Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Avery
Days after asking Dylan for space, I'm drowning in misery and doubt. I go to work, avoid his office on the executive floor, respond to his carefully professional emails with equally professional replies, and pretend everything is fine.
But my coffee tastes like ash, my concentration keeps fracturing during contract reviews, and I've typed his name into three different legal briefs before catching myself and deleting it.
The office gossip has escalated into something uglier.
Yesterday, someone left a printed blog post on my desk—anonymous, of course—titled "When Ambition Meets Opportunity: A Tale of Strategic Romance at Vance Enterprises.
" The author speculated about my sudden rise to prominence on the Miller acquisition and my suspected promotion to Senior Legal Counsel, questioning whether my opinions were truly objective or influenced by "personal entanglements with upper management. "
I threw it in the trash, but not before memorizing every poisonous word.
Colleagues who used to invite me to lunch now have conversations that stop abruptly when I walk by. Madeline doesn’t invite me for coffee anymore. In meetings, partners ask pointed questions about my reasoning, double-checking my work in ways they never did before.
At night, alone in my apartment with only the city lights for company, I replay his parting words over and over: You're doing exactly what Oliver said you'd do. Running the second things get hard.
The accusation burns because I know—deep down, underneath all my rational justifications—that he might be right.
I'm not just protecting Dylan. I'm protecting myself from the terrifying possibility that this time, love might actually work.
That I might have found someone who sees me fully and wants me anyway, someone who fights for me instead of against me, someone whose family welcomed me with genuine warmth instead of calculated assessment.
I'm sitting at my desk Thursday afternoon, running on my fourth cup of coffee and stubborn pride, when my phone buzzes. The number is unfamiliar, and I almost ignore it, but something makes me look.
Meet me for coffee. I need closure. Please. - Oliver
My heart immediately starts racing, hands shaking as I stare at the message. The carefully worded text, the unfamiliar number, the calculated plea—it's all so perfectly Oliver. Manipulative even in his desperation.
I'm back there instantly—Oliver in my apartment hallway, drunk and desperate, the sound of him rattling my doorknob while I hide in my bedroom like a frightened child.
The violation of my sanctuary, the space I'd built to feel safe after leaving him.
Dylan's voice on the phone, calm and steady, telling me to lock the door while he drove through the night to protect me.
The coffee shop Oliver is suggesting is the one across from Vance Enterprises, the one where Dylan and I go every morning for my overpriced latte.
He's been watching me. Tracking my patterns.
Learning my routines. The restraining order says he can't contact me directly, but he's found a loophole using someone else's phone, and the realization that he's been close enough to observe my daily habits makes bile rise in my throat.
Panic builds in my chest, my vision narrowing to that small screen with its terrible message.
The office walls feel too close, the air too thin.
Every instinct screams to ignore it, to block the number, to handle this myself because asking for help means admitting I can't manage my own problems. I've always been the one who fixes things, who stays late to solve crises, who never needs rescuing.
But then I think about Dylan's words: Being strong doesn't mean facing everything alone.
My fingers hover over my phone keyboard.
I could text Jessica, but she's busy with an important client today.
I could call security, file another report, and add to the paper trail.
Or I could swallow my pride and reach out to the one person who's proven, over and over, that he'll show up without question when I need him.
Before I can second-guess myself, I screenshot the message and compose a text to Dylan: Oliver contacted me again. Used someone else's phone. I'm okay but thought you should know.
His response comes within seconds: Where are you?
At my desk.
Stay there.
Five minutes later, Dylan appears in my office doorway.
The few days apart have left their mark on both of us—the shadows under his eyes match mine, his usually perfect tie is slightly askew, and there's a tension in his shoulders that speaks of sleepless nights.
But he's here, and the relief that floods through me at seeing him is overwhelming.
"Conference room," he says quietly, and I follow him down the hall, hyperaware of the curious glances from my colleagues.
Dylan closes the door carefully, then turns to face me. We stand on opposite sides of the conference table, the polished wood between us feeling like an ocean. He looks tired, worried, and something else. Hurt, maybe, though he's trying to hide it.
"We're making the restraining order—"
"Dylan." His name comes out softer than I intended, and he stops mid-sentence. "I'm sorry."
The words tumble out before I can stop them, days of doubt, fear, and loneliness crashing over me.
"I shouldn't have shut you out." My voice cracks, but I push through. "You were right. I was running."
Something shifts in his expression, the professional mask slipping to reveal the man beneath. He exhales slowly, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.
"I shouldn't have said it like that. Using Oliver's words against you wasn't fair."
But I shake my head, moving around the table toward him. "No. I needed to hear it. I was so scared of being the reason you lost everything that I was about to become the reason you lost me."
We're closer now, close enough that I can smell his enticing citrus and wood cologne, see the exhaustion written in every line of his face.
"These past few days have been hell," he admits quietly. "Watching you pull away, seeing you in meetings and not being able to—" He stops himself, runs a hand through his hair. "The board called another meeting. They're putting pressure on me to transfer you or—"
"Or?"
"Or they'll call for a vote of no confidence in my leadership."
I gasp. This is exactly what I was afraid of, exactly why I asked for space. "Dylan, you can't!"
"Listen to me." He takes my hands, and the contact after just a few days apart sends electricity through my entire body. His gray eyes are intense, determined. "We will fight for this. For us. Together. Not me protecting you or you protecting me. As partners."
The words settle into my chest, warm and overwhelming.
"I can push back against the board. I can use every bit of authority I have as CEO to make them see reason. And I will."
Partners. The word resonates through me, rewriting every assumption I've held about relationships. Not rescuer and rescued. Not strong and weak. Just two people choosing to stand together against whatever comes.
"Okay, I’m with you," I agree softly, and for the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe properly.
Dylan's relief is visible, his hands squeezing mine gently. We stand there for a moment, just existing in the same space, relearning each other's presence. Then my phone buzzes again.
Another unknown number. Another message. My stomach drops as I read it.
I'll be at the coffee shop tomorrow at 2 pm. I know you want closure too. Please, Avery. One conversation. Then I'll leave you alone forever.
Dylan goes rigid as he reads over my shoulder. "Absolutely not. We're going straight to the police."
"I think I need to do this."
The words surprise both of us. Dylan pulls back to look at me, disbelief written across his face.
"Avery, you don't have to—"
"Not for him," I interrupt, feeling something solidify in my chest. "For me. I need to close that door completely before I can fully walk through this one with you."
I watch Dylan process this, see him struggle between his instinct to protect and his promise to be my partner. "You want to meet with him? After everything he's done?"
"I want to face him one more time. Sober. In public. On my terms." I take a breath, gathering courage. "I spent five years letting him define me, then weeks letting fear of him influence my choices. I need to prove to myself that he doesn't have that power anymore."
Dylan's jaw works as he considers this. "You could be walking into a manipulation. He's had time to plan, to prepare whatever sob story to get to you."
"I know. That's why I need you to trust me to handle it."
The request hangs between us, and I see the moment Dylan understands what I'm really asking. Not for protection or rescue, but for faith in my judgment. For the space to fight my own battles while knowing he's there if I need him.
"Will you support me if I do this?" I ask, vulnerable but sure. "Not come with me, but… be there if I need you?"
Dylan searches my face for a long moment, and I see him making the same choice I am: choosing trust over fear, partnership over protection.
"Call Jessica," he says finally. "Have her nearby. Text me before you go in and after you leave. And I'll be on standby, ready to come if you need me." His voice drops, intense and protective despite his restraint. "But Avery, you don't owe him anything. Not closure, not conversation, nothing."
"I know," I say, and I mean it. "But I need to do this anyway."
That evening, I'm curled on my couch with my phone, Jessica on speaker as I explain my plan.
"Are you insane?" she shouts immediately. "Oliver's been stalking you, violating restraining orders, and you want to sit down for coffee with him?"
"In a public place. With you nearby. And Dylan on standby."
There's a pause, and I can practically hear Jessica's mind working through the angles. "Okay. But I'm not just nearby. I'm at the next table. And you're telling Dylan exactly where and when. And if Oliver so much as raises his voice, I'm calling the police."
"Deal."
"And Avery?" Jessica's voice softens. "While I still think this is insane… I'm proud of you. For facing this and letting Dylan help. It’s about time you know you don’t have to do everything alone."
After we hang up, I text Dylan the details. His response is immediate: I don't like this. But I trust you. Be careful. Please.
The "please" gets me, the vulnerability in that single word. This man who commands boardrooms and billion-dollar deals, reduced to asking me to be careful because he cares enough to worry.
I hold my phone against my chest, feeling something I haven't felt in so long I'd almost forgotten it existed: hope. Not the fragile kind that breaks at the first sign of trouble, but something stronger. Something built on partnership and trust.
I think about the board's ultimatum, about the professional price we're both paying for this relationship.
Tomorrow I'll face Oliver and finally close that chapter.
But then what? How do we fight a board of directors who see me as a liability?
How do we navigate a workplace where every success I achieve will be attributed to my relationship with the CEO?
But then I remember the answer. It sounds in my head in Dylan’s voice—
Together.
And I finally start to breathe.