CHAPTER 15
Losing the Only Thing That Mattered
Brad — POV
The bell stopped ringing.
And the silence that followed felt wrong in a way Brad couldn't immediately process.
Not because the shop was quiet.
It always had been.
But because she was gone.
Kathy was gone.
He stood there for a moment, still facing the door she had walked through, like if he waited long enough, she might come back in and undo what just happened.
She didn't.
Brad slowly looked around the flower shop.
Everything looked the same.
Flowers still fresh. Light still soft. The counter still slightly cluttered with small tools and ribbons.
But it didn't feel the same anymore.
Nothing did.
His chest felt tight in a way he wasn't used to.
Not physical pain.
Not panic.
Something worse.
Loss.
He exhaled slowly and looked down at the counter where she usually stood.
That space felt too empty now.
Too obvious.
He had been here so many times before.
But it never felt like this.
Brad ran a hand through his hair, trying to think clearly. His fingers tangled in the strands — he hadn't bothered with product that morning. Another small crack in the armor.
Think like he always did.
Break it down.
Analyze it.
Fix it.
But nothing about this responded to logic.
He stepped closer to the counter and rested one hand on it.
Still warm in memory.
Not reality.
Just memory.
"I didn't mean for it to happen like this," he said quietly to the empty room.
No response.
Of course not.
He closed his eyes for a moment.
He kept replaying her voice.
You never gave me the choice.
That sentence kept repeating in his head like a system error he couldn't clear.
Brad opened his eyes again.
Choice.
Control.
Those were things he understood.
He had built entire systems around them.
But somehow, with her, he had done the opposite of what he believed in.
He hadn't given her choice.
He had removed it without realizing how much that mattered.
Or maybe —
he had realized.
And still done it.
That thought sat heavier.
Brad stepped back from the counter.
His phone buzzed in his pocket.
Once.
Then again.
He pulled it out without looking at the messages.
His assistant.
Meetings.
Board updates.
Everything that used to feel important.
He stared at the screen.
Then locked it again.
For the first time in a long time, none of it felt urgent.
None of it mattered in the way it used to.
He looked around the shop again.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
Not anger.
Not frustration.
Just realization.
He had spent his entire life building things that worked.
Systems that scaled.
Networks that optimized.
Control that never slipped.
But this —
this wasn't something he could optimize.
He walked slowly toward the door she had left through.
Paused.
Then reached for the handle.
Stopped again.
Because suddenly, leaving felt wrong.
Like walking out would make it more final than it already was.
He let his hand fall.
Brad turned back into the shop.
For the first time, he didn't know what to do next.
And that feeling was unfamiliar.
Uncomfortable.
But real.
Later that night, his Gorge house felt even colder than usual.
He stood in front of the kitchen counter, staring at the white lilies she had wrapped for him days ago.
They were still there.
Still alive.
Still simple.
He reached out and adjusted one stem without thinking — his fingers brushing the wilting petals, gentle in a way he didn't know he could be.
Then stopped.
"What am I doing?" he whispered to himself.
But he already knew the answer.
Avoiding the real problem.
Avoiding her absence.
His phone buzzed.
He ignored it.
Again.
Then again.
Eventually, he sat down in silence.
The kind of silence that didn't feel like peace.
Just absence.
Brad leaned forward, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing.
For the first time, he didn't think about work.
Or systems.
Or numbers.
He thought about her face when she said it.
You never gave me the choice.
And for the first time, he didn't have a response that made sense.
Because she was right.
He had controlled everything except the one thing that mattered.
How she saw him.
And now —
he had lost it.
Brad closed his eyes.
And didn't sleep.