Page 180 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“Right,” I say through numb lips. “Got it. You…you don’t have to worry about me anymore, Storm.”

Especially now that it’s clear he never did.

I rush to his door, moving so quickly I knock the Tupperware container with the cookies over, shattering the glass—not unlike my shattered heart.

I pick up a piece of glass, but it cuts my palm deeper than I’d expect.

“Shit, Shae. Let me hel?—”

“Don’t!” I shout. I damn near screech. He stops a foot from me, standing over me with his chest rising and falling as ifhe were out of breath. And there I am, sprawled on the floor beneath him.

Hurt.

It’s all one big circle, isn’t it? It’s just like how we met. I guess I should have expected we’d end how we began.

I stand, dropping the bloody glass on the side table and scooping up my coat and scarf. Before the door closes behind me, I throw over my shoulder, “Goodbye, Storm.”

I don’t look back to see his reaction.

I do well walking down the hall to the elevator.

I even make it to the first floor and don my coat and scarf without incident.

But once I step onto the busy street outside Storm’s building, I lose it. One tear turns into two, which turns into blinding, terror-ridden sobs as I stand on a sidewalk in the midday traffic with wet panties, snot running down my face, and a bloody palm.

Where am I? What am I doing? What will I do?

What happens now?

God. God! Why is this happening?

My heart breaks, cracked, crushed. Irreparably damaged.

All from the uncaring hand of Storm Sandoval.

You are Shae Oliviya Rivers. You are strong, smart, capable, and resilient. Breathe.

In. I breathe. Out. I exhale. In. I breathe. Out. I exhale.

Once I’m calm enough to gain my bearings, I pull out my phone to schedule a rideshare. But before I can select the icon, a message appears, and I freeze like the frigid air swirling around me.

Reminder: Your intake appointment at Luna Women’s Clinic is tomorrow. Send Y to confirm or N to cancel.

My finger hovers over the keyboard, feeling the weight of my decision on my shoulder as heavy as the future ahead of me.

What do you want to do for you, Shae?

My mother’s words ring in my head, spiraling on repeat as I try to decide.

What do I want?

What do I want for me?

A car horn sounds too close to where I stand, and I jump a foot in the air, grasping my chest.

“Fuck,” I pant, and as soon as I break my silence, the tears fall.

They fall and fall and fall.

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