81

THEA

I give it forty-eight hours.

Two days of staring at the ceiling after the most embarrassing moment of my adult life. Two days of counting beeps and pretending the air doesn't feel heavier without him in it. Two days of Janet whispering, “You need rest,” like it’s supposed to lull me into peace when all it does is make me want to scream.

Rest?

From what? Silence?

I’m not tired. I’m done.

So I leave.

I slip on one of the loose designer gowns Janet brought, and I call a cab. Janet tries to talk me out of it when she comes back after dropping Finn at school, bless her, but I’m already halfway out the door before her concern catches up.

She doesn’t stop me.

No one does.

I ride in silence, forehead against the window, watching the city blur by like it owes me something. Harrington and Vale appears like a bad decision I’m too proud to regret.

I don’t hesitate.

I don’t check my reflection as I step out, keeping my head down, my hair which has now grown past my shoulders covering my face. 

When I reach his door, I don’t even say hi to Nora, who’s just stepping out of his door with a tablet and a frown that tightens the second she sees me. Not that she says anything. We both know where we stand now, and it's on opposite sides but with Ezra Harrington by my side.

I push open the door to his office.

He’s behind his desk, signature calm, pen in hand, but the way his eyes flick up and freeze for a split second—I catch it. The flash of surprise. The breath he doesn’t take.

Then it’s gone.

He straightens as he sets the pen down, and leans back nonchalantly. Another person would have thought he's been expecting me all along but I know better. 

“You’re out early,” he says, voice smooth, detached, almost polite.

Not sugar plum. Not Thea.

“Didn’t feel like dying of boredom,” I reply, my voice clipped, emotion tucked beneath layers of grit. “Figured I’d do it here instead.”

“Ohh, sit.” He says.

Like I’m one of his employees.

I do it anyway. Slowly. Deliberately. Because beneath all this noise in my chest, there’s a fragile, screaming part of me that just wants to ask: Why didn’t you come?

But I don’t.

I cross my legs. Keep my chin high. If he wants cold, I’ll give him winter.

“I wasn’t expecting this,” I say carefully. “You... disappearing.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even look away. Just studies me like I’m a case file he already knows how to close.

“You needed rest,” he says more to himself. “Not more chaos.”

“I needed you,” I whisper. And the words burn on their way out.

His jaw ticks.

“I didn’t think you’d want me there,” he says quietly. “Not after—”

“I gave myself to you.” My voice cracks, and I hate it. 

He says nothing.

Silence.

Tense. Heavy. And so damn loud.

He sighs. Then, he shifts and reaches into his drawer. He slides a sheet of paper across the desk like it’s a ceasefire. Or a bullet.

“You can rewrite the resignation letter now, Ms. Carlisle,” he says. Formal. Like I’m just another name on a payroll. “And it should be submitted to HR this time. It’s already approved by me.”

My breath leaves me like he’s punched it out.

I blink.

Once.

Twice.

Just to make sure I’m awake. Alive. Not hallucinating this moment where Ezra Harrington—the man who touched me like I was made of glass and fire—just told me to submit my resignation like I’m a temporary inconvenience.

My hands are shaking.

With rage.

And heartbreak.

And something else I don’t want to name.

I stand up slowly. My chair scrapes behind me with a screech so sharp it sounds like grief itself. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just watches me with that stupid perfect calm I used to find comforting.

Now I want to ruin it.

“Excuse me?” I blurt. “Did you hit your head on something after dropping me at the hospital? Why are you so cold?” I ask slowly.

That day… I didn’t know if I was going to wake up the next day. I thought I was going to die. It was hard to breathe. I couldn't even feel my hands or feet or his warmth. But all I could think was I needed to tell him. I need him to know how I feel about him straight from my mouth.

And now, it's no longer my life flashing before my eyes. It's us. What we were. What we could have been.

“You think pushing me away makes this cleaner?” I say softly, my voice trembling even as I try to hold it together. “You think if I walk out now, all of this… whatever we were—vanishes?”

Still, nothing.

No flicker. No reach. No fight.

I laugh. A brittle, cracked sound. “God, you’re such a coward.”

His jaw tightens.

But I keep going.

“You didn’t come for two days. I thought you were giving me space. But no—you were giving yourself a way out. That’s what this is, isn’t it? Your out.”

Silence.

I nod slowly, the sting behind my eyes sharp now. “Fine.”

My hand curls into a fist at my side. My voice softens. “But before you cut me off like an inconvenience, you should know something.”

He looks at me then. Full on. That steel gaze that’s pinned me in a thousand ways, holding me in a chokehold.

“I love you.”

It leaves me like a confession and a scream.

He freezes.

His fingers curl slightly over the edge of the desk, and his mouth parts—just a little, just enough—but I don’t let him speak.

I move.

I don't think. I don't breathe.

I shove the chair back and hop—hop—onto his desk like an absolute lunatic in a designer gown and a broken heart. His pen rolls to the floor. A file topples sideways. I don’t care.

I don’t care.

Because the second I reach him, I fall forward and wrap my arms around his neck.

Hard.

Clingy. Desperate. Uninvited.

I bury my face in his shoulder and just hold him. Like I’m trying to glue my bones back together through his warmth. Like if I just stay still enough, maybe he won’t push me away.

For half a second—half—he stills.

And I hope.

But then…

He grips my arms and pulls me off him, hard and sudden, like I’m made of thorns.

His face is tight. Angry. His voice is a growl that slices through the air.

“Go home, Thea.”

I stare at him, stunned and sad.

I don't move.

“I said—go. Away.” He growls again, pushing me away this time, his swivelling chair moving back.

My lip quivers. My arms fall to my sides like they’ve forgotten what purpose feels like as I stagger back, my back hitting the desk. The sting behind my eyes spills over before I can stop it, numbing the one at my back.

A sob chokes out. Just one. But it cracks me open.

I don’t scream.

I don’t beg.

I just stand there—on the edge of his desk—tears trailing down my cheeks like traitors, my heart splitting like glass under a shoe.

But I don’t move.

I don’t leave either.

I can’t.

So I do the only thing my body allows—I cry.

Silent. Shaking. Shoulders trembling as everything I’ve been holding in pours out in waves I can’t stop.

I cry for the me whose wrist was kissed in the dark.

I cry for the man who watched me nearly die and chose distance.

I cry for me—who dared to hope. Again.

That I'll have a second chance at happiness.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t come here to beg. I didn’t come to trap you.”

I sniff, eyes blurry, nose stuffy, voice wrecked.

“I just… I'm your mate Ezra. Yours.”

I didn’t want to feel like I was dying alone.

He says nothing.

The silence feels cruel now. Weaponized.

But I stay.

Because even if he pushes me away again, at least this time—he’ll know.

He’ll feel it.

Even if it kills me.

Even if it already has.

That I love him.

I love him so much that he's on the same pedestal as Finn now.

I love him so much it hurts.

I love him so much that my inner child's healed. 

His grip on his arm rest tightens, and he's looking everywhere except for my face.

“Ezra.” I choke out again.

He didn't look at me.

With tears streaming down my eyes, I take a step forward. Towards him.

His jaw clenches and he shut his eyes tightly before standing up. Then, he takes a step forward…

My breath catches in my throat.

And disappears.

I cry louder.

I lied.

If he wants cold, I'll give him an erupting volcano.

“Bastard! You are a coward!” I scream into the empty office air.