Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Theo
The second we slide back into my car, Marley spins toward me. “Please don’t tear it down,” she rushes out.
Fucking hell, I can’t do this. Not with her.
She’s looking at me like I hold the fate of something holy in my hands. Like I could fix it all with one word. And maybe, if things were different, if I hadn’t just walked headfirst into a building on its last leg, I’d tell her what she wants to hear.
I exhale, pressing the ignition. “I can’t promise that.”
She stiffens, defensive. “But you’ve seen it. You know. It’s special.”
I do. I know, in her eyes, it’s a magical escape from the real world. It’s her alternate reality where the only thing that matters in that dimension is funneling her creativity and strength in front of an audience.
I also know it’s falling apart, and it would take millions of dollars to restore it to what it once was. If this were any other building, in any other condition, maybe I’d consider it. Maybe I’d give it a try.
This isn’t about me though.
I have a company to run. A board to answer to. A bottom line that doesn’t bend for sentimentality. And I get that this shithole holds significance to her and many other people. All the meaning in the world, however, won’t change the fact that nostalgia doesn’t fix crumbling walls.
“Shit,” she mutters under her breath. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I asked. My brain is scrambled. That theater has been my home base for the last decade.”
And from everything Sue and Paula said, it’s obvious. They talk about Marley like she is their own granddaughter, reminiscing about the bubbly teenage girl who walked through those doors as a newcomer and grew into someone self-confident.
“It’s a gorgeous place.” I glance toward her. “There’s also a lot of issues I don’t think can be overlooked, unfortunately.”
“Yeah, of course. I understand.” The words are light, almost easy, but no mistaking the wobble underneath, like she’s trying too hard to sound unaffected.
As she turns to the window, she pulls a single pin from her bun.
Her hair slips free, falling around her face like she needs something to hide behind.
I can feel her sadness as much as I see it.
The way she’s holding herself together, trying to catch the pieces before they fall too far out of reach.
“Marley,” I whisper, needing to see her face again.
Maybe I’ve read her wrong. Maybe she’s okay after all, and I’m reading too much into this, projecting my own twisted sense of guilt onto her.
Her head turns, and she looks up at me like she’s been caught red-handed. Defiant, and a little aggressive, like she’s ready to rip me a new one if only her heart hadn’t been ripped into two.
Her first tear slips free.
Something in me, a part I thought had been buried long ago, roars to life. A raw, unshakable ache cracking through my chest, like a tectonic shift, crumbling right along with the sadness she’s trying so damn hard to contain.
A second tear, then a third, break free, along with any rational thought I have left.
I need to help her, or I’ll fall apart right alongside her.
Closing the distance, I pull her to my chest. She inhales sharply, surprised by the contact, but then melts right into me like she’d been waiting all day for this relief. The floodgates open, as her body trembles, grief pressing into my chest like a weight heavy enough to split me in two.
I smooth a hand down her dark, wavy hair. “I’m so sorry, Marley. Fuck, I’m sorry. I wish I could save it.”
Her hands grasp the collar of my suit, fingers curling into the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping her from falling apart completely.
“Please, don’t cry,” I murmur.
The tears don’t scare me. It’s the fact that seeing her upset makes something inside me ache in a way I don’t know how to fix.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes against my shoulder, her voice shaking. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s not even that big of a deal.”
I know that’s not true. I know this is everything to her. It’s not only a building, it’s a home to her dance company, an imperative piece of the side of her life I know nothing about. Now, it’s all about to disappear.
Fuck it.
I pull back, grabbing the sides of her face, cradling her jaw between my hands. Tipping her eyes to meet mine. She looks away at first, embarrassed by her tear-streaked face.
“Marley, look at me.” My thumb brushes away another tear trailing down her cheek. “It is a big deal, and it’s okay to feel upset about that.”
Her eyes meet mine, searching, peeling back layers I’ve spent years keeping in place. Like she sees something I don’t want to show but can’t stop from revealing to her.
And then, it happens. A tension pulls tight between us. Her tears slow, and suddenly it’s just the two of us. My hands on her face, her cheek tilting into my palm.
The air feels charged, like the car is humming with electricity. The space between us alive, waiting. Our breathing shifts, growing uneven.
I haven’t let go.
She hasn’t moved away.
I’m breaking every rule I swore I’d never cross.
Tilting her head, her lashes graze my thumb, barely there, yet enough to make me forget everything else.
“Thank you, Theo,” she whispers.
Her words snap me out of it like a splash of cold water. I drop my hands and turn toward the windshield, jaw clenched. “Don’t thank me.”
I’m the monster about to buy the place that means everything to her, just to tear it down. It’s a pattern I know too well.
Everything I touch eventually falls apart.
Except for business.
Business is the one thing I don’t screw up. Which is why there’s no other option for the future of The Cobalt.
On the drive back to the office, Marley swipes at the smudged makeup beneath her eyes, filling the quiet with little jokes and nonstop chatter. It’s her version of damage control. A desperate attempt to paint over the cracks.
She talks about everything, from a subway rat dragging a slice of pizza to how she wants to see a real iceberg someday, to gawk at their size with her own eyes.
Her voice is warm, full of so much damn personality it makes you want to lean in and lose yourself in the sound. I could listen to her all damn day and still find something new tucked between the words.
But underneath it, beneath all that brightness, there’s a different story.
For a moment, it’s like none of it ever happened. Like she’s wiped the wreckage clean and decided to build something lighter in its place.
Part of me wonders if she’s convinced herself of that too. I recognize the act, because I do the same thing. The difference is, her mask looks like sunlight. Mine looks like a thunderstorm.
We ride the elevator back up together, and I can see the worry creeping back in, seeping through the cracks she tried so hard to patch up.
She stands stiff beside me, eyes locked on the panel, like if she stares hard enough, the numbers might climb faster.
I glance over at her, and the backs of our hands graze, light as a breath.
Suddenly, I’m back in the car, her head cradled in my hands, the feel of her so vivid it almost hurts.
I wonder if she felt it too. That pull. The quiet thread I hadn’t even noticed until it was already tangled around us.
The elevator chimes, as the doors slide open, spilling us back into reality. She steps out first, her focus locked ahead. I follow, trying to shake loose the moment that I’m worried will be permanently etched into my brain.
Then, right before we reach her desk, she stops short and spins around. Suddenly, we’re face-to-face. Close.
“Can I ask you something?” she blurts out.
I nod. “Anything.”
She lifts an eyebrow, testing me. “Anything, huh?”
I smirk. “Okay, not anything. What’s going on, Marley?”
With an exhale, she slides her bag higher up her shoulder. “I know I was out of place earlier for getting emotional about the theater. And the whole crying on your shoulder … I’m honestly mortified.” She pauses, hesitating. “I guess I was wondering if that puts my job at risk?”
I blink. That’s what she’s worried about?
Setting down my briefcase, I sigh. “Look, I’m not some monster. I’m not going to try and have you fired over feeling upset. If you pulled that in front of a client, sure, we’d have to talk. Any other time? You’re allowed to feel however you want. I’m not here to diminish that.”
She studies me, eyes scanning up and down, like she’s reassessing everything she thought she once knew. “You know, you’re not as horrible as people say.”
“No, I’m probably exactly as horrible as they say.” I grin. “They just leave out the part where they aren’t doing their jobs.”
“Oh, so you’re admitting to being horrible? Bold choice.”
“Just keeping expectations realistic.” I chuckle.
The moment pivots back to serious, as she pauses, biting her bottom lip. “Well, thanks for not making me feel stupid about it.”
“You weren’t stupid. You care. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
We stand there for a second too long, both of us perhaps wanting to say more, but realizing we shouldn’t. Then she turns, heading back to her desk. And I watch her go, trying to piece together exactly when she stopped being just my assistant.
The next morning, my day could not have started off any worse.
I was up half the night thinking about the theater.
How there are no other option other than to tear it down and rebuild it into something completely different and profitable.
There’s no going back, seeing as the process is already in full swing, with Sue and Paula accepting our offer an hour after meeting with us.
The memory of Marley in my car plays on a loop in my head that I can’t shut off.
It’s kept me awake—half of me wanting it to happen again, the other half tearing myself apart for even thinking about it.
All day long, it’s the same mantra, over and over:
You’re her boss.
She’s your assistant.
You’re too old.
She’s too young.
She’s a free spirit.
You’re a fucking recluse.