"I'm okay," I say, even though we both know it's a lie.
He just stands there, waiting, giving me space to break if I need to.
I don't.
Can't.
Because if I start, I won't stop.
And somewhere deep inside, the part of me that learned to survive by disappearing folds in on itself again—convinced, more than ever, that loving quietly means losing completely.
That caring without claiming, protecting without possessing, ends the same way every time.
With nothing left but the echo of what you couldn't say when it mattered.
CHAPTER 7
THE MORNING AFTER
NORA
I wake before the sun.
Not because I'm rested—because I can't breathe with Wes lying beside me.
He came home at four. The sound of the door opening, the uneven weight of him collapsing into bed, the sharp sting of alcohol on his breath when he turned toward me in his sleep.
I lay there staring at the ceiling until my eyes burned, counting the seconds between his breaths like it might anchor me to something solid.
It's seven now.
The house is quiet in that expensive, hollow way. Even the air feels staged.
I slide out of bed slowly, careful not to wake him.
The ring catches the light as I reach for my phone. The diamond bright and insistent, impossible to ignore.
My stomach tightens.
I pull it off and for a moment just hold it in my palm, feeling the weight of it. I place it on the bedside table like it might detonate if I'm not careful, then lace up my runners and slip out of the room.
The front door clicks shut behind me.
The morning air hits my lungs hard, sharp and clean, and I start running before I can think too much about why I need to escape.
Hidden Hills is eerily still this early. Mansions crouch behind gates and hedges, silent and watchful. Probably plotting their next property value increase.
I'm surrounded by houses that cost eight figures and somehow all look exactly the same. Beige. Tasteful. Soulless. The architectural equivalent of oat milk.
My feet hit the pavement in a steady rhythm, the familiar burn in my calves grounding me in my body when my mind refuses to cooperate.
I run because it's the only thing that's ever reliably quieted my head.
But today, nothing stays quiet.
Everything comes rushing in at once—my childhood, my dad's laugh, the sound of soft waves that would sometimes wash up against the dock at the lake in the early morning. The way grief rewired me at sixteen and forced me to grow up faster than I ever wanted to. Nothing feels real out here.
My phone vibrates against my arm.
