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, checking us into a suite on the top floor. It was 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 small. Fragile. Like a gust of wind could knock her over.

She wasn't crying for attention. It was that silent, terrifying kind of weeping where the breath gets stuck in the throat, where the body shakes because the soul is trying to detach itself from the pain.

“Sabrina," I said softly, locking the door behind us.

She didn't answer. She walked mechanically toward the minibar, her hands trembling as she pulled out a small bottle of vodka. She cracked the seal and downed it in one swallow. Then she reached for another.

“Hey," I stepped in, covering her hand with mine. "Easy."

She looked up at me then. Her eyes were red-rimmed, raw, and terrifyingly empty. "I just want it to stop, Cole. The noise in my head. I want it to stop."

My heart hammered against my ribs. It was too much. I knew the alcohol wouldn't erase the pain, only delay it, but she was sinking so fast that the choice was immediate self-destruction or... this.

I couldn't fix her, but I could give her the oblivion she was begging for, if only for an hour. I guided her to the edge of the bed and made her sit.

"Leon," she whispered, the name sounding like a curse.

The anger I’d been suppressing flared up, hot and acidic. I wanted to tell her I wasn't surprised. I wanted to scream that Leon had been treating her like an accessory for a decade.

I remembered the dinners with the guys, years ago. How Leon would laugh, swirling his scotch, saying, “Sabrina? No, she’s staying home. She’s too soft for these events. She doesn’t have the killer instinct.”

He spoke about her like she was a pet he was fond of but didn't respect. And I had stayed silent. I had watched her pour her love into a bucket with a hole in the bottom, hoping it would eventually fill up.

“He never came," she said, her voice breaking. "I was bleeding out, Cole. And he was buying blue balloons for her."

“He's a fool," I said, my voice low. "He's a blind, arrogant fool."

She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "Why wasn't I enough? Six times... I tried six times to give him a family. Maybe... maybe I’m defective."

“Stop it." I dropped to my knees in front of her, forcing her to look at me. "You are not defective. You are the strongest woman I know. Leon’s failure to see your worth doesn’t mean you don’t have any."

She stared at me, searching my face. The alcohol was hitting her system now, loosening the tight coil of her posture, but her gaze was sharp.

“You see me, don't you?" she whispered.

“I have always seen you." The words were out before I could check them.

The air in the room shifted. It became heavy, charged with ten years of silence.

She leaned forward, her hand coming up to cup my jaw. Her fingers were cold. "Then make me forget him."

I froze. "Sabrina, you're grieving. You’ve had vodka. You don't mean that."

“I don't want to grieve right now," she said, her voice fierce. "I want to feel something other than pain. I want to feel... chosen."

Before I could argue, before I could remind myself that I was the good guy, she kissed me.

It wasn't a gentle kiss. It was desperate. It tasted of salt and vodka and heartbreak.

I should have pushed her away. I knew she was hurting, I knew this was a reaction to the trauma. But when her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, my resolve disintegrated.

I had wanted this woman since the day Leon introduced us. I had watched from the sidelines, biting my tongue, respecting a marriage that Leon himself hadn't respected.

I kissed her back—not to take advantage, but to give back everything she had been starved of.

And then the moment shifted… deepened.

Her body trembled when I lifted her into my arms, but she didn’t pull away. She curled into me, seeking warmth, grounding, something to hold onto. I laid her gently on the bed and followed her down.

There was no rush. No lust-driven frenzy. Only a slow, aching gravity pulling us toward the same center.

I brushed my thumb down her spine, mapping every line and curve with reverent intention—touching her like she was something precious, not something to endure.

She shivered under my hands, not from fear, but from the sudden realization that she was being valued.

Her hands slid up my shoulders, hesitant at first, then clinging—seeking connection, not escape.

When I kissed the tear tracks on her cheeks, her breath hitched. I whispered against her skin, telling her she was safe, she was seen, she was enough.

She met me with unexpected strength—desperate, and hungry for something that made her feel human again. Every shift of her hips, every gasp against my throat was raw, breaking open seven years of silence and pain.

When we finally came together, it didn’t feel like sex. It felt like a wound being stitched from the inside.

I moved with her pace, her breath, her need—letting her guide the rhythm, letting her take back control of something she had lost long ago.

Her fingers tightened in my hair, her body arching into mine as a sound escaped her—half sob, half release. It wasn’t pleasure alone, it was grief burning out of her in waves.

By the time it ended, she was shaking in my arms. And I held her through every tremor.

When silence settled over the room, it felt different—gentler. The city lights leaked through the curtains, casting faint stripes across her skin.

She lay on my chest, breathing steadily for the first time all day.

“I was always just an obligation to him," she whispered into the darkness. "Someone he owed for sticking around."

I tightened my arm around her, kissing the top of her head.

“You were never just an obligation," I said, my voice rough, pulling her closer. "You were the view he refused to look at.”

She shifted, looking up at me. The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a somber exhaustion.

“I used to think if I loved him hard enough, he would become the man I needed," she confessed. "But you can't love someone into changing, can you?"

“No," I said. "You can't."

She closed her eyes, and within minutes, she was asleep.

But I lay awake.

I looked at her face, relaxed in sleep, free from the mask of bravery she wore for the world.

For years, I had stepped back. I had let Leon take the lead because he had the money, the ambition, the charisma. I thought I was doing the noble thing.

But looking at her now—broken by his indifference—I realized nobility was overrated.

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

But she was also free.

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

Leon had made his choice. Now, I was making mine.