Bea’s POV
I left with Damien, my hand in his and my heart somewhere behind me. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t press me for words I wasn’t ready to offer. The ride to my hotel was quiet. He played soft music from his phone, occasionally glancing over like he wanted to comfort me but knew it wouldn’t land. My fingers curled in my lap, stiff with indecision. Julian’s voice echoed in my head on a loop—“I want to love you. But I don’t know how.” The words weren’t pretty or poetic. But they were honest. And worse, they were real. Damien walked me to the door, kissed my cheek, and said, “Call me if you need someone who already knows how.” I nodded. I thanked him. And then I shut the door on a man who didn’t make me feel like I was unraveling.
Morning light didn’t feel like clarity. It felt like fog. My phone exploded before breakfast—texts, emails, missed calls. My resignation had leaked. Not the drama. Not the kiss. Just the fact that I’d walked away from Julian Wolfe and his empire. And apparently, that was enough. My inbox overflowed with job offers from companies I’d begged to even glance at my resume two months ago. Brands. Agencies. Startups. They were all throwing interviews, perks, promises. I was suddenly the girl with a spine. The one who told a billionaire to shove it and didn’t flinch. I should’ve felt triumphant. I should've opened a bottle of cheap champagne and danced around my hotel room in triumph. But all I felt was… hollow. Like someone had popped the balloon I didn’t know was inside my chest.
I tried to celebrate. I really did. I replied to a few emails, even agreed to a Zoom call with a New York firm that promised creative freedom and free flights. But my fingers dragged over the keyboard. My words felt forced. Every time someone praised me for my “boldness” or “audacity,” I wanted to scream. Because they didn’t know that I hadn’t walked out for the applause—I walked out because I was bleeding. I’d walked out on the only man who’d ever seen me past the surface and still made me feel invisible. I hadn’t been brave. I’d been broken.
By noon, I’d ignored five calls and deleted a LinkedIn post someone tagged me in. It had a blurry photo of me leaving the Wolfe & Whitmore building, sunglasses on, head high. The caption called me “the face of fearlessness.” If only they knew. I was lying on a hotel bed in sweatpants, eating dry cereal out of a paper cup and trying not to cry over a man who had never learned to fight for me until it was too late. There was a knock at the door—room service. I didn’t answer. A second knock—housekeeping. I stayed still. I didn’t want company. I didn’t want comfort. I wanted to feel something that wasn’t shameful.
Around three, the concierge called. “Ms. Martinez, you have a delivery downstairs.” I didn’t ask from whom. I just said I’d be there at ten. When I arrived in the lobby, a massive bouquet of deep red peonies waited at the desk, wrapped in white silk ribbon and delivered in a crystal vase. The woman behind the counter smiled like she knew what I’d find tucked inside. I pulled the envelope from between the blooms and opened it with trembling fingers. One line, written in black ink: “For the woman who undid me. Come back. Or at least let me explain.” No signature. Just that.
I carried the flowers back upstairs like they weighed a hundred pounds. They smelled like memories. Like Paris. Like what might’ve been. I stared at them for a long time. Then I picked them up again, walked to the bathroom, and dropped them in the trash can beside the sink. I flushed the note. Then I cried for seven minutes, face pressed to the towel rack, because I hated how much it still meant. I told myself it wasn’t an apology—it was a delay tactic. And I was done waiting for a version of Julian that knew how to show up.
Evening settled over the city like a secret. I wrapped myself in an oversized hoodie and turned off the lights in my room. I didn’t want to be seen. Not by paparazzi. Not by fans of my imaginary bravery. Not by the man who only reached for me in silence and ink. I lay on the couch with my phone face-down on the coffee table, heart heavy and eyes dry. There were no more tears left. Just a numb kind of ache. I didn’t expect the doorbell. Not this late. Not after the flowers. I froze for a second, unsure if I imagined it. Then it rang again. Once. Soft. Slow.
I walked to the door barefoot, pulse skipping. I peeked through the peephole and nearly stopped breathing. Julian Wolfe stood there. Drenched. Soaked from head to toe in rain that hadn’t been forecasted. His suit clung to him, hair dripping into his eyes. He looked like a man who hadn’t planned this—just followed a feeling and landed on my doorstep like a question with no answer. I opened the door slowly. His lips parted, eyes wide, voice breaking.
“Please don’t hate me.”