Chapter 6—Ghosts and Blocked Numbers

"Robin's POV"

I couldn't stop thinking about that night.

No matter how hard I tried to push it away, the memories kept flooding back. The way Christopher had looked at me in the dim light of his bedroom. The way his hands had felt on my skin, reverent and desperate at the same time.

I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, and let myself remember.

His lips had been everywhere. My neck, my collarbone, trailing down my chest with a hunger that made my breath catch. I'd arched into him, fingers digging into his shoulders, needing him closer even though there was no space left between us.

"Robin," he'd whispered against my skin, and the way he said my name made something in my chest crack open.

I'd pulled him up, kissing him hard, tasting the desperation in it. Our bodies moved together like we'd done this a thousand times before, like we were made to fit exactly this way.

He'd gripped my hips, fingers pressing bruises into my skin that I'd welcome the next morning. Every thrust was deliberate, deep, pulling sounds from me I didn't know I could make. The headboard hit the wall with a rhythm that should've embarrassed me, but I was too far gone to care.

"Look at me," Christopher had demanded, his voice rough and commanding.

I'd opened my eyes, meeting his gaze, and the intensity there nearly undid me. He looked at me like I was everything. Like I mattered more than anything else in his perfectly constructed world.

When I finally came, his name ripping from my throat, he'd buried his face in my neck and followed me over the edge, his body shuddering against mine.

Afterwards, we'd laid tangled together, sweaty and breathless. He'd traced patterns on my bare shoulder, and I'd felt safe. Wanted. Real.

I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the memory away.

That man didn't exist. The Christopher who'd held me like I was precious, who'd whispered my name like a prayer, that version of him had been a lie. A performance for someone he was using until his real life called him back.

Mrs. Hall.

The title made me sick.

I grabbed my phone and opened Christopher's contact. His name stared back at me, along with the last message he'd sent.

"Please, Robin. Let me explain properly. I need to see you.

I'd ignored it. Ignored the seven messages before it and the twelve calls that had come through since yesterday.

My finger hovered over the block button.

This was it. The final cut. Once I did this, Christopher Hall would be gone from my life completely.

I pressed it.

A small notification appeared. "This contact has been blocked."

The relief I expected didn't come. Instead, I just felt hollow.

I blocked him on everything else too. Social media, email, every possible way he could reach me. Then I turned off my phone and threw it across the room.

I needed to move. Needed to do something before the memories suffocated me.

Work. I'd bury myself in work and forget any of this ever happened.

The next three days blurred together.

I took every job Mitchell sent my way and a few more I found myself. A house in the suburbs that needed the entire interior repainted. An office building downtown with water damage on the third floor. A cafe that wanted a mural on their back wall.

I worked from sunrise to well past dark, my body screaming in protest, my hands covered in paint and plaster dust.

It helped. Mostly.

When I was focused on cutting clean lines or mixing the perfect shade of blue, I didn't think about Christopher. I didn't remember the way his voice sounded when he was falling apart beneath me. Didn't imagine what he was doing right now, whether he was thinking about me too.

Mitchell called me on the fourth day.

"Rob, you need to slow down. You're going to burn yourself out."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You've taken more jobs in the past week than you usually do in a month. What's going on?"

I pressed the phone between my ear and shoulder, continuing to roll primer across a bedroom wall. "Nothing's going on. I'm just staying busy."

"Is this about that guy? The CEO?"

My hand stuttered, leaving an uneven patch. "How do you know about that?"

"You disappeared for a weekend and came back looking like someone kicked your dog. I'm not stupid." Her voice softened. "What happened?"

"Nothing happened. It was a mistake. I'm over it."

"Robin—"

"I have to go, Mitch. I'll call you later."

I hung up before she could argue and stared at the wall in front of me. The uneven patch mocked me, a visible reminder that I wasn't as fine as I pretended to be.

I fixed it, then kept working.

By the end of the week, I'd almost convinced myself the pain was fading.

I only thought about Christopher a dozen times a day instead of constantly. Only dreamed about him every other night instead of every single one. Only felt that sharp ache in my chest when something randomly reminded me of him.

Progress.

I was finishing up a job at a small bookstore, touching up the trim around their front windows, when my pocket buzzed.

I almost ignored it. I'd gotten good at ignoring my phone, only checking it when absolutely necessary.

But something made me pull it out.

A text from an unknown number.

My stomach dropped before I even opened it.

"Robin, please. I know you blocked me. I know you don't want to hear from me. But I need you to understand that everything I felt for you was real. The marriage, Sophie, all of it—it's complicated, and I handled it terribly. But what we had wasn't a lie. You weren't a lie. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. If you never want to see me again, I'll respect that. But I needed you to know."

I stared at the message, my hands shaking.

He'd found another way to reach me. Of course he had. Christopher Hall was resourceful, determined. He probably had a dozen phone numbers and twice as many ways to track me down if he wanted to.

The smart thing would be to block this number too. Delete the message. Pretend I never saw it.

But I couldn't stop reading it. Couldn't stop hearing his voice in those words, desperate and raw.

"Everything I felt for you was real."

Was it? Or was that just another line, another way to keep me on the hook while he figured out his messy life?

I didn't know. And that was the problem.

I shoved my phone back in my pocket and returned to painting, but my hands weren't steady anymore.

Christopher's words echoed in my head, pulling at something I'd been trying so hard to bury.

What if he was telling the truth? What if the marriage really was just an obligation, something forced on him that he never wanted?

I shook my head, frustrated with myself.

It didn't matter. Even if everything he said was true, he'd still lied to me. He'd still let me fall for him knowing he couldn't give me what I deserved.

That was enough.

I finished the trim work, packed up my supplies, and headed home.

My phone buzzed again as I walked through my apartment door.

Another unknown number. Another message.

"I'm not giving up on you, Robin. I know I don't deserve another chance, but I'm asking for one anyway. Please."

My chest tightened.

Part of me wanted to throw my phone against the wall. Wanted to scream at him to leave me alone, to let me heal in peace.

But another part of me, the part I hated right now, wanted to respond. Wanted to hear his voice. Wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, this could be fixed.

I sat on my couch, phone in hand, staring at Christopher's words.

And I had no idea what to do.