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“Five months ago, the internet and TV were filled with stories about Sierra Thomas—because they don’t know you’re a Hardy now—who got drunk in a club and left in the early hours looking… unwell, to say the least.”

Her words cut straight through me. Shame floods in like a tidal wave, dragging behind it fear, guilt, regret. That night lives inside my bones—in the cold between my ribs, in the tightness behind my eyes.

She doesn’t stop.

“Photos surfaced of a Thomas in Colt Jones’ car, after the press had already been speculating about a relationship between you and Nick. Thank God we managed to keep the marriage hidden—otherwise the scandal would’ve been so much worse.”

My eyes meet hers across the table, and it feels like I’m ten years again, caught doing something stupid. Something that made her disappointed.

Only this time, I’m not a child. And I broke something so much bigger. I lower my gaze, heart pounding, throat tight.

The tea in my cup goes cold in my hands. But I don’t move. I just sit there, the silence burning around me.

“When we decided that you and Nick should get married, we did it so you wouldn’t be forced into that unfair contract—and so he would be forced to walk away from the life he used to have. The parties. The drinking…” My mom trails off, her voice calmer now. “The women.”

That last word lands with weight, but her gaze softens, as if trying to console me. Like she knows she just reopened a wound, and is gently pressing around it.

“Since that day, not a single scandal has come out about him. Nothing but hockey related headlines. And I think it’s clear to everyone—he was in love with you. He fought for that relationship. Hard.”

I take a shaky breath and curl my fingers around the edges of my mug, just to feel something I can control.

“You don’t know how he feels now, Mom,” I say quietly.

My voice is tight. Fragile.

“You can’t speak for him, and you can’t just decide that he’s still in love with me.”

Because if you’re wrong… If you’re wrong it will destroy me all over again.

“I can’t let myself believe that just because you do. I don’t want hope handed to me like a gift that might explode in my hands.”

My mother doesn’t answer right away. No one does. The silence hangs heavy, filled with all the things none of us are brave enough to say aloud.

“All I’m saying is that I won’t sit by and let you stay stuck in this limbo,” she continues after a while. “We’ve all respected your time to adjust, to grieve, to process. But it’s time to do something. It’s your decision, but you need to make one.”

She leans forward slightly, her eyes locking with mine.

“So either you put on your big girl pants and face the situation you created… or you file for divorce.”

The word hits me like a slap. Just hearing it knocks the air from my lungs. I blink. Once. Twice. But I still can’t breathe around it. It’s sharp—like something small and cold repeatedly stabbing me in the chest. I can’t even imagine saying it out loud.

And by “face the situation” she means face the truth. Did I destroy everything? Or is there still a chance?

That means seeing Nick. Standing in front of him again—like that last night—asking for another chance. Standing under his cold, merciless gaze and trying to find the words.

I’ve always said I get lost in his eyes. And usually, that’s a beautiful thing. But that night? That night, I got lost in the darkness in them. And it terrified me. Not because I was afraid of him—God, never—but because of what I saw reflected there.

He had let go. He had given up on the idea of us. He had given up on me.

“Sierra, a relationship takes sacrifices,” Sara says gently, offering me a warm smile. “Compromise. It’s not always sunshine and roses. And fear… fear is perfectly normal. It means there are still feelings. Which means there’s still hope.”

“Ser, it’s okay not to have all the answers,” my dad adds, his voice calm and honest, his gaze filled with a quiet kind of love. “It’s okay not to know how to fix it. What matters is that you talk to each other. That you try.”

“It’s not just about Nick choosing you, Ser,” John says from beside me, squeezing my hand softly, reassuringly. “You have to choose him too. Always. In any situation. It’s a good thing to be vulnerable in a relationship,” he continues, his voice steady. “I actually think it’s the only way it works. You give the other person the power to break you… and then choose, every single day, to believe they won’t. That’s what trust is. That's what respect looks like.”

Their words sink into me slowly, like waves crashing against a stubborn shore. And for the first time in a long time, I truly let them in. Every sentence. Every look of concern. Every ounce of belief they still hold in me—it all settles in the hollow spaces I’ve carried around for five months.

They’re right, I keep thinking the night everything fell apart was my biggest mistake. But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe the biggest mistake was everything that followed.