Rain tapped against the windows again, a slow rhythm that filled the silence. The office lights reflected faintly on the glass, ghost versions of us moving in a space that felt too big, too quiet.
I set the phone face down on the desk, like that would stop the headlines from existing. Like it would stop me from wondering if he was okay. If he was angry. If he regretted everything.
Naomi picked up one of the sponsorship folders and flipped through it, her attempt to keep things normal. “You know, when you first dragged me into this job, I didn’t realize ‘foundation director’ came with this much emotional carnage.”
I gave a half-smile, weak but real. “Occupational hazard.”
She looked up at me over the folder. “You love him.”
It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t try to deny it. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I do.”
Naomi’s expression softened, but she didn’t reach for comfort. That was one of the things I loved about her—she never forced the kind of reassurance that rang hollow. She just stayed, her presence enough.
I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. “He doesn’t deserve this. None of it. He was trying to do the right thing.”
“He did do the right thing,” she said. “People just like villains better than heroes—it makes better headlines.”
A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Apparently, I make a great villain’s muse.”
Naomi smiled faintly, but her eyes were sad. “You know he wouldn’t want you torturing yourself over this, right?”
“I know,” I murmured. “But he’d never tell me if he was hurting, either. He’d just carry it until it breaks him.”
I glanced at the phone again. Still nothing. Still silence.
Outside, the rain thickened, streaking the windows until the whole world looked blurred. Maybe that was for the best. Everything was easier to face when it wasn’t in focus.
I closed my eyes and took a long breath. You’re surviving, Naomi had said.
Maybe that was true. But right then, sitting in the quiet with the ghost of his voice still somewhere in my head, it felt a lot more like hiding.
Somehow, we both wound up in the break room. I had my mouth full of chips when Naomi grabbed my shoulder.
“El… turn this up.”
There was something in her tone that made my stomach drop.
I looked up at the small TV mounted in the corner. The headline running along the bottom of the screen stole the air right out of my lungs:
PRESS CONFERENCE — SWM STORM FORWARD BECKETT MASON SPEAKS OUT.
My pulse jumped. The room suddenly felt too small. Naomi fumbled for the remote, cranking the volume.
And there he was.
Beckett stood at a podium, the Storm’s logo plastered across the backdrop behind him. The cameras made everything harsh—the light, the lines on his face, the press badges flashing in the crowd—but his expression stayed calm. Controlled.
A reporter’s voice broke through the static buzz of my heartbeat. “Mr. Mason, are you confirming a relationship with Ellery James?”
The sound of my name hit like a bruise. I gripped the edge of the counter, waiting for him to dodge it, for the usual “no comment” and “respect our privacy.”
But instead, he said—steady, deliberate—“No comment on her personal life. But I will say this—everything that’s happened, every rumor, every headline—that’s on me, not her. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. My actions caused this. Leave her out of it.”
The words hung there, filling the space between the flashes and murmurs.
For a heartbeat, even the reporters went still. No follow-up questions, no shouted accusations. Just silence.
My throat tightened.
