Chapter 33
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sawyer
Iknow exactly what I’m going to say to her tonight, which is new. I don’t usually plan things like this.
But somewhere between the last family dinner and this morning, when she fell asleep at the kitchen island with her laptop open … it stopped feeling optional.
I’m going to tell her. Simple as that.
I loosen my tie as I step into the apartment.
The place is oddly quiet.
“Kayla?”
No answer.
Right. I forgot she mentioned having dinner with Melissa earlier.
I drop my keys on the counter and head toward the bedroom to change, still running through the conversation in my head.
Something casual. Not a big speech. Just—
My steps slow as I pass the hallway table.
There’s a stack of books sitting there all with the same cover and title. Five copies, one on top of the other, with a sticky note on top.
I almost keep walking but something about it makes me stop.
I pick up the top book with the sticky note.
Here are the drafts. Let me know if the cover feels right.
This is your best book yet. The writing is beautiful.
I stare at the note for a second.
Then back at the stack. Drafts.
Unease slips in immediately. Kayla never mentioned getting copies. She said she sent it to her editor, but that was, like, a month ago.
She didn’t say anything about this.
A small smile pulls at the corner of my mouth anyway.
Of course she didn’t. She’s probably waiting to show me when it’s perfect.
That sounds like her.
I pick up one of the books and flip it over in my hands.
The cover is clean and professional. Better than anything I expected.
“Not bad,” I mutter.
I head into the living room and drop onto the couch, flipping it open.
I’m not planning to read the whole thing. Just skim to get a feel for it.
The first few chapters are what I expected. A good setup of the characters. The hero is a billionaire who is controlled and reserved.
I smirk slightly—predictable. Though I thought she said she didn’t write billionaire romances because they didn’t make good heroes.
I turn a few more pages, and something catches my attention.
A line.
I read it again.
He doesn’t like it when anyone touches his back.
My fingers still against the page. It’s probably a coincidence.
I flip ahead, skimming faster now. Another scene where the heroine notices the way he tenses when she gets too close.
My jaw tightens slightly.
I keep reading.
The hero doesn’t sleep well. Avoids staying in bed with anyone overnight.
My chest feels tighter now.
I turn another page.
Faster.
The words blur together as I scan.
I wake up to the sounds of him screaming, sweat soaking the sheets. He’s yelling, thrashing, panicking.
I stop. The scene hits too close.
My hand tightens around the book.
A slow, cold realization settles into my chest.
No. I shake my head slightly. That’s not possible.
She wouldn’t.
I flip to another section.
Read a paragraph, then another. My stomach drops. Now I’m not seeing inspiration. I’m seeing patterns.
Things she only knows because I let her see them. A hollow feeling settles in my chest.
I lean back against the couch slowly.
The book still open in my hands. The apartment feels different now.
I stare down at the page.
At the version of a man that feels just close enough to be recognizable … and just distant enough to be deniable.
My jaw tightens.
One thought pushes through everything else.
Is that all this was?
I glance toward the island. Toward her laptop and her notes.
All the nights she stayed up writing. All the moments I thought she was simply seeing me.
A bitter laugh escapes under my breath.
Of course. That’s what she does.
She writes, she observes, and she turns people into stories.
Suddenly, every moment from the last month feels different.
Rewritten. Like I was just … material.
I don’t realize how long I’ve been sitting here until I hear the front door open. The sound cuts through the silence of the apartment.
Keys hitting the counter.
Kayla’s voice, light and easy. “I’m home—”
She stops when she sees me still on the couch with the book open in my hands.
For a second, confusion flickers across her face.
Then it shifts. Recognition. Her eyes drop to the cover.
“Oh. You found them.”
I don’t move. Don’t close the book or soften the way I’m looking at her.
“Yeah,” I say flatly.
She sets her purse down slowly. “I was going to show you tonight.”
“Were you?”
She hesitates, and that’s all it takes. Something sharp twists in my chest.
I stand, the book still in my hand.
“Which part?” I ask.
Her brows pull together. “What?”
“Which part were you planning to show me?” I continue, my voice constricting. “The part where your hero can’t sleep next to anyone?”
Her expression shifts again. Concern now. “Sawyer—”
“Or the part where he loses his mind in the middle of the night?” I cut in.
Her lips part. “I didn’t—”
“Or maybe the part where he flinches when someone touches his back?”
Silence settles between us. It’s heavy.
Her eyes widen slightly. Now she understands what I’m seeing, what I’m thinking.
“That’s not—” she starts.
“What, Kayla?” I snap. “What exactly is it?”
She takes a step toward me. “It’s not what you think.”
A humorless laugh escapes me. “Really?”
I hold up the book slightly.
“Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like you took everything I told you and turned it into this.”
Her face falls. “I didn’t take your story.”
“No?” I fire back. “Then why does it feel like I’m reading about myself?”
“Because knowing you changed how I understood the character,” she says, her voice rising slightly. “That’s different.”
The word feels wrong, like it doesn’t fit what I’m holding in my hand.
“I trusted you with that,” I say, my voice dropping. “With everything.”
Her eyes soften. “I know—”
“And you turned it into material.”
Kayla flinches slightly. “I didn’t do that.”
“Didn’t you?” I step closer. “Because it sure as hell doesn’t feel like coincidence.”
Her hands lift slightly, like she’s trying to slow everything down. “The details are different.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“It does,” she insists. “I didn’t write your life. I wrote a character.”
“A character that just happens to react exactly the way I do?”
She shakes her head. “No—”
“Don’t,” I cut her off. “Don’t try to spin it like this is something it’s not.”
Her frustration finally breaks through. “I’m not spinning anything!”
“Then what are you doing, Kayla?” I demand. “Because right now, it feels like I handed you the worst parts of my life and you turned around and sold them.”
The accusation hangs in the air, harsh and sharp, but I don’t take them back.
Kayla goes completely still. Hurt flashes across her face before she can hide it.
“That’s not fair,” she says quietly.
“Isn’t it?”
“No.” Her voice is steadier now. “I didn’t use you.”
“It feels like you did.”
She shakes her head again. “I wrote that story because I finally understood what makes someone like you … you.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Yeah. That’s the problem.”
Her expression hardens slightly. “You think I wrote you as broken?”
I don’t answer because that’s exactly what it feels like.
She steps closer. “I didn’t.”
I look down at her. “Then what did you write?”
A beat passes, and then she says softly, “A man who survived something most people wouldn’t.”
The words hit hard but instead of settling, they twist something deeper in my chest.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “That’s exactly what I didn’t want.”
Her breath catches. “Sawyer …”
“I didn’t tell you that so you could understand me,” I continue. “I told you because I thought—”
I stop. I don’t even know how to finish that sentence anymore.
Because whatever I thought this was … it doesn’t feel like that now.
Kayla watches me carefully. “You thought what?”
I shake my head. “Doesn’t matter.”
The silence stretches between us.
Finally, she exhales slowly. “I never meant to hurt you.”
I nod once. “I believe that.”
Her shoulders relax slightly.
Then I add, “But you did.”
That’s the moment everything breaks.
The air shifts, and distance between us suddenly feels permanent.
Kayla swallows hard, then nods. “I’m so sorry.” The words are quiet. Defeated.
She grabs her bag from the counter. “I’ll stay with Melissa for a while.”
Panic tries to surface. I don’t stop her or tell her to stay.
I just stand here, watching her walk toward the door.
She pauses for half a second, like she’s waiting for me to say something—anything.
I don’t.
The door closes behind her with a soft click.
And just like that … the apartment feels empty again.