"Were you?" He tilts his head. "Because I remember a lot of rejection letters. A manuscript that nobody wanted. You were talented, absolutely. But talent doesn't mean anything in this town without someone willing to take a chance on you."
The words land exactly where he means them to.
I wrap my arms around myself. A defensive posture I hate but can't stop.
“Wow.”
"I'm not trying to be unfair." His voice softens again. "I'm trying to be honest. I believed in you when no one else did. I fought for your book. I put my reputation on the line."
He pauses.
"So when you say I'm making decisions for you, what I hear is that you don't trust the person who's only ever tried to help you succeed."
"You're twisting this."
"I'm not twisting anything." He steps back, like he's giving me space. Like he's the one being mature about this. "I'm asking you to think about what you actually want. Because if this—" he gestures between us, "—isn't what you want, then maybe we need to have a different conversation."
The threat is buried under concern, but it's there. Clear as glass.
"I just want you to talk to me before you go and make these decisions,” I whisper. "I want to feel like I have a choice."
He exhales. Slow and measured.
"You always have a choice, Nora. You're choosing right now. You're choosing to turn the happiest moment of my life into a fight."
"That's not what I'm doing."
"Then what are you doing?" He watches me. Waiting. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you're sabotaging something good because you're scared. And I get it—I do. You've been through a lot. But at some point, you have to stop running."
"Maybe this doesn't feel like love," I say. The words barely audible.
He goes still.
Then something shifts in his expression—not anger, but something harder. Colder.
“You’re joking right?” He laughs once. Short and humorless. "Okay. So that's where we are."
"Wes—"
"No, I get it now." He nods slowly, picking up his coffee. "You want to throw this away. Everything we've built. Everything I've given you. Fine. But just know?—"
He pauses at the doorway. Looks back at me.
"You won't find this again. Not the success. Not the opportunities. Not someone who believes in you the way I do."
The threat sits between us, dressed up as concern.
"Think about that," he says quietly. "Think about what you're really giving up."
Then he walks away, leaving me standing in the kitchen with tears on my face and his words echoing in my head like poison.
I made you.
Even though he never said it out loud this time, I heard it anyway. It like something vital has been squeezed out of me. I sink down onto the floor, back against the counter, and let myself cry—not because I'm sad, but because I'm finally angry enough to see it clearly.
Somewhere beneath the panic, beneath the grief and the rage,Eden calls to me again. The memory of it. The safety of it. The version of myself I left there.
So does he.
