I read the letter once, twice, three times. Then I set it down on the coffee table and stared at it like it might explode.
This wasn’t the Dutch I remembered. The Dutch I’d known would have shown up at my door demanding to talk as soon as Glitch gave him my location, made excuses about club culture and family traditions. Told me I was overreacting, that I was being dramatic, that this was just how things worked in his world and I needed to accept it. Club business.
That Dutch wouldn’t have admitted he was wrong. Called what he did selfishness. Said I deserved better.
This letter was... different. Honest in a way that made my chest ache. He wasn’t making excuses or asking for forgiveness. He was just acknowledging that I’d been right all along.
When you walked in on me with Crystal, I saw myself through your eyes for the first time.
I could still see it. The image was burned into my memory no matter how hard I’d tried to forget—Dutch bent over Crystal on his desk, her legs wrapped around him, his hands gripping her hips. The wet sound of skin on skin. The smell of sex that hit me the moment I opened the door. And his face when he turned and saw me standing there—not guilty, not ashamed, just annoyed. Like I was interrupting something.
I’ve been thinking about this pussy all day.
Those words had haunted me for months. Had he been thinking about Crystal while I was on a plane back from my business trip, excited to surprise him? Had he been counting down the hours until he could fuck her?
This letter suggested something different. Something I couldn’t quite name.
I was too much of a coward to give it to you when we were together.
I picked up the letter again, searching for the manipulation I knew had to be there. The subtle pressure, the veiled demands, the expectation that I’d come running back now that he’d said the right words. That was Dutch’s playbook—say whatever it took to get what he wanted, then go right back to doing whatever the hell he pleased.
But there was nothing like that here. No “I’ve changed, give me another chance.” No “I can’t live without you.” No pressure at all. Just an apology and a wish for my happiness.
I hope you’ve found someone who treats you the way you deserve to be treated.
Vaughn’s face flashed through my mind. Sweet, talented Vaughn who made me laugh and looked at me like I was the most interesting woman in the room. Who texted me good morning every day and asked about my work and remembered the little details I mentioned in passing. Who had never, not once, made me feel like I was competing for his attention.
We’d spent the weekend together—his gig on Friday night, brunch on Saturday, a lazy Sunday afternoon at my apartment watching movies and making out on the couch like teenagers. It had been easy. Comfortable. The kind of relationship I’d always wanted but never thought I could have.
And yet.
I looked at the letter again, at the familiar scrawl of Jacob’s signature, and felt something twist in my chest. Something I’d spent months trying to bury.
My phone buzzed with a text from Emma:Coffee tomorrow? Need to hear about your weekend with Vaughn.
I typed back a quickYesand set the phone aside, but I couldn’t stop staring at the letter.
The thing was, Dutch had never been a bad boyfriend. If he had been, leaving would have been easy. I would have walked away and never looked back, the way I’d walked away from mediocre relationships before.
Dutch had built me a reading nook because I’d mentioned once that I wanted one. He’d remembered my coffee order. He’d held me when I cried about my mother without trying to fix anything.
And then he’d destroyed all of it. By making me feel like a fool for ever believing I was special to him.
I gave you the illusion of commitment.
At least now I knew it had been an illusion. At least now I understood that the man I’d fallen in love with had been wearing a mask.
But this letter... this letter felt like something else. Like maybe there was a real person underneath the mask. Someone capable of honesty, of accountability, of genuine remorse.
Or maybe it was just a better mask.
I folded the letter carefully and put it in my nightstand drawer, next to the journal I’d been keeping since I moved to Nashville. I had work in the morning. A presentation to finish. A life to live that didn’t revolve around Dutch.
But I found myself pulling the letter out three more times before I finally fell into a restless sleep, Dutch’s gray eyes haunting my dreams.
?
“You seem distracted,” Emma observed the next evening as we settled into our usual corner booth for coffee and a catch up. “Everything okay? How was the weekend with Vaughn?”
