Page 173 of Shots & Echoes

And worst of all?

Hating the fact that this didn’t feel like saving her.

It felt like losing her forever.

And the second the door closed?—

I broke.

I drove my fist into the wall, the sharp crack of impact splitting through the silence like a gunshot. Pain lanced up my arm, but it was nothing compared to the fucking wreckage inside me. My breath came ragged, each inhale scraping against my ribs like I was barely holding myself together.

Because I wasn’t.

I had shattered the second she walked away.

My forehead hit the door, skin burning from the contact, but I pressed harder—like I could force myself to feel anything other than this gut-wrenching loss. My chest ached like a blade had been driven straight through it, twisting deeper with every second that passed without her here.

I saw her face every time I closed my eyes—the heartbreak, the fury, the disbelief. The way her hands trembled even as she stood her ground, refusing to let me break her completely. I had told myself I was protecting her. That this was the only way to keep her safe from the storm that was coming for us both.

But that was bullshit.

This wasn’t strength.

This was fucking cowardice.

A growl tore from my throat as I punched the wall again, harder this time. My knuckles split open, blood smearing against the cold surface, but I welcomed it. Anything to drown out the screaming in my head.

How could I let her go?

How could I stand there, looking into those eyes—the same eyes that had once looked at me like I was something worth believing in—and lie to her? Tell her I didn’t love her? That she was just a distraction?

I dragged a shaky hand through my hair, pacing the small space like a caged animal. Chambers’ smirking face flashed in my mind, that smug bastard watching, waiting for his moment to strike. He would rip her apart if he knew. Use her as leverage, destroy everything she’d worked for just to prove a fucking point.

And what had I done? I’d given him the perfect opening.

I had ripped myself out of her life before he had the chance—before my father, before the media, before anyone could decide her future for her. I convinced myself that this was the right thing. That she would hate me now, but at least she would still have her dream.

But standing here, fists bloodied, staring at the empty space where she should be, where she belonged?—

I knew I had just made the biggest mistake of my life.

I sat on the floor, back against the wall, staring at the door like if I willed it hard enough, she’d come back. But she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t.

Because I’d made sure of that.

The words I had thrown at her—vicious, deliberate, meant to wound—were still ricocheting inside my skull, each one sharper than the last. I told myself I was protecting her. That pushing her away was the only way to keep her safe. But sitting here, suffocating in the silence she left behind, I knew the truth.

I hadn’t done it for her. I had done it for me.

Because I was afraid. Afraid of what she made me feel. Afraid of how much she could break me if I let her in. Afraid that she would look at me one day and see exactly what my father did.

“You ruin everything you touch.”

The words curled around my throat like a noose, my father’s voice a relentless whisper in the back of my mind. I could still see the way he had looked at me—like I was a goddamn tragedy waiting to happen. And maybe I was.

Because now I had proof.

I had ruined her, too.

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