Page 87 of Stick Fight

Not to hide.

But to finish something that’s long overdue.

My parents were worried when I called to explain. But after I laid out the details, they understood, and were excited for me. Because what I’m about to do isn’t the end. It’s a beginning.

I cross the lobby and when Everett spots me, his face lights up. In the six months I’ve lived here, the doormen have become like family. Constant. Steady. Safe.

He hurries to open the glass doors, sunlight spilling in around him. “Morning,” he calls warmly.

“Morning,” I say, keeping my voice light, even though I’m truly a bundle of nerves, not knowing what to expect.

His gaze drops to the travel bag. “Need a lift to the airport?”

A flash of guilt twists in my stomach. Not because I’m doing anything wrong, but because I hate even the smallest lies. “Actually, no,” I say. “A friend’s picking me up.”

He nods, smiles easily, but I can see the quick glance he sneaks toward the curb. Roman’s out of town. He knows that. Maybe he’s wondering what I’m up to. What’s that old saying? When the cat’s away, the mouse will play. But I’m not playing. What I’m doing is fighting for my future, choosing my own story.

The sun kisses my skin as I step outside, and I lift my face to it, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. What I’m doing is right. Terrifying. But right. A sleek black limo pulls up to the curb. Everett stays professional, but I catch the curious tilt of his head. The driver steps out and opens the back door. My heart pounds harder, not from fear—not exactly—but from the excitement. Once I close this door, nothing will be standing between me and the life I want. I slide into the back seat, and there he is.

Cass.

The man I almost married. The man who needs a wife, someone to have his children, because he’s nothing more than a marionette, his strings controlled by a puppet master.

The man whose chapter in my rom-com life needs a real ending.

“Cass,” I say, my voice calm even as my pulse races.

He smiles, the same easy smile that used to make me quake, but this conversation isn’t about rekindling anything. It’s about closure. It’s about choosing Roman.It’s about finally, finally being free.

“Gabrielle,” Cass breathes, like he’s been holding it in for months, like he truly believes I’ve finally come to my senses. His eyes narrow, scanning me from head to toe before he asks, “How are you?”

The driver climbs back into the front seat. I lean forward, keeping my voice low and even, giving him the address of a discreet little restaurant tucked away on the outskirts of town. Somewhere private. The last thing I need is someone spotting us and spinning a story that doesn’t exist.

I settle back against the leather seat, just in time to catch Cass eyeing me again, longer this time, more critically. I know what he’s seeing. I’ve filled out, softened in ways I used to punish myself over. But this isn’t shame weight. It’shappyweight. The kind of weight Roman trails his fingers over when he thinks I’m still asleep, the kind he worships like I’m something sacred.

“You look good,” Cass finally says, the words stiff and brittle, like they cost him something.

He exhales sharply, leans his head back against the seat, and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s fighting off a migraine. “You look...happy,” he adds, and this time the words come out choked and broken. But before I can open my mouth, his phone pings in his pocket. He pulls it out, frowning, fingers gliding over the screen with a distracted tension.

While he’s lost in whatever message has pulled him away, I let myself really look at him.

He might be six-foot four, but now, he looks...small. Hollowed out. There are deep shadows under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in weeks, and his once-broad shoulders seem to have caved inward under the weight of expectations he was never meant to carry. I used to be furious at him, furious for the cheating, for the way he held my career over my head.

But sitting here now, watching him drown quietly in his own life, that anger softens into something sadder. Pity. Because no matter how hard Cass tries, he will never win his father’s approval. And maybe he knows it too. Maybe that’s what’s eating him alive.

“I’m sorry, I have to answer this,” he mutters, not even looking up, already typing.

I wonder if it’s his father demanding answers. Demanding updates. Demanding to know when Cass will fix all this—give him the perfect family and grandkids he wants. Everything is about image in the fashion world, and that almost makes me laugh because this is exactly what Roman went through growing up, too.

Silence thickens between us as the limo winds through the streets of Boston, the city flashing by in muted colors. I stare out the window, letting the now familiar scenery remind me of who I’ve become under Roman’s care. Someone stronger. Someone freer.

When we finally pull up to the restaurant, I don’t wait. The driver swings open the door and I step out, pulling my bag with me. I have no intention of getting back into this car with him. Inside, the restaurant is dimly lit, hushed and intimate. A hostess leads us to a small table tucked into the corner, the reservation I made under a different name, just in case.

The food here is supposed to be incredible, but my stomach churns with nerves. I doubt I could eat a bite. We slide into our seats across from one another. The hostess leaves us with menus. I flip mine open, more for something to do with my hands than out of real interest.

A server appears, cheerful and efficient, and Cass orders a cocktail without hesitation.

I ask for water.

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