Page 217 of Before We Were

The words slice through old wounds, dredging up Evan's cruel voice, the way he'd sneered those same words before everything shattered.

My breath catches on a sob.

Farrah's grin turns feral.

"Poor little Nora, so fragile." She leans in close, her breath hot against my ear. "Pa-thetic."

Then comes the final blow—she spits in my face.

I freeze, humiliation and fury warring in my chest. Before I can move, a voice cuts through the tension like a blade.

"Back the fuck away." Camilla's voice rings with steel.

Farrah barely turns before Camilla strides in, her heels striking the floor like war drums. Her eyes blaze with protective fury, her smile promising violence.

"Unless you want me to rip out each one of your fake eyelashes and those bargain-bin Barbie extensions, I suggest you turn around and get the fuck out of here," Camilla says, voice low and dangerous.

Farrah's confidence cracks, her smirk slipping. "Stay out of this, Camilla. This doesn't concern you."

“When it comes to my friends, everything concerns me." Camilla's arms cross, her stance ready for battle. "But then again, you wouldn't know what it's like to have actual friends now, would you? Fuck off before I show you how far my foot can travel up your ass."

Farrah glares, but after a tense moment, she backs down.

"Slut," she mutters as she storms out.

The second she's gone, my legs give out. I sink to the cold floor as the walls close in, each breath a struggle. The world feels distant, underwater, everything muffled except the roar of blood in my ears. Camilla kneels beside me, her hands steady on my shoulders.

"Nora, it's okay," she says firmly. "You're okay."

But I can't focus. Can't breathe. Can't think past Farrah's words echoing in my head.

"Nora," Camilla says again, softer now. "Do you want me to call Nate?"

I nod weakly, unable to form words. Through the fog, I hear her on the phone, her voice sharp and commanding as she tells Nate what happened. But all I can think about is Farrah's truth—the one I've been trying to deny.

Maybe she's right. Maybe I am the problem.

Tears spill over as the weight of everything crashes down, and for once, I don't try to hold them back.

CHAPTER61

RESTORING WHAT'S BROKEN

NATE

Sonder is finally coming together.The bar stands like a copper-wrapped beacon, its surface catching the amber glow of overhead lights until it seems to pulse with its own heartbeat. Above, a canopy of carefully strung greenery transforms the space into something alive and breathing. Lanterns nestle in the leaves like fireflies caught in mid-dance, their light painting stories across the walls.

Nick's woodwork grounds the space—dark, polished mahogany that begs to be touched, to have fingers trace the stories carved in its grain. Modern meets timeless here, sleek edges softened by lived-in comfort. His vision breathes through every corner, but my fingerprints are here too, subtle signatures in the details that make this place ours.

Standing here now, pride mingles with something deeper—a recognition of what transformation really means. We didn't just build a restaurant bar; we wrote a testament to second chances. Every crack we filled, every surface we restored, whispers the same truth: broken things don't have to stay broken. They can become something new, something that holds both their history and their hope.

The work should be a welcome distraction like it usually is, but today every task feels heavy while I'm trying not to think about Nora in that blue dress, the way her hair caught the light like liquid copper, or how she smiled before heading to the Polo event. It's all I can see, playing on repeat behind my eyes. The broom in my hands moves mechanically while my mind races toward all the things I wanted to do to her before she left.

Nick's hand on my shoulder startles me back to reality. "You've swept the same spot for fifteen minutes, I don’t think it’s getting any cleaner. If you want to hang around and practice, go for it."

My eyes drift to the guitar waiting against the wall, patient as an old friend. "Yeah, maybe I will."

The moment I pick it up, something in my chest unclenches. The guitar feels more like home than any place I've ever lived. My fingers find their place on the strings without thought, muscle memory deeper than conscious choice. The first notes vibrate through wood and bone, and suddenly, I'm breathing easier than I have all day.

---