“Why?” The question slips out before I can stop it, sounding small and vulnerable in a way that makes me want to disappear.
He’s quiet for so long I think he’s not going to answer. Then, softly: “You know why.”
My stomach does a flips, and I press my lips together to keep from saying something I’ll regret. Three words.You know why. Three words that mean everything and nothing, that ask me to remember all the things I’ve spent five years trying to forget.
The door swings open, saving me from having to respond. Dr. Martinez returns, looking exhausted but relieved. “Max is stabilized,” she announces, settling back into her desk chair. “Now, where were we?”
Zayn seamlessly transitions back into lawyer mode like our moment never happened. “I was explaining to Sophie that we need to review the building’s lease agreement,” he says, all business again. “To identify any clauses we can leverage in our favor.”
Dr. Martinez nods, already pulling up files on her computer. “Excellent idea. Sophie knows where we keep all our documentation. Perhaps you two could review it together?” She glances at me expectantly. “Do you have time this afternoon?”
I want to bolt. I want to fabricate some excuse. I want to be literally anywhere except stuck in a room with the man who broke my heart five years ago, who’s now sitting here playing the role of savior. But then I think about Max hooked up to IV fluids in the back, about all the animals who depend on this clinic, about how Dr. Martinez finally looks hopeful instead of defeated.
“I can make time,” I say, my voice stiff. I set the pen down and clasp my hands tightly in my lap so no one can see them trembling.
“Perfect,” Dr. Martinez says, either not noticing or politely ignoring how awkward things are between us. “Let’s plan to meet in the records room after morning appointments wrap up.”
Zayn nods and stands, buttoning his suit jacket smoothly. He looks nothing like the boy in faded jeans I used to know. “I have a client meeting at ten, but I can return by one o’clock.”
“That works perfectly for us,” Dr. Martinez says, rising to walk him out. “Thank you again for doing this, Zayn. It truly means the world.”
He inclines his head, managing to look both professional and genuinely kind. Then he reaches into his jacket pocket and extracts a business card, placing it on the counter. “My contact information,” he says, his gaze flickering to me for a second. “My cell number is on the back. Don’t hesitate to call if you have any questions.”
I don’t say anything, keeping my face empty of emotion. Dr. Martinez picks up the card with a grateful smile, but before she can tuck it away, Jen appears in the doorway with a question about medication dosages.
“Give me a moment,” Dr. Martinez says, setting the card back down to check a chart.
My hand moves before my brain registers the decision. Quick and sneaky, I palm the card off the counter and slip it into my scrubs pocket. It feels smooth and expensive between my fingers, and I let my hand linger there for a moment, tracing its crisp edges, before pulling away.
When I glance up, Zayn is watching me with an unreadable expression. But something in his eyes softens, a fraction, before he turns to leave.
I straighten my spine, crossing my arms over my chest again, rebuilding the walls that started crumbling the moment he walked through that door.
“I’ll see you at one,” I say, my voice cold and professional once more. But his business card sits heavy in my pocket, like I’m keeping a secret even from myself.
CHAPTER 8
Behind Closed Doors
The receptionist looks at me like I’m selling something she doesn’t want. She doesn’t even attempt to pronounce my last name when she calls up to Zayn’s office, just, “Sophie is here for her appointment.” Like I’m a bill collector, not his ex-girlfriend. Though I guess I could be both.
The elevator feels cold and empty. My reflection in the metal doors makes me look washed out—my black hair pulled back too tight, dark circles under my eyes from too much coffee and too little sleep, my arms wrapped protectively around my beat-up manila folder. Inside are all the documents from Bellrose Veterinary Clinic—every lease agreement, every letter from the landlord, every scrap of paper that might help our case. I clutch it tighter, like it might shield me from whatever’s waiting on the fourth floor.
When the doors slide open, I’m hit immediately with the smell of expensive coffee and new carpet. The hallway is so aggressively white it makes my eyes hurt. Abstract art hangs on the walls that look like they belongs in a big city firm, not our small coastal town. Each office door bears a shiny metal nameplate.Blackwell, Z.The last one down the hall.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans—thank god I changed out of my scrubs—and walk toward his door. I pause there, hand raised to knock. Every nerve fires. I can’t remember what I’d rehearsed saying. My mind goes completely blank. I knock once, hard.
“Come in.” His voice carries through the door—deeper now, rougher around the edges, but achingly familiar.
I push the door open.
Zayn’s office is nothing like the cold waiting area. It’s professional—big glass desk, high-end computer setup, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with legal volumes—but it’s not soulless. There’s a large framed photograph of Bellrose beach behind his chair, storm clouds gathering over dark waves. Another shows the town square at Christmas, string lights glowing through fog. On a shelf near his law books sits a small glass case containing a model lighthouse, paint chipped and glass smudged from being handled too many times.
I almost smile—I’d once told him I collected lighthouse postcards as a kid—but I don’t say anything about it. I stand there gripping the folder, waiting for him to look up.
When he does, I take him in properly. He’s wearing a black, fitted suit with top button undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair is disheveled, like he tried to fix it earlier and gave up.
He offers a polite smile. “Sophie. Thank you for coming.”
