41. Faith
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Faith
By the time the day finally grinds to a close, I feel like I’ve lived six of them back-to-back without sleep.
My body hurts in that dull, humming way that comes from being braced all the time.
Shoulders locked. Jaw clenched. Spine stiff like I’m holding myself upright with willpower alone.
Even my eyes feel tired, like they’ve been staring too long at something bright and unforgiving and forgot how to soften.
It’s been that kind of day.
Meetings that aren’t really meetings. Smiles that don’t quite reach anyone’s eyes. Carefully phrased sentences that all mean the same thing: behave.
All day long, there’s only been one thought looping quietly in the back of my head, tapping insistently like a finger against glass.
Did my message get through?
I sent it early this morning, in a stolen minute when the conference room was empty, and the hallway outside was quiet enough that I could hear my own heart beating.
I used the business account because it was the only thing I had access to that wouldn’t immediately raise flags.
No personal email. No phone. No private browser window.
Just a thin crack.
My fingers shook so badly I had to retype half of it. I didn’t sign my name because I didn’t need to. If Rose saw it, she’d know. And if she didn’t… well.
I don’t let myself finish that thought.
I focus on the present. On getting through the last meeting, the last nod, the last polite laugh. I tell myself not to expect anything. Not to watch doors. Not to flinch every time someone says my name.
By the time I’m dismissed, my head is pounding, and my skin feels too tight.
Evan is waiting outside the building, of course.
Leaning against his car like he belongs there, like this is his territory. Phone in hand. Jacket perfect. Hair flawless. He looks like a magazine ad for a successful man who definitely doesn’t emotionally dismantle his fiancée in parking lots.
His gaze flicks over me the second I step outside.
And tightens.
“You’re wearing that?” he asks.
I glance down at myself. Simple black dress. Long sleeves. Conservative cut. Chosen specifically because my father’s assistant said it would “photograph well” and “not distract.”
“Yes,” I say carefully. “It was on the schedule.”
Evan clicks his tongue softly, already annoyed. “It makes you look tired.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“I am tired,” I say.
“That’s not an excuse,” he snaps. “We’re going to a business dinner. These people matter.”
I nod because nodding costs less energy than arguing.
“You embarrassed me last time,” he continues, already opening the passenger door. “You looked distracted. Like you didn’t want to be there.”
I swallow. “I didn’t embarrass you.”
“You didn’t smile,” he says sharply. “And you slouched. And you looked like you wanted to be anywhere else.”
Because I did.
Because I always do.
“I’m sorry,” I say, because my mouth knows this script by heart. “I’ll do better.”
“You always say that,” he mutters. “Try meaning it.”
The exhaustion hits me all at once, heavy and suffocating. I just want to sit down. I just want quiet. I just want five minutes where no one is correcting me or adjusting me or telling me how to exist better.
I hover beside the open passenger door, one hand on the edge of it, stalling because climbing in feels like surrender. Evan’s already moved around the front of the car, keys in hand, muttering under his breath as if I’m an inconvenience he has to transport.
“Faith.”
The sound doesn’t belong here.
It slices through the street noise wrong. Too steady, too familiar, too gentle for the sharp corporate edge of this city. Not Evan’s voice. Not my father’s. Not anyone who has spoken my name in days.
My body goes still.
Evan pauses mid-step on the driver’s side. I see it in the way his shoulders lock, like he heard it too and hates that he did.
I don’t turn around. I can’t. My heart slams so hard it steals my breath, the world tipping, the pavement shifting under my heels like it’s deciding whether it’s going to hold me or give way.
Then the voice comes again.
Closer. Not louder, closer.
“Faith. Hey. It’s me.”
Evan’s head snaps toward the sidewalk. His gaze tracks over my shoulder, sharp and instant, and whatever he sees there changes his face. The polish slips for half a second.
“What the hell…” he growls.
I turn.
And the city disappears.
Dallas is there, standing on the sidewalk like he belongs in the middle of this insanity, jacket dusted with road salt, jaw tight, eyes locked on me like he’s been holding his breath for days.
My knees actually buckle. A broken sound rips out of me before I can stop it. “Dallas?”
Evan moves fast then. Too fast. He reaches for my arm, like he can reel me back in, like I’m still something he can steer…
But Dallas steps forward at the same time, calling my name again, and that half-second of hesitation is all my body needs.
I drop my bag.
I turn.
And I run.
I hear Evan shout my name behind me, sharp and furious, but it barely registers. My heels slap against the pavement, awkward and loud and entirely undignified. I don’t slow down. I don’t care if I trip.
Dallas’s eyes widen just a fraction before he opens his arms.
I crash into him.
Hard.
The impact knocks the breath out of me, but instead of pain, there’s relief so intense it almost knocks me to my knees. My face buries itself into his chest, my hands fisting in his jacket like I’m afraid he’ll disappear if I let go.
He smells like cold air and soap, solid and familiar.
His arms come around me immediately, strong and certain, wrapping me up without hesitation.
“I’ve got you,” he breathes. “I’ve got you, Faith.”
That’s when I break.
Not quiet tears. Not the tidy kind I’ve learned how to cry in front of mirrors.
This is full-on, ugly, shoulder-shaking, can’t catch my breath crying. The kind that surprises me with its force. The kind that’s been waiting patiently for weeks for permission to exist.
Dallas doesn’t flinch.
He just holds me tighter, one hand at my back, the other cradling my head like it’s precious.
“You’re here,” I gasp. “You’re really here.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I’m here.”
“I didn’t know if my message got through,” I choke out. “I didn’t know if… if I imagined you. I didn’t know if anyone believed me—”
“It got through,” he says firmly. “Rose got it. We got it.”
My knees wobble.
“Oh,” I breathe.
Relief crashes through me so fast it makes me dizzy. I laugh and sob at the same time, which feels ridiculous and inevitable.
“I’m such a mess,” I hiccup.
Dallas huffs out something that might be a laugh. “You ran at me in heels. I think that’s pretty impressive.”
Despite everything, a shaky giggle escapes me.
“I’m pretty sure I pulled something,” I say weakly. “Do you know how unsafe heels are? Truly a scam.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest, and it feels like oxygen flooding my lungs.
I pull back just enough to look at him.
Really look.
He looks exhausted. Wired. Like he drove straight here without stopping to think. His eyes are red-rimmed, jaw tight, restraint vibrating under his skin.
And suddenly, with painful clarity, I realize how much I’ve missed him.
Not just his presence.
Him.
The way he listens. The way he looks at me like I’m not a problem to be managed. The way he makes space instead of shrinking me to fit.
Being away from him stripped everything else down to the truth.
I don’t just like Dallas.
I adore him.
Behind me, I can hear Evan approaching. We don’t have much time.
“I missed you,” I whisper.
His breath catches.
“I missed you, too,” he says quietly.
Before I can stop myself, the words tumble out.
“I don’t want this life,” I cry out. “I don’t want any of it. I don’t want the dinners or the meetings or the pretending. I don’t want Evan. I don’t want my dad deciding everything for me. I want…” I swallow hard. “I want you.”