Page 142 of Before Dawn

And what made it worse? I slipped in front of Abigail.

For the first time in my life, I understood what true fear felt like.

She had come back, but the weight of that night still lingered between us. The anger I’d let loose had shaken her. It had shaken us.

Even now, as I sat on the ivory couch in my living room, the weight of my mistake settled deep in my chest. I had scared the woman I loved, and no amount of distance or silence could change that.

I wouldn’t let that happen again.

Lately, the weight of her workload and stress had only made things worse, leaving her with debilitating headaches. She never said it outright, but I saw the toll it took—the way her shoulders tensed at sudden sounds, the slight tremor in her fingers when she thought I wasn’t looking.

But she had been fighting.

She’d been going to therapy more, pacing herself, listening to her body. Facing everything head-on. And as much as she worked on herself, I knew I had to work on me too.

Dr. Green’s words echoed in my mind from a session Abigail had shared with me:

“You don’t have to carry everything alone, Abigail. Healing doesn’t mean doing it in isolation. It means allowing yourself to be supported, to be loved through it.”

She let me in, leaned on me. And I had to do the same.

I had to do the work.

It wasn’t just about managing the rage when it hit—it was about catching it before it came. Learning the patterns. The way my jaw locked first, then my fists curled, then the heat crawled up my neck, suffocating me.

So, I put things in place.

The stress balls sat in my desk drawer, one in my car, another by my nightstand. I kept them close, forcing my fingers to squeeze, to move, to focus on anything but the building fire inside me.

And when the tension still refused to leave? When I could feel it rattling in my bones, demanding to be let out?

I wrote.

Not business strategies. Not notes for the company. Just thoughts. The things I couldn’t always say aloud, the feelings I didn’t know how to name, love letters to Abigail. Some nights, my pen tore through the paper, my handwriting nearly unreadable, but it was out of me.

And it helped.

Ronan kept his word about reaching out to psychiatrists and returned with books from a limited-edition store in Italy, all highly recommendedfor managing emotions and anxiety. They had also suggested weighted blankets, so I bought them in twenty different colors—every shade that had been listed as soothing, hoping one might bring her comfort.

Now, holding titles likeThe Gifts of Imperfectionby Brené Brown,Feeling Good: The New Mood Therapyby David D. Burns,Burnoutby Amelia and Emily Nagoski, andSelf-Compassionby Kristin Neff, I felt hopeful.

These books weren’t just for her. They were for us. For me to understand her better. For her to find comfort and tools to help herself.

I spent my free time annotating them, learning how to highlight key passages and leave sticky notes with reminders. Next to a section about intrusive thoughts, I wrote,“Is this fear talking or truth?”Beside an excerpt about self-worth, I left a note:“You are brave, capable, and deserving.”

It wasn’t just about the books. It was about proving that she didn’t have to fight this alone.

The journey hadn’t been easy. There had been tough conversations, uncomfortable silences, nights where she curled into herself before slowly relaxing against me. But I had been ready to face it all with her, willing to carry the weight when she wasn’t ready to.

Because a life without Abigail-Ann Asher?

That wasn’t a life at all.

I exhaled, rolling the stress ball in my palm, letting the tension ease from my chest. Small habits—steady breaths, a loosened jaw, walking away—kept me in control. The rage didn’t own me; I owned it. And I intended to keep it that way.

The clack of keys beside me barely registered.

“I can’t believe you’ve been seeing my client this whole time,” Emilia said, her voice slicing through my thoughts.

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