Chapter Twenty-Two Sunny
Chaos doesn’t always sound like shouting.
Sometimes it’s just silence that rings too loud.
The penthouse is quiet after Ethan leaves. Quiet in a way that hurts more than every slammed door of my childhood. I can still hear his voice echoing in my skull—
You ruined her.
Like I was a vase. Like Dylan dropped me. Like I’m shards on the ground and not a breathing, thinking, wanting woman.
I go to the guest room and close the door without looking back.
If I look—I’ll see Dylan still standing in the kitchen, one hand on the counter, like he’s holding himself up.
And I can’t hold him up right now.
Not when I’m barely on my feet.
Morning comes fast and cruel.
Emails. Headlines. Hashtags.
#GoldDiggingTeacher
#UnfitRoleModel
#VegasVowsFakeLove
Every word feels like a bruise.
Dylan knocks once on the door.
“Sunny?” His voice is low, careful.
I stare at the closed wood. If I speak, I’ll break. If I open the door, I’ll fall.
So I say nothing.
Eventually he walks away.
The sound hurts worse than anything Trevor ever said.
I dress slowly—jeans, cardigan, hair pulled into a messy knot.
Armor doesn’t always look like steel. Sometimes it looks like pretending you’re fine.
I text Jenna:
Can I come stay a few days?
Her reply is instant:
Always. Pack a bag. I’ll meet you.
Before I leave, I whisper to the empty room:
“I still want him.”
It feels like betrayal.
Of myself. Of Ethan. Of everything I swore last night.
But wanting someone shouldn’t require losing everything else.
I take a rideshare to the school because I need to see it. Not to fight. Just to remember who I am outside of Dylan Knight’s orbit.
The playground is empty. It’s Saturday. But I still see ghosts.
Little shoes. Paint-stained fingers. Voices calling, Miss Emerson! Look! Look what I made!
My throat burns.
The parking lot is half-shaded, asphalt cracked, familiar in a way that feels like safety.
I walk toward my old classroom window—then I freeze.
Someone is leaning against the brick wall near the entrance.
Hands in pockets. Head tilted. Like he owns the air and the silence.
Trevor.
My blood turns to ice.
He pushes off the wall, slow and confident.
“Funny,” he says. “You can’t go inside. But I can.”
His smile is sharp. Predatory. Like he knows he’s already won.
“You really thought running to some billionaire would save you?”
I step back. “Leave me alone.”
“Oh, I will,” he says lightly. “Once you’ve learned your lesson.”
He steps closer.
I don’t breathe.
“When everything falls apart,” he murmurs, “remember—I was the only one who stayed.”
That lie hits harder because part of me once believed it.
I back away—boots slipping slightly on gravel.
His voice follows.
“Next time, princess—I won’t just grab your arm.”
A horn blares—A car screeches into the lot—Headlights barreling toward us—
And I don’t know whether to run—or stand my ground—
because I have no idea who is behind the wheel.