Ellery
The rain had been falling since morning—steady, relentless, like the sky had decided to scrub the city clean. By evening, it was just a soft hiss against the foundation windows, a sound that filled the quiet too easily.
Most of the world had stopped calling. The reporters had moved on to their next scandal, their next casualty. The headlines still popped up here and there if I looked for them—which I didn’t—but the storm had mostly passed.
Inside the office, everything was in its place. Too much in its place. I’d spent the last two hours straightening binders that didn’t need straightening, answering emails that didn’t need answers. Anything to keep my hands busy, to drown out the hollow silence of waiting.
Two days.
That was how long it had been since I’d heard his voice. Since he’d walked out of that apartment before sunrise, hoodie pulled up, eyes already shadowed by what was coming.
I hadn’t realized how loud the absence of someone could be until now.
The door creaked open, and Naomi slipped in, balancing two coffees. She slid one across my desk, watching me like I was a project she wasn’t sure she could fix.
“You’re not fooling anyone with all this productive pretending,” she said.
I forced a smile that barely lifted. “Pretending keeps the lights on.”
She sighed and sank into the chair across from me. “You’ve kept this place alive through worse, El. You don’t have to keep proving it. The foundation’s still standing. You made it through.”
“Did I?” I murmured. My fingers traced the rim of the coffee cup, circling it like a prayer bead.
Naomi leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re allowed to fall apart for a minute. No one’s going to think less of you.”
“I don’t have time to fall apart,” I said quietly. “I have donors to thank, kids waiting for program updates, a board to reassure.”
She gave me a look that said she wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t push. She knew better than to try.
I stood, crossing the room to the donor wall. The gold plates gleamed under the fluorescent light, each one etched with a name. Sponsors, partners, people who’d believed in the mission.
My gaze caught on the newest additions—the ones Beckett had helped bring in. Companies that had only signed on because of his calls, his persistence, his belief in what we were doing.
He saved this place before he ever touched me.
The thought hit hard enough that I had to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
And now he’s paying for it.
The rain beat harder against the glass, blurring the city beyond.
Somewhere out there, he was alone, probably being told to keep quiet, to stay invisible, to let the machine spin its story. And here I was, surrounded by the proof of what he’d done right—what we’d done together—pretending like my heart wasn’t still breaking for him.
I set the coffee down and whispered to no one, “You don’t deserve this.”
But the rain swallowed the words whole.
I checked my phone again—pointless, really, because I already knew what I’d find. Nothing. No calls. No texts. Not even a quiet “I’m okay.”
The Storm’s social accounts had gone silent too. No new posts, no updates, just the same generic statement the PR team had released: We are handling the situation internally. The press didn’t buy it. Articles were still popping up every hour—his name, my name, headlines that didn’t care about truth, only clicks.
Naomi sat on the edge of my desk, one leg crossed over the other, watching me scroll through the mess. “He’s probably just lying low,” she said gently. “You know how Cam works—lockdown mode until the story dies out.”
I stared at the screen until the words blurred. “That’s the problem. He’s the one taking all the heat, and I’m here, hiding in a safe office.”
She frowned. “You’re not hiding, El. You’re surviving.”
“Feels the same,” I whispered, the words barely more than a breath.
