Chapter 41
FORTY-ONE
NAOMI
T he scent of pancakes tickles my nose, and I reach for Brandon, finding only cool sheets. He must’ve been up for a while. Will I get breakfast in bed again?
I hope he bought strawberries.
I drag myself out of the warm sheets, his t-shirt hanging off one shoulder as I follow that mouthwatering smell.
“Brandon?”
Silence. Just a stack of golden pancakes taunting me from the counter. I grab one, rolling it up like I used to do as a kid. One bite and—goddamn. The fluffy sweetness melts on my tongue.
“Brandon?” My voice echoes through the apartment.
Another bite. Down the hallway. Past the bedroom.
He wouldn’t leave to the restaurant without me, right?
A glimpse of movement through the office door makes me pause.
I don’t bother knocking. “Hey sleepyhead, thought we agreed on breakfast in?—”
Brandon’s at his desk, papers in one hand, lighter in the other. His eyes snap to mine, wide and startled.
The sweetness in my mouth curdles. “What are you doing?”
“Morning, cupcake.” Too easy. Too smooth. He drops the papers like they’re already burning. “Sleep well?”
“Cut the bullshit. What are those?”
He looks down at the papers, then back at me, and something flickers in his eyes. Guilt, maybe. Or fear. “Spring cleaning?”
I step closer, trying to make out the text.
“It’s nothing.” Ever so slowly, he sets the lighter down. “Just some old paperwork I need to get rid of.”
I snatch the top sheet before he can stop me.
Lydia Smith. My mother’s signature. Morozov Real Estate Investment & Development Group. That’s…
My stomach twists. I grab another page.
A police report. Dated twenty-one years ago. The accident.
Not the official version. This one actually says the car was tampered with.
“You knew.” Ice spreads through my veins. “This whole time, you knew.”
“It’s not—” He reaches for me, but I backpedal. “I was trying to protect you.”
“Protect me?” A harsh laugh rips from my throat. “By keeping this from me?”
“I wanted to protect you from having to carry this weight. From having to choose between your mother and Anne. I thought… fuck, I don’t know what I thought.” His eyes close briefly, pain etching his features. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I was afraid of losing you. I thought… I thought it would be better if it never came out.”
The accusation stings because it’s true.
Tears burn my eyes, but I blink them back. I won’t cry. Not over this. “So you could control me? Use it when I step out of line?”
“Fuck no!” His fist slams the desk. “I was going to burn it, Naomi. All of it.”
“Why?”
“Why?” He looks at me like I’ve grown a second head. “Because I love you, you stubborn woman. Because I don’t want you to get hurt. And I couldn’t stand the thought of this hanging over us anymore.”
Love. He’s said it before, but not like this. Not with his heart bleeding all over his sleeve.
I stare at the evidence of murder. But what catches in my throat aren’t the papers, it’s that Brandon had this power over me.
And he never used it.
“You could have made me stay.” My throat closes around the words. “You had every reason to. Every chance.”
His jaw tightens, but his voice stays steady. “You’ve had enough people trying to control you.”
Control.
“I have to—” The words choke out. “Bathroom. Sorry.”
I bolt, barely hearing Brandon call after me.
The bathroom door slams shut. Lock clicks. Knees hit tile. Routine.
The bile should come next. The self-loathing.
I wait. Wait for the familiar urge.
The desperate relief of being emptied out.
But… Nothing.
“What the fuck.”
I should be vomiting, letting guilt and shame pour out of me like they have for the past twenty-one years. But my body’s refusing to follow the script.
Isn’t this just perfect? The one time I actually want to purge, my body decides to go on strike.
The urge fades further, replaced by something else. Something that feels dangerously like hope.
Or—
A soft knock breaks through my spiraling thoughts. “Naomi?”
“I’m fine.” The words come automatically, rehearsed from years of practice.
“You’re not fine.” Brandon’s voice is closer now, right outside the door. “And that’s okay.”
I press my forehead against the cool porcelain. “I can’t even throw up properly.”
“Good.” A soft thud against the door. “Though I gotta say, that’s a weird thing to be upset about.”
“Fuck you.” But there’s no heat in it.
“You know what this means, right?”
“That I’m broken in new and exciting ways?”
“That you’re healing.” His words settle deeper than the pancake. “Your body’s finally realizing it doesn’t need to purge every time something hurts.”
I close my eyes, letting that sink in. He’s right, and I hate it. “When did you become so wise?”
“Around the same time you started teaching me how to feel things again.” A pause. “Though I still think setting fire to evidence in my office probably wasn’t the smartest move.”
“Yeah, that was pretty stupid.”
“Want to help me do it properly? Maybe on the rooftop where we won’t burn the building down?”
I stand up, legs slightly shaky, and unlock the door. Brandon sits cross-legged on the floor, those damn understanding eyes piercing straight through me.
“Only if you make more pancakes.” My voice wavers. “And this time with strawberries.”
He reaches up, taking my hand. “Deal.”
Maybe this is what healing feels like. Messy and unexpected and terrifying. Like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing you have to jump but not sure if you’ll fly or fall.
“How long have you had these?” I ask, following Brandon back into the office.
“I received them in a letter from my Dad’s former lawyer. They’re just copies, but he must’ve gotten them from someone in the department.”
“You really love me that much?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
He whips around, and I almost collide with his broad chest.
His eyes lock onto mine, dark and intense. “I’ve loved you since that first night in college. When you stumbled into my kitchen at 3 AM, looking for something to eat.”
“I was drunk.”
“You were beautiful.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “And brave. And so determined to prove you didn’t need anyone. But you stayed and ate those terrible pancakes I made.”
“They weren’t terrible. They were the first thing I kept down in weeks.”
“I know.” His forehead touches mine. “That’s when I knew I was fucked. I wanted to feed you forever, watch you eat without fear, see you smile like that again.”
Brandon watching me, genuinely caring if I enjoyed his food, always made me feel… safe.
“You never pushed.” My fingers twist into his shirt, needing him. “Even when you knew about the puking. You just… kept cooking.”
“Because food should be about love, not control.” He presses a firm kiss to my temple like he’s grounding himself in me. “My mom taught me that.”
I glance at the papers on his desk. “What do we do with these?”
“Whatever you want.” He pulls back enough to meet my eyes. “They’re yours. Your choice.”
Your choice. Two simple words that carry the weight of twenty-one years of secrets. Months ago, I would have obsessed over every detail, trying to control the narrative. But now, with Brandon’s steady presence beside me, I realize it would only steal more time from me than it already has.
“I know.” I do. “But first, you promised me strawberry pancakes.”
His laugh rumbles through his chest. “Always thinking with your stomach now, huh, cupcake?”
“I love you, too.”
He tugs me closer, wrapping his arms around me, and I bury my face in his chest, breathing him in. He smells like home. Like safety. Like everything I’ve ever wanted and been too afraid to reach for.
Honestly? He’s my pancake. The only thing I’ve ever let myself keep.