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His eyes meet mine, and I catch a flicker of amusement mixed with something darker—maybe frustration or anger.

My breath catches in my throat. I feel lost, caught between shock and the overwhelming flood of everything I’ve been holding in. My fingers clench into fists at my sides, as if trying to ground myself, to hold on to reality.

His presence fills the space, heavy and impossible to ignore. My heart races, my mind screaming, but my voice feels trapped somewhere deep inside. I want to run, but my feet refuse to move.

He looks absolutely stunning—dressed in an elegant winter coat outfit that fits him perfectly, accentuating his broad shoulders and tall frame. His long, black coat hangs open, revealing a crisp white shirt flawlessly pressed beneath, paired with a finely knotted tie that subtly complements the buttons. His polished leather shoes catch the faint light in the hallway, adding to his impeccable appearance.

His hair is slightly tousled, as if he or someone else had run their hands through it in a rush, giving him an even more irresistibly sexy, effortless vibe. His beard is trimmed to just the right length—thick enough to frame his face sharply, but neat enough to keep that refined, masculine edge.

And his eyes—his eyes are greener, deeper, more intense than ever before. It feels like he’s reading me without a single word spoken, every blink heavy with an intensity that stops my breath and shakes my soul.

I realize I don’t truly know him now—that beneath his calm and humor lies a man carrying a whole world of thoughts and decisions, and here I stand, heart exposed and trembling.

In front of him, I feel small, vulnerable, yet irresistibly drawn. Every passing second pulls me deeper into this whirl of fear, desire, and a shattered hope. I wonder if there’s still a place for me in his life, or if everything is over for him since five months ago.

“What?” he asks, casually—as if bored—his voice sharp like broken glass. “You thinking of accusing me of fucking Elena too?”

His tone is harder than any punch he’s ever thrown on the ice. Cold, biting, and entirely detached. There’s no emotion behind the words. No warmth. Just a wall I’ll never break. Not anymore.

It’s the kind of tone that tells me I was right to stay away. That I don’t belong here anymore—not in this apartment, not in his life, and especially not in this version of him that doesn’t even flinch at the idea of breaking me.

My heart caves. Cracks. My chest tightens and my throat burns, but I won’t let myself cry in front of him.

I take half a step toward the elevator, desperate to disappear—to undo this, to forget the weight of his gaze and that bitterness in his voice. I open my mouth, maybe to apologize for being here, maybe to say goodbye, maybe just to breathe.

But I hear footsteps behind me. They echo softly on the marble floor, calm and unhurried. Still, my whole body tenses. I freeze again.

I don’t want to turn around. I can’t.

I’m not ready to see her—the woman who might be sharing his bed, his laughter, his silence. The woman who may know what it feels to wake up wrapped in his arms, who’s memorized the curve of his mouth, the rhythm of his breathing when he sleeps. The woman who touches him, sees him, gets to call him hers.

No, I can’t give her a face. Because once I do, she’ll haunt me. She’ll show up in every nightmare, in every moment of doubt, in every shadow of my thoughts when I least expect it. She’ll own every inch of pain I’ve carried since the day Nick left, and I’ll never escape her.

So I stare straight ahead—fists clenched—holding onto the last thread of whatever strength I still have left.

And I wait.

“Oh, you have company. I didn’t know. You should’ve told me.” Her voice is smooth, calm. Too calm. But something in it doesn’t sit right. Jealousy? Annoyance? Maybe just confidence. I can’t tell.

But I don’t answer. I don’t move. I barely breathe. I pray she won’t say anything else—nothing that might break the fragile wall I’ve thrown up between me and this moment. Nothing that might make me look at her, react. Please. Just let me stay here, untouched by this reality. Let me pretend this doesn’t mean anything. That I don’t care. That I’m not breaking all over again.

God, please let Nick say I came by mistake. That I’m just an old friend. That I showed up unannounced and he’ll take care of it. Anything. Anything that’ll make this whole moment easier to erase.

“Good thing I never cook just for one person,” she adds, light and matter-of-fact. “Everything’s in the oven. The table’s set—I know you hardly ever eat at those fancy events of yours. You just need to add one more plate.”

What?

My heart stops—as if someone’s reached into my chest and clutched it with bare hands.

My brain needs a full two seconds to process her words. I blink and turn around—slowly, cautiously—as if the world might shatter the moment I do.

And then I see her.

A woman. Young. Pretty. Wearing a kitchen apron over casual clothes. No makeup. Her hair pulled into a messy bun. She looks like she belongs. Like she’s done this a hundred times before. But she doesn't look at me like a rival. She looks at me warmly, friendly.

“Now that you’re home, I’ll go,” she says to Nick. “You’ve got meals in the freezer for the next few days. I’ll see you Wednesday—if you’re around. Enjoy your evening.”

Nick just nods, his eyes never leaving me. “Thank you, Elena.”