33. The Wave
The Wave
It’s been two weeks since I saw Broderick. No calls, No texts. No sarcastic memes or late-night rendezvous.
Two agonizing weeks.
I’d been away from him before, but the thought of him being a flight or call away sustained me during our time apart. But now.
Space. He wants space.
I miss his laugh, I miss his body, I miss him.
The nights are the worst. I lay awake replaying every moment leading up to our not-date that ended in disaster and the line was drawn in the sand. Then the conversation that followed in the studio.
There’s no going back.
And maybe that was the point.
I’ll give him the space he’s asked for. Convince myself it was the decent thing to do. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t.
Either way, his silence is loud.
Serves me right for dragging him into my mess.
But my chest hasn’t stopped aching. My arrangement with Broderick was the one thing that kept me grounded. The sex was incredible—but it was the company that kept me coming back. The laughs, the teasing, the way he found a way to get under my skin, physically and otherwise.
The way he showed up when I needed him even when I didn’t ask. No matter how busy or tired he was. Now he was gone, too.
“Oh, isn’t this cute,” Philippa says, holding up a tiny, overpriced baby sweater that probably costs more than some people’s rent.
Carole lets out a delighted gasp, “Oh, it’s precious. He’ll look like a little gentleman.”
I nod, mostly so they don’t prod. I don’t really want to be here.
But I’m desperate. Maybe Philippa has an update—she had no idea what transpired between us.
So here I am. Walking through Bergdorf’s baby section like some kind of penance.
I trail behind them, arms crossed, watching them sift through racks of cashmere onesies. Everything smells like vanilla and money.
I hate how much I want to ask about him.
Had she seen him?
Did he look okay?
Did he ask about me?
I rub the back of my neck and stare at a stack of swaddles.
I replay our conversation over and over again, dissecting what he said—what I could have said to salvage this.
“Elena?” Carole’s voice brings me back to reality.
I look up to see her face full of concern, and Philippa watches me with that expression—part suspicion, part worry.
She holds up a matching beanie. “What do you think?”
“It’s…tiny.”
Philippa raises an eyebrow.
Carole tilts her head. “Are you feeling alright?”
No.
But I plaster on a smile anyway and reach for the beanie. “Perfect for a tiny head.”
Philippa doesn’t laugh. Just stares at me a second too long, then turns away and continues shopping.
I follow behind like a sad puppy.
If this was my punishment, I was going to take it. Maybe I’ll get lucky, she’ll slip up and tell me something.
“Are you all ready for the Grammys, dear?” Carole asks.
“Yeah, I think so,” I say, flatter than usual.
“What will you be wearing?” Philippa asks
“A dress I guess.” I shrug. Rio selected a whole bunch of outfits, one for the carpet, one for the performance, another for after and one for the after party.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Philippa says search my face for clues she won’t find.
I nod, grabbing a pair of shoes off the rack. “Look, these are dapper,” I say, trying to steer the conversation anywhere but the disaster unraveling inside my chest.
They both agree, giddy. Inside I’m reeling.
Philippa moves to another rack, her tone too casual. “I think we’ve almost got enough for his first wardrobe.”
“Does Andrew know how much you’ve spent?”
She doesn’t look at me. “He’s worse than I am. He found a custom crib from Norway and had it shipped in. It’s literally shaped like a cloud.”
I give a low whistle, trying not to sound bitter. “Must be nice.”
She glances at me over her shoulder. “You could always ask your boyfriend to buy you one.”
Boyfriend.
The word nearly sends me into a panic, the only real thing he ever asked of me, and I couldn’t even give it to him because I’m selfish and damaged. Too stupid to give him the love he deserves.
I don’t bite.
Instead, I adjust the strap of my bag and force a smile. “How’s he been? Andrew.”
“Why?”
“Just making conversation,” I say, pretending to study a pair of infant loafers. “Haven’t seen him since New Year’s Eve.”
Philippa gives a little hum and smooths a muslin wrap between her fingers. “Busy. Stressed. They’ve been doing back-to-back mergers.”
Then—almost too smoothly. “We had brunch with Broderick before he flew out.”
I look up. “Flew out?”
“To Cambodia,” she says, like it’s obvious. “I think they’re finalizing the plans to distribute the money raised at Dad’s gala—I was meant to accompany him, but the doctors said, given where my placenta is, it’s not advised that I travel.”
I stop walking.
He went to Cambodia.
Of course I break his heart and he’s off being a fucking saint. I really am the world’s biggest asshole.
“Did he look…” I swallow. “Okay?”
Philippa eyes me for a beat, then goes back to folding a tiny pair of corduroy pants. “He looked tired. But good.”
I nod like that doesn’t hollow me out.
Carole lifts a pale blue cardigan off the rack. “Do you think he’ll be back for the baby shower?”
Philippa shrugs. “No idea. He said not to plan around him.”
My jaw locks. He wouldn’t miss something like that would he? Unless I’d finally pushed him far enough away.
I excuse myself, leaving Carole and Philippa under the guise of using the restroom, needing space to quiet the chaos swirling in my chest. I walk around aimlessly, the department store buzzes with life, oblivious to my unease. Bright lights and cheerful music mocking the heaviness pulling at me.
Turning the corner, I halt abruptly.
Madison Walsh stands before me, radiant blonde waves cascading over her shoulders.
Her eyes catch mine sharply, widening in brief shock, before settling into a look far too pleased to see me.
My breath catches as my eyes trail downward.
Her rounded belly proudly displays the reality I desperately want to forget—she carries his child.
The ache in my chest pulses, a cruel reminder of everything he chose over me. Even if he said they weren’t together, I don’t understand why he’s made no effort to try to take me back.
I haven’t heard from him since the incident on New Year’s Eve. Maybe seeing me with Broderick was enough to push him away for good. The thought settles deep, sharp and unwelcome, and I force it back down.
Alex first. Now Broderick. Maybe I’m destined to end up alone.
“Elena,” she purrs, gliding towards me effortlessly despite the obvious toll pregnancy has taken on her. “What are you doing here?”
Her manicured hand smooths slowly across the swell of her stomach, like a queen flaunting her prize.
“Apparently baby stores are where it’s at these days,” I say, trying for levity but my voice is flat, betraying the hurt beneath.
Madison’s eyes narrow just enough to let me know she notices. “Hmm,” she muses softly, tilting her head with feigned innocence. “I’m just picking out a few things for our baby. Alex and I are due any day now.”
The emphasis on our drips like poison, sweetly cruel. She knows exactly where it cuts deepest.
I swallow down the bitterness rising in my throat, refusing to show how much her words burn. I could lash back, strike her down with spiteful truths of my own, but what would it achieve?
I straighten, forcing a smile that feels brittle. “I’m happy for you. With parents like you two, that baby’s bound to be born ready for a magazine cover.”
Madison laughs, the sound sugar-coated yet insincere. The pretense falls away, her mask crumbling. Her eyes narrow sharply, venomous and glinting.
“You really are something, aren’t you?” she spits, the sweetness vanishing instantly.
My brows draw together in confusion “I don’t follow—”
“Oh, Elena, cut the act,” she interrupts, voice biting. “You don’t think I’ve seen Alex’s posts or his texts and late-night calls to you?”
Oh God. My stomach twists painfully.
“I still don’t understand his infatuation,” she sneers, her voice dripping contempt. “I’m A-list. You’re a D-list at best.”
Her words slam into me, sharp, precise. Bitch.
“Madison,” I respond slowly, deliberately calm despite the storm building inside. “I’m not here to argue. Whatever Alex is doing, you need to take it up with him—I’m not his keeper.”
She steps closer, eyes blazing, accusation heavy in the air. “Are you giving him a reason to reach out?”
Atlanta flashes through my mind—Alex’s claim over me, the lingering heat his touch. I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing the memories away. But guilt clings stubbornly to my skin.
“No,” I whisper, voice unsteady.
“Liar.” Her accusation cuts sharply through the space between us. “I’ve seen his call logs, Elena. I catch him staring at your photos, watching your performances. He’s obsessed. And I know you’re a homewrecking little slut who’s feeding into it.”
My breath catches, my chest tightening at Madison’s revelation—maybe it wasn’t truly over for him. What if there was a reason he ended things with us?
My spine prickles at the thought. But hope is a dangerous liar. It could all be in my head—a pathetic attempt to turn fleeting fragments into something meaningful. Because no matter how fiercely I cling to the threads of possibility, Madison will always be in his life. A thorn between us.
My resolve cracks. “Madison,” I finally manage, exhaustion seeping through each word, “he ended things. He chose you. So, whatever this is, save it for someone who gives a fuck.”
A lie, of course. A fragile shield masking the truth—I still care deeply. Far more than I can admit, even to myself.
She steps back, eyes icy as she delivers her final blow. “Stay away from him, Elena,” she warns. “If you know what’s good for you.”
The threat lingers, sharp and clear, as she turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, hollow and aching in the shadow of everything I’ve lost.
My apartment is too quiet. My mind less so, thoughts of Broderick, Alex, and Madison’s ominous warning swirling around like a storm.