The camera feels heavy in my hands. Unfamiliar. As if the connection between my eye and the lens has been severed.
I adjust the aperture, focus on the arrangement of wilting flowers I've placed by the window of my studio. Beauty fading, dying slowly. I press the shutter button. Again. Again. The mechanical click-whirr that usually soothes me now sounds hollow, empty.
Three days. It's been three days since I shattered everything.
I lower the camera, rubbing my eyes. I haven't slept more than a few fitful hours. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces. Ethan's cold fury, Declan's resigned acceptance, Mateo's naked hurt. The memory of their expressions is carved into me more permanently than any photograph I've ever taken.
The afternoon light falls across my desk, illuminating prints from happier times. I'd been working on a series about found families, about people who choose each other. The irony is crushing.
I set the camera down and move to the window. The grounds stretch out before me, perfectly manicured and utterly empty. The pool house stands silent, its windows dark. I never went back there after they left. Couldn't bear to see the evidence of our night together, the makeshift bed we'd created, the dishes we'd shared.
My fingers absently trace the glass. The last message was clear: send them away or watch them suffer. Their careers destroyed, their friendship fractured, their lives ruined, all because of me. At least this way, they still have each other. Still have the business they've built. Still have their futures intact.
I've protected them the only way I know how. By becoming what everyone already thinks I am: cold, heartless, calculating. The fortress I've built around myself now serves a new purpose. Not just protecting me, but protecting them from the consequences of loving me.
I turn away from the window, from the memories it holds. My studio, usually my sanctuary, feels claustrophobic today. The walls close in, the carefully curated space that once inspired me now only reminds me of what I've lost.
I wander out, bare feet silent on the polished hardwood. The house echoes around me, too large, too empty. Without the men's presence, it feels like a museum: beautiful, pristine, and utterlylifeless.
In the kitchen, I mechanically fill the kettle. Usually, Gloria would be here by now, bustling around, chattering about schedules and appointments. But I've sent her away too, told her and Sophie to work remotely. I claimed I needed space, but the truth is I can't bear to see the questions in Gloria's eyes. She knows me too well, has been with me too long not to see through the facade.
The kitchen island where Declan cooked us breakfast stands spotless and abandoned. I remember his massive hands deftly flipping pancakes, Mateo's laughter as he stole bites, Ethan's rare smile as he watched us all. We'd been happy here, in this brief domestic bubble we'd created.
The kettle whistles, startling me from the memory. I pour steaming water over a tea bag, watching the amber darkness spread through the clear liquid. Like grief infiltrating every corner of what was once bright and clear.
I take my tea to the living room, curling up on the couch where just days ago we'd sat together, planning, talking, existing in each other's orbits as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
My phone sits silent on the coffee table. No calls. No texts. No updates. I've canceled all my appointments, all my shoots. The world thinks Jade Sinclair is being a diva again, hiding away on a whim. Let them think it. It's easier than the truth.
I should be frightened. Someone is out there, watching me, threatening me. Someone who knew enough about Declan to unearth his past, enough about all of us to know exactly where to strike. But strangely, fear is the last thingI feel. The void where they once existed has swallowed everything else, leaving no room for lesser emotions.
Besides, I know the security system is solid. Before they left, ever the professionals despite my cruelty, they briefed Gloria on all the new protocols, all the changed codes, all the reinforced measures. Their last act of protection, even as I pushed them away.
I take a sip of tea, wincing at its bitterness. I let it steep too long. Mateo would have noticed, would have slid the honey jar toward me with that knowing smile of his. Ethan would have watched, registering the preference for future reference. Declan would have quietly prepared a new cup, making it exactly right without being asked.
I close my eyes, a weight settling in my chest like stone, heavy and immovable. Food holds no appeal. Sleep is elusive. Work is impossible. All that's left is this emptiness where something vital used to be.
I set the tea aside, untouched, and wander to the window again, watching as shadows lengthen across the lawn. The sun will set soon, another day ending. Another day without them.
Before he left, Ethan had looked at me one last time. Behind the anger, I'd seen something else: confusion, yes, but also concern. As if despite everything, some part of him still wanted to protect me. "Be careful," he'd said, the words clipped, controlled. "Whoever sent those records knows how to get to you." And then he was gone, taking Declan and Mateo withhim.
I'd made sure they'd be okay. Before they left, I'd pulled Gloria aside, made her promise to recommend Cross Security to everyone she knew. And Gloria knows everyone: socialites, business moguls, celebrities. They won't lack for work. Their reputation will remain intact. Their friendship will survive.
My sacrifice wasn't in vain.
But as night falls and the house grows darker around me, every victory feels pyrrhic. I press my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching my breath fog the pristine surface. Outside, the garden is still. No movement, no signs of intrusion. Just emptiness stretching in every direction.
I straighten, squaring my shoulders. This was my choice. My sacrifice. I'll bear the consequences, carry the weight of three broken hearts alongside my own.
37
ETHAN
The office is quiet except for the soft clink of ice against glass and the occasional creak of leather as Declan shifts his massive frame in the chair across from me. Outside my window, the city lights have come on, blurring through the rain that's been falling steadily since morning. Appropriate weather for my mood.
Three days. It's been three days since Jade tore everything apart with surgical precision.
I pour another finger of Macallan into my glass, watching it catch the light from my desk lamp. My second of the night. Declan's still nursing his first, those massive hands dwarfing the tumbler, his eyes unfocused as he stares at some point beyond my shoulder.
