The words hit like a slap.
I take a step back.
And then another.
"Fine," I say, my voice shaking. "Fine. If that's what you want."
"It is."
"Then I guess we're done."
"Yes."
I turn toward the door, my vision swimming with tears.
My hand is on the handle when he speaks again.
"Tamsin."
I stop.
I do not turn around.
"Do not come back."
The words are quiet.
But they land like a death sentence.
I yank the door open and step out into the hallway.
The rain is pouring outside.
I can hear it hammering against the windows at the end of the corridor.
I walk toward the exit, my sneakers squeaking against the polished floor, my bag clutched against my chest like a shield.
Behind me, the reinforced door to the massage suite slams shut.
The sound echoes through the empty hallway.
Final.
Irreversible.
I step outside into the rain.
The cold water soaks through my clothes immediately, plastering my hair to my face, running down my neck in icy rivulets.
I stand there for a moment, staring at nothing.
Completely financially free.
Completely emotionally shattered.
And utterly, devastatingly alone.
Three days ago, I was wrapped inside his wings. Safe. Warm. His amber veins glowing soft gold against my skin while he whispered promises in a language I didn't understand but felt in my bones.
