Chapter 6

The rain was a cold shock, but Cayla barely felt it. She was already numb.

She stood on the balcony, letting the storm wash over her, until she heard the sliding door open. It was Brooks. He was holding a jacket.

"Cayla, you'll catch your death,"he said, his voice filled with concern. He draped the jacket over her shivering shoulders.

"It doesn't matter,"she whispered.

"I booked your flight,"he said quietly, so no one else could hear. "Tomorrow morning. 7 a.m. Just like you asked."

Tomorrow. The anniversary of Justen's death. A fitting day to end one life and begin another.

"Thank you, Brooks,"she said, pulling the jacket tighter around herself. "For everything."

She went back inside, dripping water on the marble floor. She walked straight to her small office at the back of the venue to retrieve her personal belongings. There wasn't much. A spare charger, a notebook, a pen.

As she was putting them in her bag, Grafton appeared in the doorway. His suit was impeccable, his hair perfectly styled. He looked at her drenched form with disgust.

"What are you doing?"he asked.

"I'm leaving,"she said, not looking at him.

"Leaving for the night, or leaving for good?"

"For good."

He was silent for a moment. She expected anger, or at least surprise. Instead, his voice was flat, indifferent.

"Fine,"he said. "My life is with Cherrelle now. I'm moving into her place while the new house is being built. I won't be at the penthouse much anymore. There's no need for you there anyway."

He was kicking her out of a life she was already leaving. It was a final, petty assertion of control.

"I understand,"she said.

She zipped her bag. She had one last thing to do. One final, foolish request. A test.

"Grafton,"she said, turning to face him. "Before I go, could you do one thing for me?"

He raised an eyebrow, impatient. "What?"

"For five years, on the anniversary of Justen's death, we... you and I... we would visit his grave together."It was the one tradition she had insisted upon, the one thing that connected them to the man they had both loved. "Tomorrow is the anniversary. Will you come with me, one last time?"

It was a plea for a shred of shared humanity. A final acknowledgment of their shared loss.

Grafton's face hardened. He let out a short, cruel laugh.

"Are you serious?"he scoffed. "I'm celebrating my engagement. I'm starting my future. Why would I want to spend my day wallowing in the past with you?"

He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a low, menacing tone. "The past is dead, Cayla. Let it stay that way."

That was it. The last thread, severed.

She nodded slowly. "I see."

She turned to leave, but he grabbed her arm, his grip like steel.

"Where do you think you're going?"he slurred. He was drunker than she'd realized. The smell of expensive whiskey was heavy on his breath.

He pulled her back, stumbling, and slammed the door shut. He pinned her against it, his body pressing into hers.

"You're not going anywhere,"he growled, his face close to hers. His eyes were unfocused, filled with a confusing mix of anger and something else. Something that terrified her.

He lowered his head, his lips crashing against hers. It wasn't a kiss. It was an assault. A brutal, clumsy act of possession.

She was frozen, a statue of ice and shock.

And then he whispered against her lips. A name that was not hers. No, not a name. A confession.

"I love you, Cayla."

The words were a gunshot in the silent room.

It shattered the last piece of her.

He was drunk, engaged to another woman, and chose this moment, this violent, terrifying moment, to say the one thing she had once thought she wanted to hear.

The fight went out of her. The ice in her veins spread, freezing her from the inside out.

There was nothing left to break.