29. Chapter 29
Theo
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’m staring at the spreadsheet on my monitor, but it might as well be a blank screen.
The columns and rows blur into one endless grid of pointless numbers.
Each time I think I’m focusing, my mind careens back to her face—those hurt eyes, the moment she realized we’d lied.
The betrayal etched on her features more devastating than any words.
Three hours since Wren walked out. Three hours of nothing. I’ve sent her four texts—each more pathetic than the last—and not a single reply. I check my phone again. Nothing. My thumb hovers over the screen, trembling with dread and self-loathing.
Across the office, Jace sits frozen in his swivel chair, his own screen displaying lines of code he hasn't touched all morning.
His fingers tap that familiar pattern against the surface of his desk—three quick taps, two slow, three quick again.
His leg bounces, a physical manifestation of the anxiety I know is consuming him too.
His eyes remain fixed on his screen, though I can tell he's not actually seeing it.
He's retreated into that hyper- focused state he gets when he's processing something difficult—expression unnaturally still, body rigid except for those rhythmic movements.
I know that look—he's running scenarios, calculating probabilities, trying to find the optimal solution to a problem that might not have one. He’s as trapped in this nightmare as I am.
"She's at work," I say, my words hollow in my attempt to reassure myself. "She's safe. She just needs space."
Safe? What the hell do I know?
I turn back to my screen, trying to force myself to focus on the quarterly marketing report that Matthews has been hounding me about. But all I can think about is Wren's face when she signed those words: "Is that why you never said it? Why neither of you ever said you loved me?"
Why the fuck didn't I say it? I've felt it for weeks—months, if I'm being honest with myself.
From the first time she rolled her eyes at one of my ridiculous coffee orders.
From the moment I saw her hands flying through signs with such grace and power.
From that night at the studio when she trusted us with her body, then with her secrets.
I love her. I fucking love her, and I never told her because I was afraid—afraid of scaring her away, afraid of rushing her, afraid of my own feelings. Now she thinks it was all just some game, some hero complex bullshit.
"I should have told her," I say aloud, not really caring who hears me. "Why the fuck did I wait?"
I can't sit here anymore. Can't pretend to work while my mind replays this morning on an endless loop. I need to see her, need to make sure she's okay, need to apologize properly.
Standing so abruptly my chair rolls back and hits the wall, I make my way toward the door, briefly stopping by Jace’s desk on the way. "I'm going to the café," I announce.
Jace looks up, alarmed. "She asked for space, Theo."
"I know, but..." I run a hand through my hair. "I need coffee, and she makes coffee. They can't refuse to serve me. I just want to see that she's okay. Nothing more."
Jace hesitates, clearly torn between respecting Wren's request and his own desire to check on her. "Maybe you should wait a little longer," he suggests, though I can tell his heart isn't in it.
"I've waited too long already," I mutter, pulling my jacket on. "For too many things."
I'm halfway to the elevator when it opens, revealing Matthews in all his Armani-suited glory. His hair is perfectly styled, his expression the practiced blend of condescension and impatience that makes me want to punch him in the throat.
"Dawson," he says, blocking my exit. "Those reports. Where are they?"
"Working on them," I reply, trying to step around him and watching the elevator close behind him. "They'll be done by end of day."
He doesn't budge. "That's what you said yesterday. And the day before." His eyes narrow. "The board meeting is Monday. I need those numbers to finalize my presentation."
"You'll have them," I say through gritted teeth. "Now if you'll excuse me—"
"Where are you going? It's barely noon."
"Coffee run," I snap, my patience evaporating. "Some of us actually need caffeine to function, not just the souls of our subordinates."
Matthews' eyebrows shoot up. "Excuse me?"
"Nothing," I mutter. "Bad morning. Reports by end of day, I promise."
Before he can respond, I push past him. I hear him call something after me about professionalism and expectations, but I'm already jabbing the button of the elevator repeatedly as if that will make it arrive faster.
The walk to the café feels endless. I check my phone a dozen times, hoping for a response from Wren, but there's nothing. Not even a read receipt to indicate she's seen my messages.
By the time I push through the café door, my anxiety has crystallized into a hard knot in my stomach. The morning rush has passed, leaving only a few customers scattered at tables. I scan the room for pink hair, but don't see her anywhere.
Maya is at the counter, wiping down the espresso machine with quick, angry movements. When she looks up and sees me, her expression transforms from professional neutrality to pure fury in an instant.
"You," she hisses, throwing down her cloth. "You have some fucking nerve showing up here."
I approach the counter cautiously. "Maya, I—"
"What did you do to her?" she demands, her voice rising. "She came in here sobbing—completely falling apart! I've never seen her like that!"
The knot in my stomach tightens painfully. "We had a fight," I say, which feels like the understatement of the century. "I came to apologize, to make sure she's okay."
"Okay?" Maya laughs, the sound sharp and humorless. "She had a complete breakdown! Marcus was being an absolute dick to her, and she just ran out of here like she was being chased! I tried to follow her, but—"
"But what?" I ask, dread climbing up my throat.
Maya's words come faster now, her anger making them tumble over each other.
"—she just collapsed right outside on the sidewalk.
I tried to get to her but there were too many people crowding around.
Some guy in a suit was already helping her, had his jacket under her head.
Blood everywhere. Someone else called the ambulance—Marcus wouldn't even let me leave to go to the hospital with her.
Threatened to fire me if I walked out during rush. "
"Hospital?" I interrupt, my brain finally catching the word that matters most. "What hospital? Maya, what the fuck do you mean hospital?"
She continues her tirade, not hearing me. "—and where were you? Where was Jace? You're supposed to be protecting her! You're supposed to care about her! Some fucking boyfriends you—"
"MAYA!" I slam my hand on the counter, making her jump. "What. Hospital."
She blinks, finally registering my question. "Mercy General," she says, her anger momentarily replaced by confusion. "They took her about an hour ago. I couldn't even follow the ambulance because of Marcus. I thought you knew. I thought that's why you were here."
I'm already backing toward the door, fumbling for my phone. "No one called us," I say, my voice sounding strange and distant to my own ears. "No one fucking called us."
"But you're her emergency contact," Maya says, frowning. "She changed it weeks ago in her phone. Both you and Jace."
Cold dread washes over me. If no one called us, that means...
"I have to go," I say, already dialing Jace with shaking fingers. "I have to find her."
As I burst back onto the street, Jace's voice comes through the phone. "Theo? What's wrong?"
"It's Wren," I say, breaking into a run toward the street, flagging down a cab. "She's at Mercy General. Something happened. She collapsed. Maya said there was blood."
There's a beat of silence, then: "I'll meet you there."
I end the call, my mind racing with terrible possibilities. Wren in the hospital. Wren injured. Wren alone.
And somewhere out there, a stalker who knows her real name, who's been watching her for months, who might have seen his opportunity and taken it.
As I get into a cab and bark out the request for Mercy General, one thought pounds in my head with each heartbeat: Please let her be safe. Please let her be safe. Please let her be safe.
Each second that drags by screams with terror: Did I drive her to this? Did my cowardice push her over the edge? There’s a stalker out there who knows her real name, who’s watched her for months. What if he grabbed his chance while we gave her “space”?
The cab winds through traffic. My mind races through every terrible possibility. Sweat beads on my forehead. My hands shake on my knees. I’m the reason she’s here. I should have said it. I fucking should have said it.
As the hospital entrance looms, a single thought pounds in time with my heartbeat: Please let her be safe. Because if anything happens to her—if she’s hurt because I waited—I’ll never forgive myself.
And neither will Jace.