Chapter 22-The Waiting
Ididn't sleep. Night four without her, and my penthouse no longer felt like mine.
Too much quiet.
I kept seeing her in rooms she'd never been in.
Boston glowed beneath me in fractured light—windows burning gold against the dark, sirens wailing somewhere far below. The city looked exactly the same as it always had at two in the morning.
But waiting changed everything.
Especially when you didn't know if she was coming back.
I poured scotch I wouldn't drink.
Set it on the counter.
Walked to the windows.
My phone sat dark on the kitchen island. I hadn't touched it in twenty minutes. That was progress.
An hour ago I'd been picking it up every three minutes like some kind of addict.
The urge to text her felt physical, and I had to remind myself to leave her alone.
I rewrote the message in my head for what had to be the fortieth time that night.
Just want to know you're okay. Simple. Careful. True.
And exactly the wrong thing to send.
Because Blaire didn't need me hovering over her shoulder, checking whether she was okay. She needed me to trust her enough to let her have her own fear. Her own decisions. Her own collapse, if that was what this became.
And God, that might have been harder than leaving.
I walked away once because she asked me to. She needed me to leave so she could control her life, which made her feel safe.
I loved her too much to stay.
The irony tasted like ash.
Now she was pushing me away again. And all I could do was stand there and let her.
I picked up my phone. Opened our message thread. Her last text was from five days ago: Running late. Start without me.
We were supposed to have dinner. She never showed.
I typed, “I’m here when you’re ready.” Read it. Deleted it.
She knew I was there. I'd told her that when I left her apartment. When she was already shutting down, retreating into the cold control that had kept her functioning for years. When she looked at me with eyes that said she'd already decided.
Sending the text wouldn't change anything. It would just prove I couldn't do the one thing she needed.
Wait.
I poured the scotch down the sink.
The worst part was knowing I'd taught her this. I was the one who showed her that love meant leaving. That was the only way to protect someone: to cut them loose. She learned the lesson too well.
Now I had to trust she could find her way back to me.
Declan and I spent seven days tearing apart every piece of evidence attached to the complaint.
Original surveillance pulls. Building logs. Metadata. Security timestamps. Uncropped photographs showing the associates Crowe cut out to make it look like Blaire was alone with Morrison.
Emma called twice.
I told her more than I probably should have.
Piece by piece, the whole thing started collapsing.
We could prove exactly what Crowe had done. Manufactured evidence. Deliberately misleading photographs. A timeline that fell apart the second anyone competent enough to look closely examined it.
We sent everything to Charlotte.
Because if I couldn't stand beside her through this, I could at least make damn sure she didn't walk into that Bar hearing alone.
I pulled every piece of evidence I'd collected over weeks of tracking the silver sedan. Cross-referenced it with Crowe's case history. Built a timeline that showed premeditation going back five years.
Documented how he identified Blaire specifically—not random targeting, but calculated revenge for her work on the Patterson case that exposed his jury tampering.
Showed how he waited. Watched. Built his fabricated evidence while she had no idea someone was constructing her downfall.
Sent it to Charlotte at 11 PM.
Then I sat in the dark and tried not to think about the fact that she was three miles away, probably still awake, probably drowning in the same case files I'd just analyzed.
Alone.
Because I respected her choice. Because loving her meant letting her run, even when it was toward a cliff.
Day five, I saw her. Not on purpose.
I was meeting a client for lunch at the place two blocks from her office—the Italian restaurant where we'd had dinner one night during those two weeks, where she smiled without meaning to, and I almost told her I loved her.
She walked past the window at 12:33 PM. Spine straight. Steps precise. Phone to her ear.
Performing.
I watched her pass and wanted to run after her. Wanted to grab her arm and tell her she didn't have to do this alone. That I had evidence that could help. That I'd spent days building a case that proved Crowe's pattern. That she could trust me with this. With all of it.
But she'd asked me to leave.
So I stayed in my seat. Finished my coffee. Paid the check. I went back to my office to find more connections between Crowe's witnesses and his known associates.
Day six, Charlotte called.
"The hearing is on Monday. Nine AM." Four days.
"How is she?"
"Preparing. She's got the Morrison files spread across her entire office. She's working the case like it's still active even though Morrison pulled it."
"Looking for leverage."
"Looking for something she can control." A pause. "Richard, I need to ask you something."
"No."
"You don't know what I'm?—"
"You're going to ask if I'll testify. If I'll provide evidence of our relationship to counter Crowe's narrative."
Silence.
"It would help."
"It would also require Blaire's consent. And she's not going to give it."
"You don't know that."
I thought about how she looked at me when she said I can't do both. How she pulled away every time I tried to touch her after Morrison fired the firm.
"I know her, Charlotte. And I know she'd rather lose her license than admit she needs help. Especially from me."
"So you're just going to let her lose."
"I'm going to let her choose."
"That's not?—"
"It's the only thing I can do. If I force my way back into her life to save her career, I prove her right. I prove she's justified in running. I prove that I only stay because she needs protecting, not because I want her exactly as she is."
Charlotte was quiet for a long moment. Then: "I want you to know something. Whatever happens Monday, she's going to find out every piece of that evidence came from you. I'll make sure of it. Whether she thanks you for it or not."
I hadn't asked her to do that.
"Charlotte—"
"I know. You'd have done it either way." She exhaled. "Get some sleep, Richard."
She hung up. I looked up at the window. Still lit. 11:30 PM.
I was giving her space. That was different.
Day seven, I broke. Not all the way. Just enough.
I drove to her building at 11 PM. Parked in my usual spot. Watched her light come on at 11:47.
I pulled out my phone.
Typed: I'm still here if you need me. Deleted it.
Typed: Charlotte has everything. You're going to be fine. Deleted it.
Typed: I love you. Deleted it.
Set the phone down. Watched her window until 3 AM, when the light finally went off. Then I went home. Made coffee. Didn't drink it. And started building the final piece of the case—the evidence that proved Crowe accessed the Bar's internal systems to accelerate the hearing timeline.
Evidence I'd give to Charlotte.
Sunday night, Charlotte called. "The hearing's at 9 AM tomorrow. She's ready. Well—as ready as she'll let herself be."
"You gave her everything I sent?"
"I told her an anonymous source provided evidence. She didn't ask who."
Of course, she didn't.
"Charlotte." My voice came out rougher than I meant it to. "If this goes wrong tomorrow?—"
"It won't."
"But if it does?—"
"Richard." She softened. "I'll make sure she knows. That you never stopped. That every piece of evidence, every connection, every timeline—that's you. Okay?"
I looked at the case files spread across my desk. Printed out so I could lay them side by side. Compare timelines. Find the patterns. Seven days of work. Years of waiting before that.
"Okay."
"Get some sleep."
She hung up. I didn't sleep. I went to Blaire's building instead. Parked in the spot I'd claimed as mine over seven nights of watching her light.
It was off. Only 10 PM. She should have been awake. Preparing. Pacing.
I pulled out my phone. No messages. No calls. Nothing.
I sat there until midnight, watching the dark window, wondering if she was sleeping or just sitting in the dark. Wondering if she was scared. Wondering if she was thinking about me. Wondering if I should have fought harder.
But I'd learned how to love her. It looked a lot like staying anyway.
Someone who wouldn't chase her. Someone who would just be there when she was ready to stop pushing everyone away.
So I sat in my car until the sun started to rise.
Then I went home. Showered. Dressed. Made coffee I didn't drink.
And at 8:53 AM, I walked into the Bar Association building.
Not to the hearing room.
To the lobby.
I sat in a chair with a view of the elevators and waited.
Because she asked me to leave. But she didn't ask me to stop loving her.
And if the only thing I could give her was the knowledge that I was there—not in the room, not forcing my way into her space, just there if she needed me?—
Then that was what I'd give her.
Steady.
Patient.
Uncomplicated.
Even if it was killing me.