Chapter 35 Elizabeth
ELIZABETH
My New Orleans office still smelled like fresh paint. Sure, the floors were uneven, the chairs were mismatched, and the front door stuck when it rained. But it was mine. And somehow, against all odds, it was working.
We’d just signed our fifth client in three weeks. It was an independent bookstore that wanted help launching a city-wide reading initiative. Real people. Real stories. Real work. And best of all, I didn’t have to sell my soul to land them.
My team was small, scrappy, and full of ideas. I was learning to be a better leader than Vanessa had ever been. Not by controlling every detail, but by trusting the people around me. Letting go of the need to manage every word, every outcome.
It was terrifying. And freeing. And good. I was building something here in New Orleans. Something real. Which is why, when I heard the whoop from the bullpen and the sound of my name being shouted over the din of keyboard clacks, I smiled instead of cringing.
“Elizabeth! You have to see this!”
I leaned back in my chair as Zoey, our youngest account manager, practically launched into my office with her laptop open.
“Look,” she said breathlessly, turning it around. “It’s Logan Richards singing his new song. He used to be your client, right?”
I froze for half a second. My smile stiffened, but I nodded. “Yeah, that’s right.”
She set the laptop down and hit play before I could change my mind.
The video started. No flash. No band. Just Logan, a guitar, and a mic. It was the Logan I knew. The first note hit, and my stomach twisted. And then he started to sing.
Every line was raw and honest. The kind of honesty you don’t recover from easily.
I felt it like a bruise blooming across my chest.
Next to me, Zoey sighed. “Isn’t he amazing?”
I couldn’t answer. But she was right. He was amazing. Every word, every note, felt like it had been torn out of him. Like writing it had cost him something.
Then the bridge came. It was soft, stripped down, almost like a whisper:
You don’t have to keep the sky from falling—
It’s not all on you this time.
Let the stars shift, let the plans slip—
You’re already mine.
I felt it before I even fully understood it—that catch in my throat, that ache behind my ribs. But then he hit the final chorus, and there was no hiding from it anymore:
If you let me, I’ll meet you in the quiet,
Where the world fades out of view.
I’ll be the space where you can loosen
Everything you hold like truth.
I won’t tame the fire that makes you burn—
I’ll just burn beside you.
I don’t want to change you.
I just want to choose you.
I knew without a doubt that the song was about me.
Every lyric, every line, was a map of the parts of myself I tried hardest to hide. The parts he’d seen anyway. The parts he loved anyway.
He had written it as if it were a prayer. And I was the answer. The song was about everything we had been and everything we could’ve been if I had fought for him.
After Zoey left, I sat at my desk, blinking fast, fingers trembling as I reached for my phone. I typed: I heard your new song. It was the most beautiful song I’ve ever heard. If you ever want to talk, I’d like that.
My thumb hovered over send, and before I could overthink it, the text message was on its way to Logan.
Before long, before I even had time to think about what I had done by texting him, a new headline popped up in my notifications: “Logan Richards Opens Up About His Viral Song and The Woman Who Left.”
It was an interview clip. Just a few seconds. Grainy, low-res. But clear enough.
The interviewer leaned in, all faux sympathy. “So… where is she now?”
And Logan didn’t even blink. “She left. That’s kind of her thing—walking away.”
The words hung there, quiet and brutal. The interviewer blinked, clearly not expecting such honesty this early in the conversation. Then, she recovered and leaned in with a sly smile. “Let me speak for all women everywhere: her loss. What woman in her right mind would turn you down?”
Logan just gave a little smirk and looked away.
“I used to ask myself that every day. She’s probably in some glass office right now, fixing other people’s lives instead of dealing with her own.
That’s her comfort zone. Control the narrative, avoid the feelings.
” He shrugged. “But the truth is that some people don’t want love.
Not really. They want safety. Distance. A version of you they can manage.
And when they see the real thing—messy, unpredictable—they run.
” He looked at the camera then, directly, and I felt like he was looking into my eyes.
“I’m done chasing people who run.” He held the interviewer’s gaze for a beat, then added, “If she’s watching. Good. Let her run.”
The interviewer shifted, curiosity flashing in her eyes. “What if she hears your new song and wants another chance?”
Logan's jaw tightened. His voice dropped, each word carefully measured. “I don’t care anymore,” he said evenly. “I’ve moved on. I don’t want her back. We’re done, for good.”
Well, that was it. Final. The door slammed shut with no turning back.
The blood in my veins felt like ice, and my stomach hollowed out. I stared at the screen, heart pounding, wishing I could take back the text I had sent him. Given the timing of the interview, it was likely he had seen the text before he began speaking. Right before.
I let go of the hope, the part of me that still believed he might ever understand why I did what I did.
No, I hadn’t acted as I should have at the end of our relationship. I hated myself for that, but since then, I’ve left everything behind and tried to be brave. Tried to believe in new beginnings. But he was never going to forgive me.
My hands trembled as I opened his contact. I blocked his number. Not out of spite, but because I knew I wouldn’t stop hoping otherwise.
I set my phone down gently, like that might soften the ache.
I would move on. I would forget him.
Even if it broke me in the process.