“Iz?”
She didn’t answer. Didn’t slow down.
She hit the staircase and disappeared upward, the old wood creaking beneath her boots.
Grant stood there, brow furrowing.
Something was wrong.
Upstairs, a bedroom door shut hard.
Grant stared toward the staircase.
Then a muffled sob broke through the quiet.
Grant froze.
Jesus.
Another broken inhale drifted faintly through the ceiling.
Grant shoved a rough hand across his jaw, staring toward the stairs while guilt settled low and vicious in his stomach.
For one reckless night, he’d held that woman in his arms like she mattered more than oxygen.
This morning, he’d treated it like a problem to manage.
Upstairs, something thudded softly against the wall. A drawer opened hard. Then another.
Grant moved.
By the time he reached the upstairs landing, he could hear movement inside the bedroom—closet doors opening, hangers jerking sharply across metal rods. Underneath it, the sound of her trying not to cry.
That was the part killing him. The way she was trying to keep falling apart private.
Grant stopped outside the open doorway, and the sight of her hit him like a punch to the ribs.
Mascara streaked black beneath her eyes. Hair half-fallen from its pins. Bare feet against the hardwood as she yanked a leather suitcase onto the bed with trembling hands.
Devastated.
“Izzy…”
She froze.
Then turned toward him with wet, furious eyes.
“I just got fired, okay?”
“Fired?” he repeated, his rough voice faltering.
Izzy let out a short, jagged breath, dragging a stack of clothes from the dresser.
“Yeah. Apparently, having actual standards isn’t part of the corporate business model anymore.”
Her movements were sharp, efficient, and final as she shoved clothes into the open case.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
