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My breath catches.

“So I’ll keep my business meetings, then come back home. That’s it.”

Thalia doesn’t answer right away—and I don’t give her a chance. I just keep talking, my voice running ahead of me, faster than my pain.

I tell her everything. How I walked into his apartment and heard Elena’s voice drifting out from the kitchen. Calm. Familiar. How he appeared behind me, gorgeous, sexy, destructive—like always—and took my breath away completely.

I tell Thalia how it all spiraled so fast I barely understood it while it was happening. How he made me fall apart in his arms like he used to, except this time, he never really held me. Not with his heart.

How he didn’t kiss me. How he wouldn’t look me in the eye. How every motion was perfect and precise and practiced—and yet felt like I was part of a memory he didn’t want anymore.

How afterward, he stepped away like it never meant a thing. Like I never meant a thing.

I remind her—and myself—that I have work lined up and I’ll stay here for two weeks, then I’m going home.

We agree to talk tomorrow, and I hang up. The quiet in the suite feels different now. Not heavy. Not suffocating. Not echoing with what just happened.

Just… calm.

I rise from the bed and walk toward the bathroom, each step measured like I’m walking on a wire. The suite is everything you’d expect from a place like this—polished marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, warm ambient lighting, and a sense of old-world luxury reimagined for modern silence.

The bathroom is stunning. Expensive. Clean lines and white marble everywhere, accented with soft gold fixtures. But the crown jewel is the tub—wide and deep, placed right in front of the wall of glass overlooking the city.

London stretches out before me, glittering and serene, completely unaware of the wreckage in my chest.

I turn on the taps and let the tub fill. The water runs hot and clear, steam curling up in slow spirals. I find a vial of essential oil beside the sink—jasmine and deadwood—and pour some into the water. The scent swirls into the air, grounding and sweet, like something from a life that isn’t mine.

I undress slowly, folding each piece of clothing as if the ritual might steady me. Maybe I’m trying to gather the pieces of myself—the parts I still recognize—and lay them neatly on the counter.

My skin still remembers his touch, but my mind refuses to dwell on it. When I sink into the bath, the heat swallows me whole. It seeps into my bones, unwinding every clenched muscle, dissolving the sharp edges of shame and sorrow.

I rest my head back and close my eyes. The world outside glows faintly through the mist on the glass. Cars move like shadows. Boats flicker on the water like thoughts I can’t hold onto.

I breathe in deeply. Then again.

This isn’t healing.

This is survival.

And I already know the truth—I’ll never be over Nick. But maybe I can stop chasing the idea of who he used to be and I’ll try to focus on myself and my work.

I spend the entire night chasing sleep like a ghost in the dark—always just out of reach. No matter how many times I flip my pillow or close my eyes, no matter how deeply I breathe or how tightly I wrap the duvet around me, I can’t escape him.

His voice, cold and clipped. His eyes, empty of everything I used to know. That distance in him—so sharp, so deliberate—it keeps replaying in my head like a scene I can’t rewrite.

I miss him.

God, I miss him so much it’s physically painful. A hollow ache that settles in my chest and won’t let go.

I curl onto my side, pressing a fist against my ribs like I can keep my heart from falling apart, but it doesn’t help. Nothing does.

How am I supposed to exist without him? Not just without the memory of his touch—but without the hope I carried, however fragile. Hope that maybe, just maybe, he missed me too.

Eventually, the sun starts bleeding into the room, dull and gray behind the London skyline. I don’t remember falling asleep—because I didn’t. My eyes burn. My head pounds. My body feels heavy and fragile all at once.

Still, I force myself to sit up.

No sighs. No crying. Just movement. One foot over the side of the bed. Then the other. My limbs feel stiff, like I’m moving underwater.