And a secret I'd carried for five years…
One I'd never told him…
It still woke me some nights, the grief so fresh it felt like bleeding.
I closed my eyes and let the cool concrete seep through my white coat. This was going to be a disaster.
A short, humorless sound escaped me as I stood by the empty stairwell.Disasterwas an understatement. But I was certain of one thing: I would be working with Cassian and pretend that seeing him didn't feel like pressing on a bruise that never healed.
The notification sound of my phone distracted me from my thoughts. It was a message from my best friend, Felice, checking in with half humor and half concern. I stared at my screen, my lips pressed tightly.
Felice
First day survival check. Scale of 1-10, how badly do you need wine?
Calla
12.
Felice
That bad? What happened?
My thumb hovered over the keys. Felice was one of the few people who got more than monosyllables from me, but even with her, I struggled to articulate my situation.
Calla
He's here. I saw him.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again. Felice was choosing her words carefully, which she rarely did by the way. She was worried.
Felice
Are you okay?
Calla
I'll manage.
I considered her question and nearly laughed. I was standing in a stairwell, hiding from my ex-husband, my coffee abandoned on a cafeteria counter, with my composure beginning to fray.
I took a long, deep breath and soothed my nerves. That was the thing about survival. It wasn't optional. You didn't get to choose whether you kept breathing after your heart shattered. Your body made that choice for you, dragging you through days and weeks and years until one morning you woke up and realized you'd built an entire life on the ruins of the one you'd lost.
I pushed off the wall and straightened my white coat.
Tomorrow, I would walk into that department meeting with my back straight and my face composed. I would shake Cassian's hand if needed. I would be professional and courteous and utterly, completely fine.
And if some part of me still remembered how his arms felt wrapped around me at two in the morning, how his voice sounded when he whispered my name in the dark, or how his eyes used to track me across crowded rooms like I was the only person worth seeing…
Well. That was my problem to carry.
And I'd gotten good at it.
My phone chimed again, with a text from Felice telling me that she’s making the pasta that I like for dinner tonight. And that she’s opening the expensive wine. And that I am forbidden from arguing.
I smiled despite everything. Felice was one of the few people capable of pulling that reaction from me. She'd been my anchor through the divorce and through every moment when giving up felt easier. She'd moved to the city two years ago for a graphic design job, and when the Obsidian position came up, she'd started her campaign immediately. Three months of phone calls, job listings sent at midnight, and relentless optimism until Ifinally caved. Moving in with her last week felt like the first right decision I'd made in years.
I told herfine,and pocketed my phone and kept walking.
