Page 14 of Break My Heart

I shove back from my desk, my chair rolling an inch too far across the hardwood. A backdoor hack I scripted that will easily penetrate the system I was hired to breach swiftly and without notice fills by laptop screen.

It’s something I’ve done before, with ease. But I haven’t looked at it since I stopped working hours ago. I need to since it’s my job. Scrubbing my hands down my face, I mutter, “Get it together, Christin.”

I never thought I’d fall apart, certainly not over a man. I never would have predicted Leo would be the cause. It’s like a system breach I can’t isolate. Every time I think I’ve patched it, something else triggers a complete failure of my emotions.

My phone buzzes against the desk. I ignore it.

It buzzes again.

Annoyance flares, sharp enough to cut through everything else. I reach for it, ready to silence whatever notification is demanding my attention, and freeze.

I have a new email notification, which isn’t unusual. What shocks me is the sender.

From: Leo Hawthorne.

My stomach pitches in a way I absolutely refuse to analyze. For a second, I just stare at it, unable to believe what I’m seeing after a full month of silence. Now, after all this time, he emails me?

I set the phone down on my desk before I hurl it across the room. Then I take a few slow, controlled breaths.

In.

And out.

After getting myself under control, I reach for my phone before yanking my hand away. “An email from him shouldn’t matter this much.”

It shouldn’t.

It won’t change anything. It can’t undo the way he looked at me like I hadn’t just given him my soul hours before. The way he spoke about me not belonging in his world. Minimizing me.

Just thinking about it infuriates me all over again. This time, when my hand reaches for my phone, my anger propels me forward.

I open the email.

From: Leo Hawthorne

To: Christin Gage

Subject: I’m sorry

Christin,

I’ve started and abandoned this letter more times than I care to admit, which probably says everything about how badly I’ve handled this from the very beginning.

What you overheard me say about you was wrong. Not misunderstood or taken out of context. Simply wrong.

The worst part is I knew it the moment I saw your face. I realised, in an instant, exactly what I’d done. By then, it was already too late. The words were out there, and they’d done precisely what they intended.

They hurt you.

You didn’t deserve that. Least of all from me.

I’ve spent the past few weeks replaying that conversation in my head, convincing myself that if I went over it often enough, I might somehow find the version where I kept my mouth shut. The version where I didn’t become the man capable of hurting the woman who’d come to mean so much to me.

I haven’t found it.

There isn’t an explanation that will make the words acceptable. There is, however, a reason.

I allowed something I carried for years—something that had nothing to do with you—to shape what I said. It was a failure on my part, and one you never deserved to bear. My past should never have been placed on your shoulders.