Let's Break Up

POV: Chloe

Stepping out of that office, I made up my mind to stop playing games with two brothers. I had to pull the plug tonight. I had to do it before I found another excuse to stall—before another pair of red-rimmed eyes, another mysterious envelope, or another heavy hand on my waist convinced me that waiting was kinder.

Waiting wasn't kinder. It was just dressed-up cruelty.

Ethan’s car sat at the curb at six on the dot. That was the thing about him—he was never late, never forgot, and always caught the little details.

The passenger seat was pre-adjusted, the heater blasting because he knew I ran cold. A greasy bag from my favorite Thai joint sat in the back because it was Thursday, and Thursday meant Pad Thai.

He was effortlessly good at the mechanics of loving someone.

I slid in, hugged my purse, and watched the city blur past, struggling to find the right words to drop the bomb.

“You’re quiet,” Ethan murmured. Not an accusation, just a gentle observation.

“I know.” I stared at my hands. “Ethan, we need to talk.”

He pulled into a quiet alley and killed the engine, reading the room flawlessly. He shifted to face me. The streetlight caught his sharp jawline, and that familiar ache hit me—I really did care about him.

That was exactly the problem.

“What I feel for you,” I forced the words out, keeping my tone deadpan. “It isn’t romantic, Ethan. I’ve been soul-searching for months, and the truth is... I see you as a brother. I let lines blur because I was lonely and you were safe. I hoped it would spark into something real, but it hasn’t. I can’t keep faking it.”

I forced myself to meet his gaze. “We need to break up.”

The car went dead silent. Four agonizing heartbeats passed.

“No,” he said.

The word fell flat. It wasn’t an argument; it was a brick wall.

“Ethan—”

“No.” He faced forward, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. “You’re exhausted. This project has you stressed, and you’re making a rash call you haven’t thought through.”

“I have thought it through—”

“Like a brother.” He rolled the word around on his tongue, and a chilling undertone laced his voice. “That’s bullshit, Chloe. You know exactly what this is.”

“I know my feelings,” I said carefully.

“Then tell me what you felt last week when you kissed me back.” His voice stayed low. That unnatural calm terrified me. “Tell me that was a sister kissing her brother. Say it, and I’ll drop this.”

I opened my mouth, but he snapped, “Don’t.”

The atmosphere shifted. It was his wolf—that volatile beast prowling right beneath his skin.

“Don’t say it. I'm warning you,” he growled.

“Ethan,” I kept my voice steady. “Hear me out—”

“I can’t lose you.” The raw confession hung in the air. “You don’t get it. I can’t. I’m not being dramatic. I am telling you, I cannot bury someone else.”

He turned to face me fully, and the dim streetlight caught his features. His sharp jaw was trembling, his dark eyes swimming with tears that refused to fall. He looked tragic, yet impossibly handsome—a beautiful man completely shattered by the weight of his trauma. Looking at a face that flawless, twisted in raw agony, every harsh word died right in my throat. How could I push him over the edge when he looked this broken?

A feral growl tore from his chest.

The air evaporated. My mind flashed to his parents—to a traumatized boy who watched everything he loved bleed out on the asphalt, forever haunted by his own survival.

I knew I should stand my ground. But his hands trembled on the wheel, and his eyes were shifting—pupils blown way too wide for the dim lighting. My gut screamed that the beast inside him—the wolf I had unknowingly kept tethered for years—was about to snap. I was trapped in a metal box with a shifting alpha, and I had just slashed his lifeline. He was losing control.

“Okay,” I whispered, hating myself for caving. “Not a breakup. Just a break. We need space to figure things out.”

It was a total lie. But I watched his tremors fade and his ragged breathing smooth out, convincing myself this was damage control. He gave a stiff nod. His eyes bled back to normal.

“A break,” he echoed, clinging to the loophole.

“Yes.”

He brushed his knuckles over my hand, completely silent. I bolted from the car before my resolve shattered. The night air hit me like a cold slap.

I stood on the sidewalk, pulling up Uber, when a tall shadow swallowed my screen. I didn't even need to look up.

Tristan loomed three feet away, hands stuffed in his pockets, playing the part of a casual bystander who just happened to stroll down this random alley.

“You were spying.”

“I was nearby.”

“That’s not a denial.”

“No,” he smirked. “It isn’t.”

I glared at him. My patience had completely flatlined, and I was too exhausted to play games. “Is this my reality now? You stalking my every move?”

“Pretty much, sweet cheeks. Get used to it,” he drawled, entirely unapologetic.

He slipped a thick envelope from his coat pocket. It was sealed with a wax crest. He held it out. I took it, flipped it, and froze.

Ariane Moreau, Annual Architecture Symposium and Banquet. VIP Invitation.

“She takes twelve guests a year,” Tristan stated. “You’ve quoted her modular theories in every project brief for five years. I checked.”

“Of course you did.” I gaped at the golden ticket. Ariane Moreau was my absolute idol. “Is this a reward?”

“It’s a career opportunity.”

“Tristan—”

“You did good tonight,” he cut in. No smirk, no bite. Just raw sincerity from a man who considered his territory reclaimed.

God, I hated how his praise sent a thrill straight to my core. He popped the passenger door open. I told myself I climbed into his ride because my heels were killing me and the Uber was ten minutes out.

That was a total lie.

POV: Ethan

I sat in the pitch-black car long after Tristan's tail lights vanished.

A break.

She tossed it like a pity prize—like handing a toddler a cheap toy so they stop crying for what they actually want. I wasn't an idiot. I knew her polite translations. A break meant her mind was made up. She just couldn't stomach watching me shatter in an alleyway.

But she caved. She stepped back from the ledge because she couldn't stand hurting me. That planted a seed.

If flirting with the Grim Reaper was what it took to drag her back into my arms, I'd gladly bet my life.

A twisted smirk curled my lips. Leaning back, my mismatched eyes burned through the shadows. My wolf clawed to the surface.

“Do it. Bring our mate home. If we don’t bleed, how will she pity us?” Joel purred in my head, a psychotic chuckle echoing in my skull.

I dialed the burner. Jae picked up on the second ring, rambling about something I ignored.

“The Death Route,” I interrupted. “Underground circuit. I know you've got the plug. Put my name on the roster.”

Dead silence. I checked my screen to ensure the call was still live.

“Ethan.” All the casual swagger drained from his voice. “Tell me you're bullshitting.”

“Book it,” I ordered.

“A pro died on that track four days ago, man. Eight years on the circuit and he still didn't survive the third drop. Have you lost your mind? Is this about Chloe?”

I let the silence answer for me.

“Ethan, seriously. Whatever went down, there are other—”

“Book it, Jae. Or I find someone who will.”

A heavy sigh hissed through the receiver. “I'll make the call,” he muttered, hanging up.

I stared up at the car ceiling in the pitch black, my smirk widening into something feral.

She looked at me tonight like a closed case. But I knew Chloe. I knew how guilt paralyzed her. The sheer terror of losing someone could bulldoze her strongest boundaries, dragging her right back to the very cage she tried to escape.

She just needed a bloody reminder of what she stood to lose.

The Death Route was simply the fastest shortcut back to her bed.