CHAPTER 5.

Cole’s POV.

I didn’t know what hurt more—watching Sabrina shatter, or the sickening realization that I had seen this coming for years.

I drove us to the St. Regis and checked us into a suite on the top floor. Neutral ground. No memories. No Leon.

When we got into the room, she didn’t sit. She stood in the center of the plush carpet, still wearing the wrinkled dress she’d left the hospital in. She looked smaller than I remembered, fragile in a way that had nothing to do with her body and everything to do with what had been taken from her.

“Sabrina,” I said, locking the door behind us.

She didn’t answer. She walked to the minibar like she was moving through water, her hands trembling as she pulled out a bottle of vodka and twisted it open. She drank too fast, like she was trying to outrun something inside her, and when she reached for another, I stepped in and caught her wrist.

“Hey. Easy.”

She looked up at me then, and the sight of her eyes—red, hollow, and emptied of anything steady—made something in my chest tighten.

“I just want it to stop, Cole,” she said. “The noise in my head. I want it to stop.”

I guided her to the edge of the bed and made her sit, and this time she didn’t resist. Her fingers moved restlessly in her lap, twisting the hospital bracelet she hadn’t taken off—the same one I had watched them remove when my blood went into her veins.

“Leon,” she whispered.

The name settled between us, heavy and sour, and the anger I had been holding back surged up again, sharp and familiar. I remembered too many moments I had chosen to ignore—Leon laughing, dismissing her like she was something soft, something temporary, speaking about her like she was convenient rather than essential—and I had stood there and let it pass.

“He never came,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was in critical condition, Cole. And he was buying blue balloons for her.”

“He’s a fool,” I said quietly. “A blind one.”

She wrapped her arms around herself like she was trying to hold something together that had already come apart.

“Why wasn’t I enough?” she whispered. “Six times… I tried six times to give him a family. Maybe… maybe I’m the problem.”

“Stop.” I dropped down in front of her, forcing her to meet my eyes. “You are not the problem. Leon not seeing your worth doesn’t make you worthless.”

She searched my face like she needed something solid to hold onto.

“You see me, don’t you?” she asked.

“I always have.”

The words came out before I could stop them, and the moment they did, something in the room shifted. Not sharply, not dramatically—just enough to make the air feel heavier, like everything that had gone unsaid for years had finally found its way to the surface.

She leaned closer, her fingers brushing along my jaw, unsteady and cold.

“Then make me forget him.”

I went still. “Sabrina—”

“You don’t understand,” she said, shaking her head. “I don’t want to feel like this. Not right now. I just need something else. Anything else.”

Before I could stop her, she kissed me.

It wasn’t careful or measured. It was desperate, uneven, driven by something breaking loose rather than something being chosen. I knew what it was, knew what state she was in, and every part of me that had spent years standing back told me to stop it.

But when she pulled me closer, like she was afraid I would disappear too, something in me gave way.

I didn’t take control of it. I didn’t turn it into something else.

I just stayed.

Let her hold on.

Let her take what she needed in that moment without pushing her further than she could carry.

When I lifted her into my arms, she leaned into me without hesitation, like she trusted me to keep her steady. I laid her down carefully, aware of how fragile she still was, and stayed close enough that she wouldn’t feel like she was falling again.

There was no rush in what followed, no urgency to claim anything. Just a quiet, grounding presence, something steady enough for her to anchor herself to. She clung to me like she needed proof that she was still here, still real, still worth something after everything that had been stripped away from her.

When she broke, it wasn’t sudden. It came slowly, in waves, her body trembling as years of grief and exhaustion unraveled all at once. I held her through it, steady and unmoving, letting her feel it without letting her face it alone.

By the time it settled, she was curled against me, her breathing uneven but calmer than it had been all day.

“I was always just an obligation to him,” she murmured quietly.

I tightened my arm around her, resting my chin lightly against her head. “You were never an obligation. He just didn’t know what he had.”

She shifted slightly, her voice softer now, drained of everything sharp. “I thought if I loved him enough, he would change.”

“You can’t love someone into becoming who they’re not,” I said.

She didn’t argue. She didn’t push back. A few minutes later, her breathing evened out, and she fell asleep against me.

But I stayed awake.

I watched her face in the dim light, finally free of the strain she carried even when she smiled. For years, I had told myself stepping back was the right thing, that letting Leon take the lead was what respect looked like. But looking at her now—at what that choice had cost her—I realized it had never been about respect.

It had been about taking the easier path.

I traced the line of her jaw with my thumb. She wasn't the same girl I had met ten years ago. She was scarred now. Heavier with grief.

But she was also free.

And this time, I wasn't going to be the friend on the sidelines.

Leon had chosen Zara. He chose a woman who laughed at him when he was nothing.

So now I choose Sabrina. The woman who loved him when he was nothing, and who he threw away when he had everything.

And I’m going to make sure he lives long enough to regret it.