61

THEA

Crying yourself to sleep has to be one of the dumbest things a person can do.

Because when I wake at 4 a.m., I don’t feel rested. I feel wrecked. Like my body tried to collapse in on itself and failed halfway. My head is pounding—sharp and mean—my nose clogged, my eyes puffed and burning like they’ve been rubbed raw.

But I can't deny the fact that the crying helped.

I blink against the darkness.

And that’s when everything comes rushing back.

Ezra.

His mouth. His hands. His truth. 

The feeling of being wanted, wrecked, marked—then left with nothing but the echo of a man I didn’t know I loved until it was far too late to stop it.

I drag myself out of bed, not even bothering with a robe and openly drawing the duvet after me. The silence is too loud, the duvet too cold, and the ache in my chest too wide to lie still. My feet pad down the stairs, each step numb, my house deathly silent like it's turned hostile.

It's freezing. The kind of cold that settles in your blood and whispers that you're still alive just to spite you.

I flick on the living room light, my eyes raking in the devastation.

That’s when I see it.

Sitting there on the couch like it’s been waiting for me all… night?

A black bank card.

Sleek. Matte. A glint of gold on the edge like temptation in currency form.

I stare at it.

How the hell did I not notice it before?

It obviously belongs to Ezra. I've read several times that billionaires have black cards.

But why?

I continue to stare at it.

It feels loud now. Heavy. Too intimate. Like he left a part of himself behind on purpose. Maybe he felt guilty because of what I said yesterday or how my living room looks like a tornado wrecked through it. 

I shrug, and I don't touch it.

Instead, I wrap my arms around myself and just stand there in the middle of the living room like a ghost. Like a woman suspended between fury and grief, between wanting him gone and aching for him to come back.

The air smells faintly of him. Or maybe my mind is playing tricks. Maybe this house is haunted now—by hands that held me too tenderly, by fangs I shouldn’t have seen, by a kiss that felt more like a confession than anything we said out loud.

God.

Why did he have to make me fall in love? Why did I even do?

I let in a shaky sigh, shutting my eyes tightly before turning back to the stairs, duvet dragging after me like a tail. 

I remember promising Lyra I'll hit her up today.

And since it's barely morning, she should be back from her night shift. Lyra works at the special threat security division, (STSD) like she loves to call it. Her shifts are mostly night shifts and she mentioned it's under the government or something. I won't be telling her the shit that happened to me but at least, her voice should ease me a little.

I grab my phone from the bed, still eyeing the damned door like another Nytherin might just pop its head in or Ezra will step out of air. And I do the most dangerous thing a heartbroken woman can do at 4:17 a.m.—

I call my best friend.

Lyra picks up on the third ring, groggy but suspiciously alert for someone who claims she never wakes before 6pm after every night shift unless there's blood—or brunchdinner like she always calls it. 

“Okay, who died. I hope it's your grumpy ass boss?” she croaks.

“Me,” I mutter.

There’s a pause. “Shit. I'm really trying to sleep now but wait, was it slow and poetic or fast and messy?”

“Emotionally? Slower than a BBC drama. Physically? I might’ve stubbed my soul.”

Lyra groans dramatically. “Okay, hold on. Let me sit up and find my glasses. I can't emotionally support you if I’m not wearing my smart bitch lenses.”

I smile, the first real one since—God, I don’t even know.

“Is this because of him? I noticed your sneaky ass has been avoiding conversations concerning him for weeks now.” She says, voice unfocused with a slight sleepy slur.

“Maybe.”

“What happened? Did you guys fuck like in that—”

“Lyra,” I warn.

“Right, right,” she says, clearly grinning. “Serious stuff. No innuendos before the sun rises.”

There’s a soft rustle as she gets comfortable on her end. “But you know, when I called you, I expected you to call me after 6. But here you are. Can't simply do without me huh?” She asks the last part with a yawn.

My snort is completely involuntary as I settle in my bed, feeling a little at ease. “You’re such a menace.”

“And yet, you call me.”

I sigh. “It was… a lot. But, I can't tell you now, okay? I'll tell you soon though. The whole tea, with screenshots and live… videos. You might even start a novel with it and quit that consuming job of yours because, I'm in a serious plot twist right now so, my story will definitely be the next Harry porter.” I blurt.

“Ah, the sacred trauma trifecta,” she laughs loudly. I think she's no longer feeling sleepy as she asks, “So, what now?”

“I don’t know. I’m tired. Everything hurts. And I miss my son.”

Lyra goes quiet for a beat. Then softly, “You’ll get through it. You always do. But, babe, you don’t have to do it alone. You should take a rest.”

That's the only way I've known. I want to tell her.

But I don't.

I have her now. I have Finn too. 

“A rest won't suffice.” I say with a chuckle. “I want a one month vacation on a freaking yacht.” 

“Heyyyyyy, when I say a rest, I'm stylishly reminding you of Thanksgiving.”

I laugh, tears pricking again. “You really want me to come?”

“I want you alive and breathing and slightly overfed, preferably under my roof or me under yours so I can supervise your breakdowns in real time.”

I smile, slow and real this time. “Okay. Thanksgiving. Then, I'll go on the one month vacay later.”

“Good. I’ll even clear the guest room. Or you can— shit! Wait! Fuckkkkk, see boo, I'll call you back okay? Love—”

The line goes dead.

I bring the phone away from my ear, eyes on the lighting screen. I inhale deeply before dropping it on the bed. 

God help Lyra. I just hope her consuming job won't be the end of her.

I change into a pair of shorts and singlets before grabbing my phone and descending the stairs, limbs heavy with exhaustion and something else I don’t name.

Time to call Shirley, clean that living room. Then, my room. At least, with a clean environment, I'll be able to think in a filtered way.

I didn't turn to glance at the wreckage of the main sitting area. Instead, I walk straight to the kitchen, definitely looking as horrible as I feel, a dull ache in my head.

I pick up my phone again and dial Shirley.

She picks up almost immediately, her voice gentle, careful. “Hey, love.”

“Hi,” I whisper, clearing my throat. “Is Finn awake?” I ask before biting my lip at the last minute, remembering I didn't even ask about her wellbeing before going straight to the point.

God. I feel shittier. Just because I feel like shit doesn't mean I should act like a bitch to other people.

“Just now.” She says, “He’s brushing his teeth. Hold on.”

I inhale shakily. Maybe she'll let it go this time. Afterall, I've never been rude to her.

There’s a shuffling sound, then the muffled voice of my son humming some nonsense tune before he finally comes on the line.

“Mummy!”

God, his voice—bright, excited, familiar—hits me like a slap of fresh air. My eyes sting all over again.

“Hi, bug.”

“You sound tired,” he says immediately, with all the concerned bluntness of a seven-year-old. “Are you sick?”

“No, honey. Just… sleepy.”

“You should sleep more.”

I smile. “You’re right. I will. Did you have fun at Leo’s?”

He talks. And talks. About trampoline jumps, how he beat Leo at some game, how Shirley let them stay up a little longer and they watched a movie about a bear who eats jellybeans and fights robots. It's nonsense. It's magic. It’s everything I needed to hear.

“I missed you,” he adds in a puffer voice, definitely rinsing his mouth right now.”

“I missed you too, sweetheart.”

“When are you coming?”

“Tomorrow.” I say with a chuckle. “We’ll do something fun, just the two of us, okay?”

I just have to add the last part so he won't unknowingly invite another Sebatherin into our home.

“Like pancakes?”

I choke out a laugh. “Yes. With strawberries.”

“And whipped cream!”

“All of it.”

“Leo will come next weekend when we make more?”

“Anything you want, baby.”

“Yes!”

He giggles, satisfied, and passes the phone back to Shirley, who promises to send me photos from the night before. We hang up, and I set the phone on the kitchen counter, heart heavier than before—but steadier.

I look at the chaos around me. The busted table, the scattered glass, the broken lamp. The ghosts of last night are still here. Everywhere.

With a sigh, I go to the broom closet and pull out the broom and dustpan. I’m just about to start sweeping the first pile of glittering wreckage when—

Knock. Knock.

I freeze.

The sound cracks through the quiet like a gunshot.

My breath catches.

I don’t need to ask who it is.

I know.

Ezra.

My instinct is to run. To hide. Maybe crawl under the kitchen table and pretend I’m not home. Maybe pretend I’m someone else entirely.

But I don’t move.

Instead, I grip the broom tighter. Then I release it.

And I walk toward the door, steps muted by the rug.

The moment I reach it, my heart slams once against my ribs.

I unlock it.

I pull it open.

And there he is.

Ezra Harrington.

His hair slightly messy like he'd run his fingers through it a thousand times, paler, and that same unreadable expression he wears too well—like he’s holding too many emotions in too small a space.

“Hi,” he says.

I hate how my heart leaps at that one word.

I hate how I don’t slam the door in his face.

I hate how much I want him to come inside.

But I don’t say anything.

I just step back.

And let him in.