Chapter 5
Chapter five
Avery
Three days after the dinner at Dylan's, I sit at my dining table with contract revisions spread across the surface, highlighter in hand, trying to focus on anything except the memory of that moment we shared on the driveway.
The Miller acquisition documents blur together, legal language I've read a hundred times refusing to make sense tonight.
My apartment feels too quiet, the kind of silence that amplifies every thought I'm trying to avoid.
I approach the door slowly, that familiar prickle of unease creeping up my spine. Through the peephole, the hallway light illuminates a figure that makes my blood turn to ice.
Oliver.
He's leaning against the wall opposite my door, and even through the distorted lens I can see the telltale signs. The loosened tie. The way he sways slightly when he shifts his weight. The glassy, unfocused look I remember from the handful of times he had too much at company events.
Drunk.
My sanctuary has been violated. This apartment, my carefully chosen refuge with its exposed brick and large windows, the place I rebuilt myself after leaving him, suddenly feels like a trap.
I back away from the door, my bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. Maybe if I stay quiet, he'll think I'm not home. Maybe he'll leave.
"Avery, I know you're in there." His voice carries through the door, slurred and too loud for the hour. "Your car's in the garage. We need to talk. Please."
My hands start to shake. This is different from him showing up at the executive lobby with flowers and that rehearsed sincerity. This is him at my home, at night, drunk and desperate. This is the Oliver who used to pick fights after wine dinners, who'd twist my words and make everything my fault.
This is dangerous.
"Come on, baby." The pet name makes my skin crawl. "Just open the door. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."
I press my back against the wall beside the door, counting my breaths.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Jessica taught me this technique, but my chest still feels too tight, my vision starting to narrow at the edges.
Oliver's fist connects with the door, not quite pounding but forceful enough to make me jump. "You have someone new, don't you?" His voice rises, anger bleeding through the alcohol. "That's why you won't see me. That's why you've changed."
Another hit against the door, harder this time. The sound echoes through my apartment.
"I gave you everything, Avery. Five years!" His voice cracks, shifting from anger to that manipulative hurt that used to make me feel guilty for having boundaries. "And you just threw it away. For what? For him?"
The doorknob rattles. He's trying to turn it, testing if it's locked. The deadbolt holds, but the sound sends pure fear shooting through my veins.
"I know about him," Oliver continues, voice dropping to something uglier. "Your boss. Dylan Vance. You think I'm stupid? You think I don't see what's happening?"
The doorknob rattles again, more aggressively. I can hear him breathing heavily through the door, and can picture the angry flush that always colored his cheeks when he felt challenged.
I know I should call building security. Should handle this myself the way I've been handling everything for weeks. Stand on my own feet, prove I don't need anyone.
But my hands won't stop shaking, and Oliver is testing the door frame now, pushing against it with his shoulder, and terror overrides pride.
I grab my phone from the table, fingers fumbling with the screen. I could call 911. Could call Jessica.
Instead, I call Dylan.
He answers on the first ring, like he's been waiting. "Avery?"
"Oliver's at my apartment." The words come out rushed, breathless. "He's drunk. He won't leave."
A pause. I hear movement on his end, keys jingling, a door closing.
"Lock yourself in your bedroom," Dylan says, his voice shifting into something hard and commanding. "Right now. I'm ten minutes away."
"Dylan—"
"Do it, Avery. Lock the door and stay on the phone with me."
I move quickly down the hallway, Oliver's muffled voice still carrying through the front door. My bedroom door has a lock I've never used, but I turn it now, hearing the click that feels both reassuring and terrifying.
"I'm in my room," I whisper, sitting on the edge of my bed.
"Good." Dylan's voice comes through the phone steady and calm, but I can hear his car engine, the sound of acceleration. "Tell me what happened."
"He just showed up and started pounding on my door, I—" My voice breaks.
"You're safe," Dylan says firmly. "He can't get to you. I'm eight minutes away."
Oliver's voice rises again, audible even from my bedroom. Something crashes in the hallway—maybe he kicked something, maybe he hit the wall. I pull my knees up to my chest, making myself smaller.
"Talk to me," Dylan says. "About anything. What were you doing before he showed up?"
"Contract revisions." My voice sounds thin, shaky. "The Miller acquisition."
"Find any issues?"
It's such a normal question, so perfectly Dylan, that I almost laugh. "Clause 47 has an ambiguity in the IP transfer terms."
"Of course you caught that." There's warmth in his voice despite the situation. "Harrison taught you well."
"She taught me to read everything three times and trust nothing at face value."
"Smart woman. Five minutes, Avery."
I hear Oliver's voice getting louder, more aggressive, though I can't make out all the words anymore. Something about betrayal. Something about what I owe him.
"He used to do this," I hear myself saying. "When he drank, he turned everything around so I was always the one who'd done something wrong."
Dylan's quiet for a moment. Then: "That's not right, Avery. You know that, right?"
Before I can respond, I hear Dylan's voice change, becoming distant like he's pulled the phone away. "I'm here. Walking up now."
Then I hear him, that CEO voice that makes boardrooms fall silent: "Step away from the door."
Oliver's response is muffled but clearly argumentative.
I carefully leave my bedroom and tiptoe up to the door. Through a peephole, I can see them standing there. I'm fighting to calm my breath so they won't hear me standing so close to the door.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" Oliver's voice is clearer now.
"I'm the person calling the police in thirty seconds if you don't leave."
"She's my fiancée—"
"Ex-fiancée. And you're drunk, harassing her at her home. You have two choices: leave now and sleep it off, or explain to the police why you're violating what I'm assuming is going to be a restraining order by tomorrow morning."
There's a long pause. I watch them facing off in my hallway, Oliver trying to process through his alcohol haze, Dylan standing there immovable.
"This isn't over," Oliver finally says and storms away.
"Yes, it is," Dylan calls after him, ice in every word. "If you come near her again, you'll regret it. Are we clear?"
I see Dylan standing there for a while, then he comes up to my door and gently knocks.
"Avery? It's me. He's gone."
I unlock the door with trembling fingers. Dylan is still in his suit, his tie loosened, his jaw tight with barely controlled anger that softens the moment he sees me.
"You're shaking," he says quietly.
"I'm fine." The automatic response, the lie I've perfected.
"No, you're not." He steps closer but doesn't touch me, doesn't assume. "Come with me. "
"What? Dylan, I can't—"
"Please, Avery. Stay with me tonight." His voice brooks no argument, but there's gentleness underneath the command. "I don’t think it’s a good idea to stay here by yourself."
I want to argue, want to insist I can handle this myself, but the thought of Oliver who can be back any minute, makes my chest tighten again.
"Where exactly?" I ask instead.
"My place. Guest suite."
Twenty minutes later, I'm sitting in Dylan's car with a hastily packed overnight bag at my feet, watching the city lights blur past. He hasn't said much since we left my apartment, just made sure I had everything I needed and guided me to his car with a protective hand on my lower back.
His penthouse is exactly what I expected and nothing like it at all.
Modern and sophisticated, yes, with floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the city below.
But there are personal touches, too—photographs of family, books scattered across surfaces, a throw blanket that looks soft and well-worn draped over the couch.
"The guest room is this way," he says, leading me down a hallway. The room is spacious and neutral, clearly designed for visitors but comfortable rather than cold. "Bathroom is through there. I'll get you something to sleep in."
He returns with a soft gray sweatshirt and pajama pants that will be too big but smell like him—expensive cologne mixed with something uniquely Dylan.
"Thank you," I say, taking the clothes. Our fingers brush, and that electric current that's always between us sparks despite everything.
"You can stay for as long as you need. No pressure," he says, and my heart stutters. No one has ever been that concerned with my problems. Why does he care so much?
"Only for tonight," I mumble. I don't want to be his burden.
"Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
How is he that caring?
"Maybe some wine?" I ask.
"I can do that."
I change quickly, Dylan's sweatshirt hanging loose and comfortable, making me feel oddly safe. When I emerge, he's on his balcony with two glasses of red wine and the city sprawled below like a carpet of lights.
I sink into the chair beside him, taking the glass gratefully. The first sip helps steady my nerves.
"Talk to me," he says quietly, not looking at me but at the view, giving me space to gather my thoughts.
And maybe it's the adrenaline crash, maybe it's the safety of his presence, maybe it's exhaustion from carrying this alone for so long, but the words start spilling out.
"Oliver and I were together for five years," I begin, my voice barely above a whisper.
"He was charming, successful, everything my parents approved of.
When he proposed to me, I had only been working for about one and a half months.
But he wanted me to quit and stay at home, to cook dinners and stuff… eventually to take care of our kids."
Dylan stays silent, just listening.
"He said we're about to have a real family, and he wants me by his side as much as possible.
He said his family's money meant I didn't need to work, that quitting was great, and that I didn’t need to put myself into a new exercise wheel.
" I pause for a moment. "He framed it as wanting to take care of me, but I didn’t really feel cared about. "
I take another sip of wine, gathering courage. Dylan’s eyes narrow to slits.
"I almost listened to him. Almost gave up on my dream of being an attorney and everything I'd worked for, because I thought that's what love meant: compromise, sacrifice.
But I still chose to try. I said that when we have a baby, I would quit and become what he needs me to be.
He accepted it, but then something had cracked between us. "
My voice catches. The memory of it all stings.
"We were preparing for the wedding, but Oliver… He changed. We fought more, although he said he was trying to understand me. But I grew distant from him. He started to control me. What I wear, where I go."
I look at Dylan then. His compassionate eyes are on me, his face serious as he listens carefully. And I don't tell him that this exact period was also when I started to grow closer to him.
My gaze drops to the wine glass in my hands. "Then, one week before our engagement party, I came home early from a business trip. He was in our bed with someone else."
"Avery, I'm so sorry…"
"No, it's okay. I should have known I wasn't good enough for him." I drink more wine. "I'd told him from our third date that cheating was the one thing I couldn't forgive. He knew that, and he did it anyway."
Tears I didn't know were coming slip down my cheeks. Dylan reaches over, takes my free hand in his. His thumb strokes over my knuckles, grounding me.
"Everyone told me I was overreacting. That's why I needed those two weeks off.
My parents said everyone deserves a second chance.
Our friends suggested couple's therapy. They all acted like I was the problem for having boundaries, for walking away.
Only Jessica understood. Only she said I had every right to leave. "
"You did," Dylan says firmly. "You do."
I meet his eyes again.
"Listen." Dylan sets down his wine glass and turns to face me fully. In the soft light from the city below, his gray eyes are intense, focused entirely on me.
"You're the strongest person I know," he says, his voice rough with emotion. "Walking away takes incredible courage." He squeezes my hand gently, and my heart skips a beat.
"But Avery—" He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. "Being strong doesn't mean facing everything alone."
We sit in comfortable silence for a while, the city humming below us, the wine warming my chest. The adrenaline from earlier has faded, leaving me exhausted but oddly peaceful. Safe.
"I should let you sleep," I say eventually, noticing how late it's gotten.
We both stand.
"The guest suite is all yours," he says, voice controlled and gentle. "I’m down the hall if you need anything."
He walks me to the room, and I close the door behind me, leaning against it as my heart races in my chest. I think it would hurt less if he’d been careless. If he’d pushed. If he’d been anything like Oliver.
But he isn’t. And that’s what terrifies me.
I crawl into the soft guest bed, still wrapped in his sweatshirt, still breathing in traces of his cologne. The sheets are cool, the city quiet beyond the windows, but my body is warm in a way that has nothing to do with blankets.
For the first time in months, I am wrapped in a sense of security I haven't felt in so long.