in."
I took a step back, instantly suspicious. "I don't know you."
“No, but I know you." He opened the door from inside, the leather interior gleaming like a trap. "We need to talk."
"I'm fine walking, thanks." I turned to leave, but his next words stopped me cold.
"Ricky Manning. Twenty-three years old. Lives in apartment 4B on Colfax with his girlfriend Sarah and their eight-month-old son Liam." His voice was conversational, pleasant even. "The baby has severe asthma, I'm told. Expensive condition to treat."
My blood turned to ice. I spun back to face him, my hands clenched into fists. "What the fuck did you just say?"
"Get in the car, Phoenix. We wouldn't want anything unfortunate to happen to Ricky, would we?"
I stared at himfor a long moment, weighing my options. I could run—probably make it half a block before he caught up. I could fight—and end up beaten worse than I already was, with Ricky still in danger. Or I could get in the car and find out what this bastard wanted. The decision made itself. I climbed into the limo, the leather cool against my back as the door clicked shut behind me with finality.
"Smart choice," the man said, pressing a button that raised the partition between us and the driver. "I have recently developed a keen interest in ice hockey.”
“Good for you,” I replied, sounding bored. "What do you want?"
