The anger holding me upright wavers.
I want people to think I’m good enough. Shit…doIeven think I’m good enough?
My chest tightens. Before I can swallow them back, tears surge up. Hot. Humiliating. Unstoppable. The thin, frayed thread I’ve been hanging onto all day drops instantly.
I cover my face with my hands as if I might cage the emotion where it belongs. But it’s too late. The dam has broken. Everything I’ve been holding back—the pressure from society, from my mother, even the new, unexpected fear of imposter syndrome contaminating motherhood—spills out in a rush I can’t contain.
“I’m just…” I choke, the words scraping like broken glass. “I’m so damn tired, Anton.” My voice fractures. “I’m tired of always having to prove myself.” The confession feels like ripping open my own rib cage. “I’m tired of trying so hard just to feel like I belong in the room.”
His expression shifts into pain, almost a mirror to my own soul. I know he’s sorry. I know people make mistakes, but this hit me deep.
“And then you…” I choke, shaking my head. “You take that lead and hand it off without me, and it feels like you’re saying I’m still not trying hard enough. Like I’m still not doing enough. Like I have to run twice as fast just to catch up to where everyone else starts.”
The tears spill over. I hate them. I’ve fought my whole life not to cry in front of anyone—especially a man. My mom would be standing here, stoic as a statue, telling him to get the hell out of his own house for stealing her power.
But that’s not what I want. And it’s not what he intended. Iknowthat. I’m tired and stressed, and in many ways, it was a considerate thing to do.
I don’t want to be without him. I don’t want to go it alone. But I want to be…enough.
“Do you know what that feels like?” I whisper. “To give every piece of yourself…and still feel like you’re coming up short?”
His body stills in a way I’ve never seen it. I think back to what happened with his wife and best friend and…
Anton’s thick eyebrows pull together.
…He knows what it feels like.
But he doesn’t say anything about that. He just moves toward me in one swift movement and gathers me into his arms.
“Honey, you were born worthy.” There’s something desperate in his whisper. “God…I didn’t do it because you’re not enough. I did it because I hate seeing you carry all that weight alone. You don’t have to do that anymore. I’m here now. You have all of me to lean on. I got you…”
That only makes the tears flow harder. I’m raw with vulnerability, with this gorgeous man supporting me, with a dead girl begging for justice, with the baby on the way who needs me… It’s too much.
He steps in fully now, cupping my face in his palms, thumbs brushing my wet cheeks in the softest strokes imaginable. “But this isn’t about just the lead. I get that. I see you.”
His words still me. He sees me. And he’s still holding me. Somehow, despite all this, his arms feel like the safest place to let my guard down.
Something shifts. In the mess of tears and anger and everything I’ve been carrying for too damn long, a new truth curls warm in my chest.
I don’t want to do this alone anymore.
I don’t want to always be the strong one.
I don’t want to keep proving myself to the world when all I’ve ever wanted was to be seen—not the polished version I keep trying to measure up to, not the woman clawing her way toward impressive, but just…me.
Ordinary where I’m ordinary.
Flawed where I’m flawed.
I want to be exactly who I am and have that be enough. And somewhere along the way, trying to earn my place in the world, I forgot that I’m allowed to simply exist.
I lift my eyes to his, and the steel in his gaze knocks the breath from my lungs.
There’s no pity there. Just steady, unflinching devotion.
21
Freya’s eyesare still wet when she looks up at me. She’s undone in a way I’ve never seen from her. One tear slips down, leaving her looking raw and exposed. What the hell have I done?
