Wren
I swallow. My eyes flick to the file and away again.
“Because you wouldn’t have listened,” I say.
That’s when Boone finally looks at me.
Really looks.
Something sharp flickers across his face—not anger.
Hurt.
“You don’t know that,” he says.
“I do,” I reply, voice steady but thin. “You believe in the chain. You always have.”
Boone steps closer, hands loose at his sides, like he’s trying not to spook me.
“I believe in doing the right thing,” he says. “You didn’t even give me the chance.”
I exhale slowly.
“I gave you a chance,” I say. “Just not the kind you wanted.”
His jaw tightens.
“So you decided for me,” he says. “You rewrote the board. You put my name on something I never agreed to.”
“I took your name off something that would’ve destroyed you,” I snap—then catch myself, clamping the words down like they’re dangerous.
Too late.
Boone’s eyes darken.
“There it is,” he says. “That’s what you really think.”
I shake my head once. “That’s not—”
“You think I’d follow an immoral order without question,” he says. “That I’d pull the trigger because someone told me to.”
“That’s not what I think,” I insist.
“Then why didn’t you trust me?” he asks.
The question lands between us like a dropped weapon.
I open my mouth.
Close it.
I could tell him.
I could say:
Because I love you.
Because they were watching you.
Because if you’d refused, they would’ve buried you and called it discipline.
But Boone is standing there looking at me like trust just cracked down the center, and I knew something terrible—
Explaining now would sound like justification.
And Boone Grant doesn’t forgive justifications.
So I do the one thing that will end it cleanly.
“I did what I had to do,” I say.
Boone stares at me.
Really stares.
Not like a man who’s angry.
Like a man realizing the ground beneath him isn’t solid anymore.
“You didn’t choose me,” he says quietly.
My chest tightens until it hurts to breathe.
“I chose the outcome,” I replied.
“That’s not the same thing,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s worse.”
The silence that follows is unbearable.
Boone nods once, slow and deliberate, like he’s locking something down inside himself.
“I need to know something,” he says. “Right now. No half-answers.”
I brace myself.
“If the roles were reversed,” he continues, “and you were the one on that order—would you have told me?”
I hesitate.
Just a fraction of a second.
But Boone sees it.
And that’s the end.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s enough.”
“Boone—” I start.
He steps back.
Not dramatically.
Just far enough to put space between us.
“You don’t get to decide who I am,” he says. “And you don’t get to love me like I’m a liability.”
My eyes burn.
“I loved you like you were worth saving,” I whisper.
His expression tightens.
“And I loved you like you believed in me,” he says.
He reaches for his bag.
The sound of the zipper is too loud in the quiet room.
I press a hand to the table to steady myself.
“This wasn’t easy for me,” I say, my voice breaking despite my best effort. “I lost everything doing this.”
Boone pauses at the door.
Looks back once.
“If that’s true,” he says softly, “then why does it feel like I’m the only one standing here bleeding?”
He leaves.
The door closes.
And I Wren McKay stays exactly where I am, staring at the space he occupied, knowing—
I saved his life.
I just lost him.
And some scars don’t come from what you survive—
They come from what you sacrifice.
Anyway, that was years ago.
Dear reader.
Thank you, for your continued support. I really appreciate that you read my books.