Chapter 5: Stained Glass Echoes (Part 2)

Back at Kensington Tech, the atmosphere was a stark contrast to my misery. Sophie walked through the glass doors, her face a mask of professional ice.

Archer was already there, pacing in front of her desk like a caged predator. His face was a storm of tension, his eyes darting toward the door as if expecting me to follow.

"Sophie. Where’s Evelyn?" he demanded, his voice dropping into that low, commanding register he used when he was losing control.

Sophie didn't even look up as she dropped her bag onto her desk. "I took her home. She’s sick."

Her voice was flat. No warmth. No room for negotiation. Archer flinched, just for a second, before his jaw set in a hard line. Sophie didn't give him an inch; she immediately started typing, her body language screaming for him to get out of her space.

Archer exhaled a sharp, frustrated breath. He pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over my name.

He called once. I didn't answer.

He called twice. Nothing.

By the fourth attempt, his frustration boiled over into a hissed curse. He stared at the screen for a moment longer, his eyes dark and calculating, before turning on his heel and retreating into his office.

***

Late afternoon light was bleeding orange across the bedroom floor when I finally opened my eyes. My face felt tight from dried salt, and my head throbbed with every heartbeat.

I reached for my phone. A string of missed calls from Archer stared back at me.

I felt paralyzed. If last night hadn't happened—if I hadn't given him everything—maybe I could have walked away right then. But there was a tether now. A dark, complicated bond that made the thought of leaving feel like tearing off my own skin.

A sudden sound from the living room made me sit up. The front door.

I held my breath as footsteps approached the bedroom. Archer appeared in the doorway, his silhouette framed by the dying light. He looked disheveled, his tie loosened, his eyes wide with a frantic, desperate energy.

"Evie... baby... please," he started, his voice a soft, pleading rasp. "It’s not what you think."

The tears started again, hot and fresh. "How could you lie to me?" I choked out, my voice breaking. "You defended her! You stood there and treated me like I was the problem!"

He crossed the room in three strides, sinking onto the edge of the bed. He reached out, his fingers brushing the hair away from my face, forcing me to look at him.

"Look at me. Please," he whispered. "I messed up. I was stressed... the merger, the board meetings... I was exhausted, Evie. I snapped. It was the pressure."

I sobbed, my shoulders heaving. He began to stroke my hair, his touch so familiar, so practiced in its gentleness.

"I lied because I didn't want to hurt you," he continued, his voice dropping to a seductive, low hum. "I wanted to protect you from the drama. I was terrified you’d misunderstand if you knew I was in the same building as Sienna."

I looked at him through a blur of tears. My heart was shattered, but I was searching for a reason to believe him. I needed the lie to be true because the truth was too much to bear.

"I'm so sorry, baby..." he murmured, leaning in until his forehead touched mine.

He leaned down, his lips ghosting over mine—a touch so light it was almost a question. A plea for forgiveness that bypassed my brain and went straight to my gut.

His hand moved to the small of my back, pulling me into the hollow of his chest. He guided me back down onto the pillows, his movements slow and deliberate. I didn't resist. I couldn't. The trauma was a weight, and he was the only thing I knew how to lean on.

"Don't cry," he whispered against my skin, his voice a velvet trap. "I hate seeing you like this."

I gave a small, broken nod. The warmth of him began to drown out the cold logic in my head. He pulled me closer, his arm locking around my waist as the evening shadows stretched across the room, turning the penthouse into a sanctuary of beautiful, lingering lies.