Chapter 8 Behind Closed Doors
Behind Closed Doors
The receptionist looks at me like I’m selling something she doesn’t want. She doesn’t even attempt to pronounce my last name when she calls up to Zayn’s office, just, “Sophie is here for her appointment.” Like I’m a bill collector, not his ex-girlfriend. Though I guess I could be both.
The elevator feels cold and empty. My reflection in the metal doors makes me look washed out—my black hair pulled back too tight, dark circles under my eyes from too much coffee and too little sleep, my arms wrapped protectively around my beat-up manila folder.
Inside are all the documents from Bellrose Veterinary Clinic—every lease agreement, every letter from the landlord, every scrap of paper that might help our case.
I clutch it tighter, like it might shield me from whatever’s waiting on the fourth floor.
When the doors slide open, I’m hit immediately with the smell of expensive coffee and new carpet.
The hallway is so aggressively white it makes my eyes hurt.
Abstract art hangs on the walls that look like they belongs in a big city firm, not our small coastal town.
Each office door bears a shiny metal nameplate.
Blackwell, Z. The last one down the hall.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans—thank god I changed out of my scrubs—and walk toward his door. I pause there, hand raised to knock. Every nerve fires. I can’t remember what I’d rehearsed saying. My mind goes completely blank. I knock once, hard.
“Come in.” His voice carries through the door—deeper now, rougher around the edges, but achingly familiar.
I push the door open.
Zayn’s office is nothing like the cold waiting area.
It’s professional—big glass desk, high-end computer setup, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined with legal volumes—but it’s not soulless.
There’s a large framed photograph of Bellrose beach behind his chair, storm clouds gathering over dark waves.
Another shows the town square at Christmas, string lights glowing through fog.
On a shelf near his law books sits a small glass case containing a model lighthouse, paint chipped and glass smudged from being handled too many times.
I almost smile—I’d once told him I collected lighthouse postcards as a kid—but I don’t say anything about it. I stand there gripping the folder, waiting for him to look up.
When he does, I take him in properly. He’s wearing a black, fitted suit with top button undone and sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair is disheveled, like he tried to fix it earlier and gave up.
He offers a polite smile. “Sophie. Thank you for coming.”
I nod stiffly. I won’t call him Mr. Blackwell, even if that’s what this setting demands. “You said one o’clock?”
He glances at his computer screen, then gestures to the chair across from his desk. “Right on time. I apologize for moving our meeting here. I got pulled into an emergency client situation.”
I sit. The leather chair is expensive and slippery, making me slide forward awkwardly. I grip my folder so tight the edges bite into my palms.
Zayn settles into his own chair, maintaining distance, though the office isn’t that large. His desk is mostly clear except for a legal pad, pen, and coffee mug that smells rich and dark. He nods toward my folder. “Is that everything?”
I nod. “All of it. Every lease, every amendment, every letter. I even brought the original rental application, just in case it’s relevant.”
His smile shifts, becomes genuine. “Of course you did.” For a moment, his eyes soften, and I’m transported back to being eighteen, convinced I’d never want anything more than this boy looking at me exactly like that.
I shove the memory down hard. “You wanted to review the actual documents, right?”
He pulls his legal pad closer, flips his pen between his fingers—a habit I remember. “Yeah. The devil’s always in the fine print.”
I exhale slowly, trying to steady my trembling hands as I open the folder and spread the documents across his desk.
The top sheet is the lease renewal we signed three years ago, back when they raised the rent the first time.
There’s a tea stain in the corner from the night I had my first panic attack about losing the clinic.
Zayn begins reading, his eyes tracking across each line.
He’s always been a fast reader, but I can tell he’s genuinely focused—his brow furrows at exactly the clauses that made me want to scream when I’d pored over them at midnight.
He turns to the next page, then another, making notes on his yellow pad.
I sit perfectly still, barely breathing. The office smells like him underneath the coffee—pine and that clean scent the air has after rain. My face flushes hot, remembering that smell on my pillows, my clothes, my skin.
He glances up. “You okay?”
I snap to attention. “Fine.” Too loud. I clear my throat. “Just want to get this over with.”
He nods like he expected exactly that answer. “I understand. This can’t be easy.”
We don’t speak for the next ten minutes.
He reads, writes notes, turns pages carefully.
The only sounds are his pen scratching and the air conditioner system humming.
I try to focus on the beach photograph behind him, how the sunlight breaks through storm clouds, but my eyes keep drifting back to his hands moving confidently over the documents.
Finally, he pauses on one page, tapping a section. “Did you catch this?”
I lean forward. My hair falls across my face and I have to pull it back. Our shoulders are nearly touching now. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, and my stomach does that stupid flip I hate myself for.
He points to a line of dense text. “See this clause about tenant rights? It states they can’t terminate your lease without providing six months’ notice. And they’re required to assist in finding alternative space.”
I squint at the tiny print. “What does that mean for us?”
His smile grows slightly. “It means they violated the terms. They only gave you three months.” He flips to another section, finds something else. “And look—your original lease contains the same provision. Six months minimum. It’s actually a Bellrose municipal code requirement.”
My heart kicks into a faster rhythm. “So they’re breaking the law?”
He shakes his head, but his smile widens.
“They’re hoping you won’t notice. Or that you can’t afford to fight it.
” He looks up, those stormy eyes locking onto mine.
“But if you fight? You’ll win. At minimum, three additional months.
Possibly more if we can demonstrate the clinic’s essential community value. ”
For the first time in days, I feel actual hope. It’s so unexpected I almost laugh out loud. “Really?”
He leans back, resting one arm along the desk. His tattoos shift with the movement, black roses rippling across tanned skin. “Really. I can write them a letter about these violations. Put pressure on them to follow the rules. Maybe even get them to drop the increase completely.”
I stare at him. Five years gone, and he still knows exactly what to say to make me believe everything might actually be okay. I want to hug him. Or throw his expensive coffee in his face. Maybe both.
I do neither. I just nod. “Thank you.”
We work through the remaining documents line by line. Sometimes our hands touch when we both reach for the same page. Each time, it’s like touching a doorknob after walking across carpet in socks. I jerk back immediately. His jaw tenses, but his expression stays neutral.
Two hours later, the folder is empty and my brain is swimming with legal terms. Zayn closes the final file and looks at me. His eyes are tired, but there’s something else there that makes my chest ache.
“You really love that place,” he says quietly.
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “It’s my entire life. The only thing I haven’t completely screwed up yet.”
He shakes his head like he wants to contradict me but doesn’t. He stands and walks to the coffee station in the corner. “Want some?” he asks, holding up the carafe.
I almost refuse, but my mouth is dry and my hands won’t stop trembling. “Sure.”
He pours coffee into two mugs and sets one in front of me. I wrap both hands around it, absorbing the warmth.
We sit in silence for a moment. Not talking, sipping coffee and pretending we don’t both feel the weight of our history filling every corner of this small office.
“I’m glad you came,” he says softly.
My breath catches. “I didn’t want to. Dr. Martinez basically forced me.”
He smiles, but it’s sad around the edges. “Still. I’m glad.”
I don’t know how to respond to that, so I look back at the lease documents, pretending to study them, but my thoughts are racing.
I want to ask why he’s really doing this.
Is it guilt? Does he still care? I want to know if he ever thinks about that last day on the cliff, or if he’s managed to forget me completely.
But I don’t ask any of those things. Instead, I say, “What happens next?”
He walks me through the plan—draft the cease-and-desist letter, wait for their response, prepare for escalation if necessary.
He sounds confident, organized, everything I’m not.
I nod along, trying to absorb the information, but mostly I’m watching him talk—how his eyes light up when he explains legal concepts, how his hands moves when he talks about strategy.
When he finishes, he looks at me again. “You’re going to be okay, Sophie. I promise.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him.
I stand and gather my empty folder. “Text me when you hear back?”
He nods, then hesitates. “Want me to walk you out?”
I shake my head, but I’m actually smiling now, despite everything. “I can find my way.”
I pause at the door and look back one more time. He’s still standing there watching me leave, the lighthouse model catching afternoon light behind him. I close the door without saying goodbye and finally let myself breathe.