Page 97 of For the Plot
But I open it now. And of course, there’s nothing new. No apology. No explanation. Not even a goddamn breadcrumb. I scroll through our short message history, my eyes still pooling with tears. I close them, willing them to stop as I replay our history.
I don’t know how he can just move on. Like he didn’t strip me down and worship my body. Like he didn’t bury his face between my thighs and whisper that I tasted like salvation. Like he didn’t push into me slow and deep and say my name like it was his favorite word.
A muscle in my jaw ticks. My hand tightens around the phone. I shouldn’t care. I should delete his number, erase every trace of him from my life and start over. Clean break. Rip the bandage. Be strong. But my brain is a traitor. And my body is worse.
Because as I stare at his name, heat curls low in my belly. My thighs press together. My mind floods with memories. His mouth on mine. His hands in my hair. His voice in my ear—low, wrecked, begging me to ride him harder.
God, I can stillfeelhim. The scratch of his stubble against my inner thigh. The way his cock throbbed inside me. The way he whispered, “Come for me, sweetheart,” right before I shattered.
And then helet me walk away. I choke on a laugh that turns into a sob.
I press the back of my hand to my mouth, but it’s too late. The tears are already coming. Hot, silent, unstoppable. My shoulders shake as I curl into a ball, the phone slipping from my fingers onto the comforter beside me.
I swipe the tears from my eyes and pick it back up. I stare at his name for what feels like forever.
Then I tap his name, going into the contact… Then Delete.
But I hesitate. My finger hovers over the confirmation button. God, this is pathetic.
“I know his number,” I whisper into the dark. “I memorized it.”
I say it again, like that makes it better. Like that makes it hurt less. Like if I have it tattooed on my brain, it’s okay to let go of the thread I keep clinging to.
I hit delete. Just like that, he’s gone. Except… he’s not. Because he’s in my chest. My throat. My bloodstream. He’s in the way I touch myself now, hesitant, unsatisfied. Like nothing else measures up.
I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling. The fan spins lazily above me, and I imagine him above me instead. Holding my wrists down. Telling me I’m his. Fucking me like he’s trying to stake a claim. I squeeze my eyes shut, telling myself that this is it. This is the last time I’ll let myself sink beneath these memories as they crash over my body in waves of regret.
Chapter 22
Reece
The silence is the worst part.
The elevator doors slide open and I walk straight into the dark. I don’t bother flipping on the lights. It’s muscle memory now… dropping my keys in the dish, heading to the bar, two fingers of scotch.
Nothing about the space has changed. No traces of her ever touched this place. She never left things here. Never stayed longer than the night. But it still feels empty.
I toss back the first drink without breathing. Pour a second before I even feel the burn. The city glows behind the glass wall in a smear of gold and steel. Below, Chicago is alive—traffic, noise, people going about their lives. Mine hasn’t moved. Not really.
It’s been weeks since I told her not to come back. Since she stood in the center of my living room, wearing nothing but lace and desperation, and I let her leave. I shut her out. And I’ve been trying to convince myself it was the right thing. That protecting her and Archer meant walking away.
But that’s a lie I’ve told myself before. When Lauren died. When I buried my grief in twenty-hour workdays and forgotwhat it meant to feel anything. Skye cracked me open. And I’ve been bleeding ever since.
I turn from the window and head down the hall, the scotch still in my hand. I should go to bed. Should lie down and force myself into the four hours of sleep that pass for rest lately.
Instead, I stop outside my home office. I haven’t sat in here in days. Not since Archer called me “fucking disgusting.” Not since Skye disappeared from my life without another word.
I open the door, walking past the desk without sitting, heading straight for the wall cabinet built into the far side. The drawer sticks when I try to open it. Of course it does. It’s been years since I touched it. Not because I forgot what’s in there but because I remember exactly.
I pull harder until it gives, the old wood frame groaning like it’s protesting too. There it is. The small black box. Smooth leather, corner fraying. A time capsule I’ve avoided since the funeral. I sit down at the desk and place it in front of me like it might detonate.
I don’t know why I’m doing this now. Maybe because pretending the past doesn’t exist hasn’t gotten me anywhere. Maybe because I don’t trust myself to move forward without understanding what the hell is holding me back.
I open the lid.
The scent hits first. Faint. Old rose. Lauren’s perfume. She used to dab it behind her ears, swearing it made her feel “like a rich bitch with nothing to lose.” I remember laughing when she said that.
My fingers graze the silver pendant nestled inside. Still on the chain. Still tangled the way it was when the hospital returned it to me. I never untangled it. Just shoved it in here like if I didn’t look, I wouldn’t feel. I set it aside and flip through the stack of photos underneath.
