The Breaking Point

Travis’s POV

I had seen Sophia Moreau in a lot of different states.

Sharp. Cold. Calculated. Amused, even, when she was toying with me in conversation.

But I had never seen her like this.

She stood in the doorway, barely holding herself upright, her skin paler than I’d ever seen it. Dark circles smudged beneath her eyes, her usually perfect posture slightly slumped, like even standing took effort.

And she was pissed.

Not the kind of anger she wielded in boardrooms—the kind that was controlled, intentional, sharpened into a weapon.

No, this was different.

This was the anger of someone who had been caught.

I wasn’t sure what pissed her off more—the fact that I was here, or the fact that she wasn’t strong enough to throw me out.

"Why do you care?" she snapped.

And fuck, if that didn’t hit me harder than it should have.

I could have lied. Could have shrugged it off, turned it into a joke, given her the out she so clearly wanted.

But I didn’t.

Because I did care.

And I didn’t know why.

Twenty minutes earlier, I had been standing in Leah’s office, trying to decide whether I wanted to punch a wall or throttle her for what she was about to ask me to do.

"You're the only one who can get to her right now," she had said, arms crossed, voice steady.

I had frowned, leaning against her desk. "And what the hell makes you think I can get to her?"

Leah sighed, rubbing her temples. She looked exhausted. And worried. And for the first time, genuinely out of options.

"Because she lets you," she said.

I scoffed. "No, she doesn’t. She barely tolerates me."

Leah shook her head. "You don’t see it. But I do."

Something in her voice made me pause.

She leaned forward, her expression softer now, more serious. "I’ve known Sophia for years, Travis. I know how she works. I know what she does to herself every year around this time."

I stayed silent, waiting.

Leah exhaled. "She runs herself into the ground. Doesn’t sleep, barely eats, works herself until she physically can’t anymore. She won’t let anyone near her. Not me. Not her assistant. No one."

Something cold settled in my gut.

Leah shook her head, voice quieter now. "And I’ve tried, every damn year, to pull her back. But she won’t let me." She looked up at me then, eyes sharp. "But you? She’s still talking to you."

I let her words sink in.

Because she was right.

Sophia should have shut me out by now.

But she hadn’t.

And that meant something.

Even if I didn’t know what yet.

Leah pushed a slip of paper across her desk. An address.

"She’s not coming to the office this week," she said. "If you want to help her, this is where you need to be."

I stared at the address for a long moment before slipping it into my pocket.

And now, here I was.

Standing in front of Sophia Moreau, watching her try to pretend she wasn’t one breath away from collapse.

She gripped the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping her upright, her lips pressed into a tight line.

"Leah sent you," she muttered, more to herself than to me.

I nodded. "She’s worried about you."

Sophia let out a humorless laugh. "She always worries."

"Maybe because she has a reason to."

Her jaw clenched. "I don’t need saving, Cole."

I tilted my head, studying her. "Never said you did."

Something flickered in her expression, but she buried it fast.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "You wasted your time coming here."

I took a step forward. She stiffened. Not out of fear, but out of something else. Something she didn’t want to name.

I ignored the warning in her posture and leaned against the doorframe. "Sophia, you look like hell."

"Wow," she muttered. "Charming as ever."

"Not trying to be charming." I let my eyes sweep over her—really see her. And fuck, if I didn’t hate what I saw. "When’s the last time you slept?"

She didn’t answer.

"When’s the last time you ate?"

Silence.

Something in my chest tightened.

She wasn’t just exhausted.

She was punishing herself.

And I had no idea why.

I had heard about the accident, of course. Everyone in our world knew the basics. Sophia Moreau had been in a car crash as a teenager. Her parents hadn’t survived. She had inherited her father’s company, built something of her own from the ground up.

But no one talked about this.

No one talked about what she did to herself when the anniversary of that night came around.

"Let me in," I said.

She blinked. "What?"

"Let me in," I repeated. "I’m not leaving."

Her lips parted, like she wanted to argue. Wanted to tell me to fuck off.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she did something I hadn’t expected.

She stepped aside.

Her apartment was cold.

Not in temperature, but in feeling.

Minimalist, sleek, perfectly designed—just like her.

And yet, it felt... empty.

Like no one really lived here.

She shut the door behind me, rubbing a hand over her face before crossing the room to the kitchen.

I watched her move, slow and deliberate, like she was calculating every single step.

"Why are you really here?" she asked, not turning around.

"Because Leah asked me to."

She let out a quiet scoff. "That’s it?"

I exhaled, crossing the room to lean against the counter. "No."

She finally looked up at me. "Then why?"

I held her gaze.

I didn’t know how to answer.

Because the truth was, I shouldn’t be here.

I shouldn’t care.

But I did.

I cared that she looked like she was seconds away from breaking.

I cared that she had spent days shutting herself away, drowning in something no one else could reach.

I cared that, despite all of it, she had let me in.

And that scared the shit out of me.

But I didn’t let any of that show.

Instead, I shrugged, giving her the easiest answer.

"Because someone has to."

She inhaled sharply.

And for the first time, she didn’t have a response.

We didn’t talk much after that.

She made tea. I didn’t comment on the fact that she only took two sips before setting it down and forgetting about it.

I stayed.

She didn’t tell me to leave.

At some point, she sat down on the couch, curling her legs beneath her, staring at the skyline like it had answers she couldn’t find.

I sat across from her, watching.

And for the first time since I met her, she looked small.

Not in power. Not in presence.

But in the way someone does when they’ve been carrying something too heavy for too long.

She looked at me then, her expression unreadable.

"You should go."

I nodded. "Probably."

But I didn’t move.

And neither did she.

And in the silence between us, something shifted.

Something I wasn’t ready to name.

But I knew one thing for sure.

I wasn’t letting her do this alone.

Not this year.

Not ever again.