She still thinks that.
Which means this isn’t over. Not even close.
I step away from the podium, and the room remains suspended in stunned silence.
Good.
I walk past the front tables.
I pass Camden first, and he doesn’t look up, his gaze fixed on the table as his hands remain folded too tightly in front of him. Then Harris, whose expression has reset to something carefully neutral even as his eyes sharpen, already working through damage control.
Too late.
Masden watches me as I pass, his jaw tight, his understanding complete.
He knows exactly what just happened.
The doors to the ballroom loom ahead, and I push them open, cool air hitting my face.
The doors close behind me with a heavy click, and the first thing that fills my head isn’t the firm or the partners or the fallout waiting on the other side of tomorrow.
It’s Tessa.
Because if Tessa Whitmore thinks walking away tonight protects me, she’s wrong.
No one walks away from me anymore.
No one.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Tessa
The last of the boxes are packed.
Tiffany is at yoga, and Waffles is quietly curled up on her pillow, hopefully passing a little gas as he dreams.
The apartment feels strange without Tiffany’s music playing from somewhere in the distance or her voice narrating whatever crisis the instructor has invented for downward dog today. It’s just me, and the towers of cardboard.
I haven’t heard from Rowan in three days, which, I’ll admit, hurts my heart a little. It sits there like a bruise I keep pressing just to see if it still aches. I was hoping he would have stolen a car and chased me the whole way home, but that isn’t how real life works.
Rowan had a job to do. He didn’t have time to play hero.
I don’t blame him.
I’ve caused enough trouble in his life. He doesn’t need any more.
I scan the room once more, making sure I didn’t leave anything for Tiffany—toilet paper included—when a banging starts on the door. It’s loud and obnoxious and doesn’t stop when I yell, “I’m coming!”
I yank open the door without checking the peephole and see my not-so-much-of-a-hero. His pupils are dilated, and he’s breathing hard.
Maybe he chased me after all.
His broad chest rises and falls beneath a wrinkled shirt, hair windblown like he ran his hands through it a dozen times on the drive over. He looks equal parts irritated and relieved to see me.
“What are you doing here?” My words have a little bit of attitude behind them. A little bite to cover the fact that seeing him standing there sends something warm and reckless through my ribs.
“I need an ibuprofen,” he huffs out. One hand braces on the doorframe, fingers flexing against the wood.
