Ellery
The rain had been falling since morning—steady, relentless, like the sky had decided to scrub the city clean. By evening, it was just a soft hiss against the foundation windows, a sound that filled the quiet too easily.
Most of the world had stopped calling. The reporters had moved on to their next scandal, their next casualty. The headlines still popped up here and there if I looked for them—which I didn’t—but the storm had mostly passed.
Inside the office, everything was in its place. Too much in its place. I’d spent the last two hours straightening binders that didn’t need straightening, answering emails that didn’t need answers. Anything to keep my hands busy, to drown out the hollow silence of waiting.
Two days.
That was how long it had been since I’d heard his voice. Since he’d walked out of that apartment before sunrise, hoodie pulled up, eyes already shadowed by what was coming.
I hadn’t realized how loud the absence of someone could be until now.
The door creaked open, and Naomi slipped in, balancing two coffees. She slid one across my desk, watching me like I was a project she wasn’t sure she could fix.
“You’re not fooling anyone with all this productive pretending,” she said.
I forced a smile that barely lifted. “Pretending keeps the lights on.”
She sighed and sank into the chair across from me. “You’ve kept this place alive through worse, El. You don’t have to keep proving it. The foundation’s still standing. You made it through.”
“Did I?” I murmured. My fingers traced the rim of the coffee cup, circling it like a prayer bead.
Naomi leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “You’re allowed to fall apart for a minute. No one’s going to think less of you.”
“I don’t have time to fall apart,” I said quietly. “I have donors to thank, kids waiting for program updates, a board to reassure.”
She gave me a look that said she wasn’t buying it, but she didn’t push. She knew better than to try.
I stood, crossing the room to the donor wall. The gold plates gleamed under the fluorescent light, each one etched with a name. Sponsors, partners, people who’d believed in the mission.
My gaze caught on the newest additions—the ones Beckett had helped bring in. Companies that had only signed on because of his calls, his persistence, his belief in what we were doing.
He saved this place before he ever touched me.
The thought hit hard enough that I had to grip the edge of the table to steady myself.
And now he’s paying for it.
The rain beat harder against the glass, blurring the city beyond.
Somewhere out there, he was alone, probably being told to keep quiet, to stay invisible, to let the machine spin its story. And here I was, surrounded by the proof of what he’d done right—what we’d done together—pretending like my heart wasn’t still breaking for him.
I set the coffee down and whispered to no one, “You don’t deserve this.”
But the rain swallowed the words whole.
I checked my phone again—pointless, really, because I already knew what I’d find. Nothing. No calls. No texts. Not even a quiet “I’m okay.”
The Storm’s social accounts had gone silent too.
No new posts, no updates, just the same generic statement the PR team had released: We are handling the situation internally.
The press didn’t buy it. Articles were still popping up every hour—his name, my name, headlines that didn’t care about truth, only clicks.
Naomi sat on the edge of my desk, one leg crossed over the other, watching me scroll through the mess. “He’s probably just lying low,” she said gently. “You know how Cam works—lockdown mode until the story dies out.”
I stared at the screen until the words blurred. “That’s the problem. He’s the one taking all the heat, and I’m here, hiding in a safe office.”
She frowned. “You’re not hiding, El. You’re surviving.”
“Feels the same,” I whispered, the words barely more than a breath.
Rain tapped against the windows again, a slow rhythm that filled the silence. The office lights reflected faintly on the glass, ghost versions of us moving in a space that felt too big, too quiet.
I set the phone face down on the desk, like that would stop the headlines from existing. Like it would stop me from wondering if he was okay. If he was angry. If he regretted everything.
Naomi picked up one of the sponsorship folders and flipped through it, her attempt to keep things normal. “You know, when you first dragged me into this job, I didn’t realize ‘foundation director’ came with this much emotional carnage.”
I gave a half-smile, weak but real. “Occupational hazard.”
She looked up at me over the folder. “You love him.”
It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t try to deny it. “Yeah,” I said quietly. “I do.”
Naomi’s expression softened, but she didn’t reach for comfort. That was one of the things I loved about her—she never forced the kind of reassurance that rang hollow. She just stayed, her presence enough.
I leaned back in my chair, staring up at the ceiling. “He doesn’t deserve this. None of it. He was trying to do the right thing.”
“He did do the right thing,” she said. “People just like villains better than heroes—it makes better headlines.”
A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “Apparently, I make a great villain’s muse.”
Naomi smiled faintly, but her eyes were sad. “You know he wouldn’t want you torturing yourself over this, right?”
“I know,” I murmured. “But he’d never tell me if he was hurting, either. He’d just carry it until it breaks him.”
I glanced at the phone again. Still nothing. Still silence.
Outside, the rain thickened, streaking the windows until the whole world looked blurred. Maybe that was for the best. Everything was easier to face when it wasn’t in focus.
I closed my eyes and took a long breath. You’re surviving, Naomi had said.
Maybe that was true. But right then, sitting in the quiet with the ghost of his voice still somewhere in my head, it felt a lot more like hiding.
Somehow, we both wound up in the break room. I had my mouth full of chips when Naomi grabbed my shoulder.
“El… turn this up.”
There was something in her tone that made my stomach drop.
I looked up at the small TV mounted in the corner. The headline running along the bottom of the screen stole the air right out of my lungs:
PRESS CONFERENCE — SWM STORM FORWARD BECKETT MASON SPEAKS OUT.
My pulse jumped. The room suddenly felt too small. Naomi fumbled for the remote, cranking the volume.
And there he was.
Beckett stood at a podium, the Storm’s logo plastered across the backdrop behind him. The cameras made everything harsh—the light, the lines on his face, the press badges flashing in the crowd—but his expression stayed calm. Controlled.
A reporter’s voice broke through the static buzz of my heartbeat. “Mr. Mason, are you confirming a relationship with Ellery James?”
The sound of my name hit like a bruise. I gripped the edge of the counter, waiting for him to dodge it, for the usual “no comment” and “respect our privacy.”
But instead, he said—steady, deliberate—“No comment on her personal life. But I will say this—everything that’s happened, every rumor, every headline—that’s on me, not her. She’s one of the best people I’ve ever known. My actions caused this. Leave her out of it.”
The words hung there, filling the space between the flashes and murmurs.
For a heartbeat, even the reporters went still. No follow-up questions, no shouted accusations. Just silence.
My throat tightened.
Naomi exhaled first, whispering, “Holy hell, he actually did it.”
I couldn’t look away from the screen. He stood there, unmoving, jaw tight, eyes fixed somewhere past the crowd—like he was daring them to try to twist what he’d said. And for once, they didn’t.
He looked untouchable. Strong. Everything I’d always known he was, even when the world refused to see it.
I felt my chest ache with something between pride and heartbreak.
Naomi turned to me, wide-eyed. “El… are you okay?”
I swallowed hard. “He didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “He did.”
The reporters started moving again, questions overlapping, but the feed stayed focused on him. Beckett’s hands braced the podium, knuckles white, waiting for more questions.
I blinked hard, forcing my voice to steady. “He just handed them a new headline.”
“Yeah,” Naomi said. “One where you finally come out clean.”
I stared at the dark screen. The reflection of my face looked tired, but alive in a way it hadn’t been in days.
He didn’t just take the blame. He gave me back my name.
And somehow, that hurt even more.
I couldn’t move.
My hand flew to my mouth as if that could hold everything in—the shock, the ache, the sheer disbelief of watching him up there, calm and unflinching, while the world dissected our lives in real time.
He looked composed, yes—steady posture, voice like gravel smoothed by restraint—but I could see it, the exhaustion in the slope of his shoulders, the faint tremor in his jaw. I’d memorized that face too well not to recognize the cracks.
He’s being benched for this. Maybe suspended. Maybe worse.
And still, he stood there, facing every camera, every accusation—protecting me.
The reporters weren’t finished. They never were.
One of them shouted over the rest, sharp and insistent, “Do you regret it?”
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.
“No,” he said. His voice was quiet, but it carried. “I regret the noise. Not the truth.”
The air left my lungs.
Naomi, beside me, made a sound between a gasp and a laugh. “That man’s in love with you.”
I couldn’t answer. My throat had locked tight, the kind of tight that came right before tears, right before everything inside you gave up pretending to be fine.
The camera stayed on him—his face, his composure, the small twitch of his hand gripping the edge of the podium like it was the only thing holding him upright. He’d always carried himself like he could shoulder the world, and right now, it looked like he actually was.
The anchor started to talk over the clip, but I barely heard her. The screen blurred.
He didn’t owe me this.
That thought hit first. Then another, heavier one followed.
He did it anyway.
Naomi’s hand brushed mine, grounding me. “El… breathe.”
I exhaled shakily, realizing I’d been holding it since he first appeared on-screen.
“He’s risking everything,” I whispered. “His career, his reputation—he’ll be branded the villain for telling the truth.”
Naomi shook her head gently. “No. The villain would’ve let you take the hit. He just made himself the hero.”
My eyes stung. I looked away from the TV, trying to blink the heat out.
She nudged me lightly. “You should call him.”
“I can’t,” I said, voice barely above a whisper. “Not yet. He’s still in the middle of it.”
She nodded, understanding, but her gaze lingered—soft, knowing.
When the screen finally cut to commercials, the silence in the office felt enormous. The world outside carried on—rain, cars, sirens—but inside, everything was still.
I pressed my fingers to my lips, the echo of his words still burning through me.
I regret the noise. Not the truth.
He’d stood there, under those lights, surrounded by people waiting to tear him apart, and he’d chosen honesty over safety.
I just stood there for a moment, staring at the blank screen where his face had been seconds ago, unable to process the weight of what I’d just seen. My knees gave out before my mind caught up, and I sank into the nearest chair.
He didn’t have to say any of that. He could’ve let PR spin it, let the headlines die down. He could’ve chosen silence—the safe kind that kept your career intact and your sponsors happy. But instead, he’d stood there, exhausted and unshaken, and he’d protected me.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, trying to stop the tremor in my hands. “He’s going to lose everything because of me,” I whispered, voice raw.
Naomi didn’t answer right away. I felt her move closer, her presence a quiet anchor in the storm. She crouched down beside me, placing a steady hand on my knee. “Or,” she said softly, “maybe he finally found something worth losing for.”
I dropped my hands, blinking through tears that blurred the dull gray of the office. Naomi’s face came into focus—calm, certain, the kind of steady I couldn’t find in myself.
I swallowed hard. “I can’t keep hiding behind good behavior.”
Her brow furrowed. “Ellery—”
But I was already standing, grabbing my coat off the back of the chair.
Naomi rose with me, alarm flickering in her eyes. “Where are you going?”
I slid one arm through a sleeve, my movements sharp, decisive. “I… I have to see him."
She blinked, caught between pride and panic. “Do you even know where he is?”
I glanced toward the TV, at the last frozen frame still lingering in my mind—him under those brutal lights, jaw tight, eyes unflinching. I didn’t need an address. I knew exactly where he’d go.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I do.”
Naomi exhaled, shaking her head but smiling just a little. “Go, then. Before I change my mind and tackle you.”
I gave her hand a squeeze, gratitude lodged somewhere between my ribs and my throat. Then I turned toward the door.
The hallway felt colder than I remembered, each step echoing like punctuation. By the time I hit the front doors, the rain was falling harder, soaking through my coat before I’d even buttoned it properly.
But I didn’t care.
Every drop felt electric—sharp, alive, cleansing. The air smelled like wet pavement and second chances.
You can’t control the story, I thought, pulling my hair out of my face as the wind whipped past. But you can choose how it ends.
That thought steadied me more than any speech ever could.
I crossed the street, my heels clicking against the slick sidewalk, heart pounding a rhythm I hadn’t felt in years. Ahead, through the curtain of rain, the faint glow of the stadium lights cut through the gray.
That was where he’d be. It was always where he went—to the field, to the one place that made sense when nothing else did.
And for once, I wasn’t going to wait for someone else to tell me how to move, how to behave, how to keep everything polished and perfect.
I was going to walk into the chaos.
I was going to find him.
Because maybe Naomi was right. Maybe some things were worth losing for.