Chapter 28
Chapter twenty-eight
Cam
The penthouse is quiet in a way that feels like an accusation.
I slip inside and shut the door without letting it click. My shoulders stay tight, like sound is dangerous. Like if I make too much of it, she’ll appear.
I don’t want another fight.
I don’t want a goodbye.
I don’t want to see her cry, because that would undo every decision I just made.
The lights are dim. Not off. Just low. The city glow leaks through the windows and paints everything in soft gray.
A mug sits on the counter.
Cold tea. A faint ring on the stone.
Evidence she was here.
Just enough to twist the knife deeper.
I keep my steps quiet as I cross the living room. My eyes flick to the couch out of habit.
Empty.
Good.
I head down the hall to the guest room—the one that was supposed to be temporary. The one I never let myself get comfortable in.
I pull the duffel from the closet and set it on the bed.
Then I start packing like a machine.
Shirts folded on instinct. Sweatpants rolled tight. Chargers gathered from outlets I never claimed as mine. I move fast and methodically.
If I think, I stop.
If I stop, I go to her door.
So I keep moving.
She wanted out.
She asked if we should dissolve the contract. Told me I should go.
I’m giving her what she wants.
Even if it feels like tearing myself open to do it.
A sock goes in the bag.
Then another.
My hands don’t shake until I grab the hoodie she wore once because she said it smelled like me.
I stare at it for a beat too long.
My throat burns.
I shove it into the duffel.
The zipper snags. I yank it harder than I should.
My chest is tight. My breathing is too shallow. Like my body knows what I’m doing before my brain can admit it.
Leaving.
Not the room.
Her.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
Once.
I ignore it.
Again.
I keep folding. Keep my head down. The duffel gapes open like it’s waiting to swallow the rest of me.
Buzz.
A third time. Longer this time. Insistent.
I glance at the screen.
JAX
I almost let it ring out.
Then the screen lights again. FaceTime request.
I swear under my breath and answer without turning on my camera.
“Hey.”
Jax doesn’t bother with hello. “Where are you?”
I grip the edge of the dresser harder than necessary. “Packing.”
There’s a beat of silence. Long enough to register.
“…Packing what?”
“My stuff.”
Another pause. This one heavier.
“Bro,” Jax says slowly. “Don’t screw with me. You mean your place or—”
“The penthouse.”
He snaps. “CAM. What do you think you're doing?”
I keep folding. A T-shirt. Another pair of socks. “It’s complicated.”
“No,” he says. “It’s not complicated. It’s you panicking.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Yes, it is. I know you.” His voice drops, sharp with certainty. “You're into her.”
I shut my eyes.
My throat burns.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say.
“Why not?”
Because she thinks I used her. Because I think she’s already choosing someone else. Because staying feels like waiting for the blade to drop.
I don’t say any of it.
“It’s over,” I mutter.
Jax swears under his breath. “Cam, man… talk to her.”
“I’m doing what she wanted.”
“She wanted a conversation,” he snaps. “Not a disappearance.”
"Then she shouldn't have said it."
I zip the duffel shut.
Jax exhales hard. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Maybe.”
“No. Definitely.”
I end the call.
Not angry.
Just… done.
My phone lights up immediately with a text.
JAX:
This is a bad idea. Call me when you calm down.
I turn the phone face down.
I sling the duffel over my shoulder.
The weight of it pulls hard, like it’s trying to drag me back. I adjust the strap and step into the hall, moving slowly now, every footfall echoing louder than it should.
The penthouse feels too big. Too empty.
I make it halfway down the hall before I stop.
Her studio door.
There’s a thin line of light glowing beneath it. Warm. Alive. A shadow moves across it—slow, restless.
She’s in there.
Maybe pacing. Maybe crying. Maybe working through something she’ll never say out loud.
My chest tightens.
My hand lifts before I consciously decide to move it. Fingers hovering inches from the door. Close enough that I could knock. Close enough that this could all change.
I picture her opening it.
Her face tired. Guarded. Hurt.
Please don’t make this harder.
Maybe it’s better if you go.
You’re only supposed to be here for a few months.
She didn’t actually say that.
Fear edits anyway.
My knuckles ache with the effort of holding still.
If I knock, I’ll stay. If I stay, I’ll hope. If I hope, I’ll break.
I lower my hand.
The door stays closed.
I turn away before I can change my mind.
The elevator waits at the end of the hall, quiet and patient. I step inside and face forward.
The doors begin to slide shut.
For one aching second, I hope she’ll call my name.
Run down the hall. Tell me she didn’t mean it. Tell me to stay.
The doors meet without a sound.
The reflection stares back at me.
I swallow and whisper to the empty space, “I’m sorry.”
Then the elevator takes me down.