“Good.” I glance toward the bed, catching Keane’s tired eyes locked on me, watching me. “We’ll figure this out. All of it. But not if you wear yourself down before we even get started.”
Her hand tightens on Keane’s for a second before she finally pulls away, her fingers lingering like it takes everything in her to let go. It’s a small moment, but it’s enough to make my chest ache.
“Let’s go,” I say softly, holding out a hand for her. “Just a quick break. He’ll be fine.”
He’s been fucking fine without you for five years, I want to say, but instead I stay quiet. This isn’t the time nor the place to behave like a jealous boyfriend who wants to defend what’s his.
She hesitates but finally slips her hand into mine. As we leave the room, I can feel Keane’s gaze following us, a tension in the air I don’t know how to shake. And as much as I want to believe my words, as much as I want to believe we’ll figure this out . . . the truth is, I’m not sure we will.
Chapter Twenty-One
Ophelia
You knowthose moments when the world feels too big, when the weight of everything threatens to crush you? When all you need is someone to gather the scattered pieces of you, hold them gently, and say,You’ll get through this. This moment won’t last forever. You’ll be okay?
I have someone like that. My person.
Haydn Wesford is the one I turn to when life feels too much, too tangled. He’s the first call when there’s something to celebrate, the arms I seek when everything collapses around me. On any other day, I wouldn’t hesitate to lean on him. That’s what you do with your partner, isn’t it? You let them catch you when you’re falling, hold you together when the cracks start to show.
But today isn’t any other day.
Today, my world has flipped, and I can’t seem to find my footing. It’s one of those days that should feel monumental—a best-day-ever kind of day. My fiancé is alive. Keane. He’s here. Breathing. His heart is still beating in a world I thought had already stolen him from me.
That light I thought had been extinguished?
It’s flickering again. In fact, it was never gone.
And yet . . . what am I hoping for? Relief? Joy? I feel neither. Instead, there’s this unrelenting ache, a fear that grips me so tightly I can barely breathe. Because this changes everything. I know it in my bones. It’s like standing in a room full of open doors, each one leading to a place I don’t recognize, with no map to guide me.
Which one do I step through?
How do I even choose?
I need Haydn. I need his voice, his calm. But how do I tell him this? How do I explain that instead of feeling relief, I’m falling apart in ways I can’t articulate? How do I confess that Keane’s return doesn’t just complicate things for me, but for us? For everything?
There’s a hollowness in my chest, an emptiness so vast it feels like it might swallow me whole. My thoughts spin wildly, out of control, like a film reel unraveling too fast for me to grasp. Haydn’s always been my constant—the person who helps me find my way when everything else feels like too much. But how do I tell him I need that now?
When I think about him leaving—or worse, staying but closing himself off—I can feel it unraveling. If not leaving entirely, he’s already breaking the bridge we built together. I saw it earlier, caught it in the way his eyes avoided mine, in the quiet distance that settled between us like an invisible wall. And honestly? I’m surprised he didn’t shut me out sooner.
He told me once, in that hesitant, vulnerable way of his, that his biggest fear is being left behind. This was back when we were just starting out as friends—before I gave him every reason to believe people don’t stay, not for him, not for long. Just like his mother did.
The worst part? I can’t even fault him for it. I have no answers, no promises to offer him. Keane needs me. I’m all he has. And what am I supposed to do now?
The drive to the restaurant is short but drags on endlessly. The silence in the car feels oppressive, thick with everything neither of us is saying. Haydn keeps his eyes on the navigation system, his hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. His mind is somewhere else—I know it is. Probably replaying that last game of the season. The play that cost them their shot at the Cup.
He’s been fixated on it ever since, like if he relives it enough times, he’ll figure out how to rewrite the ending. Next season, they said. This is the year. And now, here I am, throwing his perfectly calculated world off balance. I can feel it—the way he’s pulling back, maybe even trying to figure out how to sideline me completely.
When we pull up to the restaurant, the valet is already waiting. Haydn steps out, handing over the keys without a word. The chill in the air creeps in as I wait, and he walks around to open my door. It’s a small, automatic gesture, but there’s a detachment in it that stings. His eyes flick to mine briefly before shifting away again.
The restaurant is as elegant as I expected, all sleek lines and hushed conversations. A hostess in a perfectly tailored black dress greets us, her smile polished and professional. Haydn mutters his name, and she nods, leading us through the quiet, candlelit space to a private room.
As we walk, I steal a glance at him. His hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched in a way that makes him look smaller. Like he’s folding in on himself, trying to take up as little space as possible. He doesn’t look at me—not really—and it’s unbearable.
The Haydn I know—knew—was larger than life, his energy filling every room. He had this way of making people stop and take notice, even when he wasn’t trying. But now, he feels far away, as though he’s slowly fading out of reach, and I don’t know how to pull him back.
In the private room, the soft light from the chandelier bounces off the polished wood of the table. Haydn sinks into the chair across from me, his gaze fixed on the smooth surface as if it holds all the answers. The hostess reappears, setting down the drink menu and announcing that our food will be out shortly as per Haydn’s request.
He doesn’t look at the menu, doesn’t even glance at the hostess. It’s like he’s physically here but somewhere else entirely, a shadow of himself that I can’t quite reach.
