Bea’s POV
The sound of my resignation letter hitting Julian’s desk was sharp enough to wake the dead—and judging by the way he flinched, maybe it did. But I didn’t stick around to see what he’d say or if he’d even bother to say anything at all. My heels hit the polished hallway like thunder, fast and angry, refusing to falter. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. Because if I turned around, if I saw even the flicker of regret on his stupid perfect face, I might lose the nerve I’d built brick by painful brick. Behind me, I heard my name. “Bea.” Just once. Soft, but full of weight. My steps didn’t slow. Not for that voice. Not anymore. “Bea, stop.” His footsteps followed, fast, then hesitant. I kept going.
Freedom and heartbreak feel identical at first. It’s the ache in your throat, the hollowness in your chest, the adrenaline shaking in your fingers. I didn’t know if I wanted to scream, sob, or laugh. I just knew I needed to get out of that building before I collapsed. The elevator took too long, so I pushed open the stairwell and started running. Three floors, breath ragged, heart splitting open with each step. By the time I burst through the main doors, the rush of cold air outside hit me harder than any of Julian’s words ever had. I stood there on the sidewalk, unsteady, like the ground had shifted beneath me. Because maybe it had. Maybe walking away from him had broken something permanent. Or maybe it was the first real thing I’d done in weeks.
I barely registered the sound of the doors behind me until I heard someone call my name again—this time not Julian. “Bea!” Lydia’s voice rang out, followed by the click of her heels as she rushed after me. I turned, surprised to see her actually out of breath. “What do you want?” I asked, not cold, just tired. “To stop you before you do something you’ll hate yourself for,” she said. She paused, searching my face. “You’re the first person who’s ever gotten under his skin. Ever. Do you know how many women have walked through that office, hoping for what you’ve already had?” I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. “Then he should’ve tried to keep me.” She stepped closer. “He’s scared.” “I’m not his therapist,” I said, sharper now. “I’m not his fixer, Lydia.” She didn’t flinch. Just nodded slowly, like she’d been expecting that answer.
The thing about Lydia was that she wasn’t soft. She didn’t hand out hope like candy. So when she looked at me and said, “He doesn’t know how to hold something that fights back,” I knew she meant it. But it didn’t matter. Not anymore. Because loving someone who can’t love you back isn’t brave—it’s self-destruction in slow motion. And I was tired of bleeding quietly just so he could stay comfortable. I shook my head, more to myself than to her. “It’s not my job to make him better. He either shows up or he doesn’t.” Lydia’s expression didn’t change. “He won’t chase you past his own pride. But if you mattered to him, even a little, that letter you left is burning a hole in his chest right now.” I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
Julian was probably already back in his office pretending nothing had happened. Or maybe he was standing at the window, watching the city like it had answers he refused to say out loud. But I knew him better than that. He’d go home. To the penthouse he never invited anyone to. He’d sit in the same chair. Open a bottle of wine he wouldn’t drink. And he’d stare at that lipstick-stained glass I’d left behind after Paris. I hadn’t meant to leave it, but he hadn’t thrown it away either. Just like us—unfinished, unspoken, and collecting dust. I wondered if he touched it when he thought of me. Or if he stared at it like a reminder that wanting something didn’t mean he knew how to keep it.
I walked three blocks before I realized I had nowhere to go. No plan. No safety net. Just freedom and the bitter sting of having to choose it. My phone buzzed in my purse, and I almost didn’t check it. I thought maybe it was Julian. Maybe, finally, he’d say what I needed to hear. But deep down, I knew better. He never reached for me until someone else already had. That was the part that broke me most. Not that he couldn’t love me—but that he only tried when I started to leave. I pulled out my phone anyway, hoping for nothing.
But it wasn’t from him. It was from Damien.
I’m flying in tonight. Come find out what being wanted really feels like.