Chapter 31
Ava
Bang-bang-bang.
I wake with a start, dazed and disoriented for one blissful second before remembering exactly where I am.
Alone.
In an apartment that suddenly feels hollow.
Because apparently heartbreak turns me into a Victorian widow dramatically wasting away beside the sea.
Waves crash outside the open balcony doors while I lie cocooned beneath two blankets on the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling and trying very hard not to think about Harrison.
Or the kids.
Bang-bang-bang again.
What the hell?
I untangle myself from the blankets and stumble toward the door.
I have no idea what I look like, and honestly, I don’t care.
Even though…
It could be Harrison.
My pulse trips as I yank open the door.
Instead, it’s a courier.
“Delivery for Viviana…” He glances down at the clipboard. “Storm?”
Right.
Storm.
Because apparently every actress in Hollywood eventually chooses a fake last name that sounds like she either fights crime or seduces Batman.
I used to think it sounded powerful.
Now it just feels stupid.
“That’s me,” I croak.
He hands over a thick overnight envelope before disappearing down the hallway.
I shut the door and stare at it for a long moment.
Then rip it open.
My passport slides into my lap.
Brand new.
Expedited.
Right.
The studio rushed it through because this is my first trip overseas.
Iceland.
Scotland.
Mindlessly, I flip through the empty pages.
How many countries will it take before this stops hurting?
How many adventures am I going to survive alone?
A horrible sound tears out of me before I can stop it.
Fresh tears spill instantly as I curl forward on the couch, crushing the brand-new passport against my chest.
This is happening.
This is actually happening.
The role of a lifetime.
The end.
For the next hour, I drift somewhere between devastated and numb.
Too sad to eat.
Too obliterated to sleep.
Another knock pounds against the door.
A watery laugh escapes me through my tears.
“What now?” I mutter to the empty room. “Unless somebody’s delivering a case of tequila, I’m not interested.”
I throw a pillow over my head.
The knocks come again. Louder this time.
Something inside me finally breaks hard enough to crack through the numbness.
Rage rushes in to fill the space.
Finally, an emotion I can work with.
I march to the door and rip it open. “What?”
And stop breathing.
“Harrison.”
Exhausted and windblown, he’s still in yesterday’s clothes.
For one horrible second, I think he’s here to win me back.
Until his massive hand slides my suitcase into view.
My eyes immediately burn all over again.
I stand there hugging my own arms while he stares at me like he doesn’t know whether to touch me or fall apart.
Well, buddy… Same.
He comes in without waiting for an invitation, and I’m too wrecked to stop him.
His gaze drops to the passport sitting on the couch cushion beside me.
Something in his face splinters.
“Pix…”
That almost undoes me completely.
Silence.
Painful silence.
Like he doesn’t know what to say, and neither do I.
And suddenly Harrison is in front of me.
Huge hands brush my shoulders.
Both of us breathing, strained.
“You’re freezing,” he murmurs automatically.
“I’m fine,” I whisper, detached.
He takes my face in his hands and dusts his thumbs across my cheeks, wiping fresh tears.
The kiss happens quietly.
No heat.
No frenzy.
Just a slow burn that builds me back up.
A sob tears out of me as I grab fistfuls of his shirt.
And Harrison holds me like he’s trying to keep me from coming apart in his arms.
Maybe himself too.
We become a string of salt tears and shaking breaths.
Like if I love him hard enough, maybe…
He hesitates, then leads me to the bedroom.
Slowly, he undresses me.
And I undress him.
It’s a rhythm we know by heart.
I want to scream at him.
Tell him it’s all or nothing, and if he can’t love me the way I deserve, then get the fuck out.
But neither of us speaks.
Two people standing on a tightrope, praying the wind doesn’t pick up.
So much love.
So much pain.
He breaks the kiss long enough to undo my shirt.
His hands pause when he realizes I’m wearing his shirt.
A familiar gray flannel I smuggled home from New York like a lovesick criminal.
I’m bare beneath it.
He cups my breasts, his thumbs feathering lightly over my nipples.
I push his shirt from his shoulders, undo his jeans, slide down his boxers. I stroke the hard, heavy length of him.
The grief between us stretches endlessly.
So does the love.
Being pried apart by an impossible ocean already rising between us.
He eases me back onto the bed, lifting one of my legs over his shoulder as he worships me with slow kisses and shaky breaths.
All it takes is the roughness of his stubble against my ankle, and my body betrays me.
She doesn’t care that I’m a mess over him.
She’s too busy remembering exactly how good he feels.
He takes me gently at first.
Deep enough to unravel me piece by piece.
Slow enough to feel everything.
Then working to a hard, brutal pace.
Possession.
Or maybe the opposite of possession.
Like two people clinging to each other while the world shreds them apart.
My nails dig into his shoulders as emotion crashes through me too big and painful to contain.
Is he fucking me into next week?
Or fucking me out of his system.
No.
He can’t.
I won’t let him.
He rolls to his back, and we go hard. Broken sounds and desperate breaths.
His fingers tighten against my hips.
Our bodies fit together so perfectly. And I know no one will ever feel this good.
His hands roam my skin slowly, reverently, memorizing every curve.
Our eyes lock as the intensity between us builds and builds, our bodies moving as instinct takes over completely.
“I can’t hold back,” he says roughly, and something inside me heals hearing it.
He’s right here with me. Mine.
“Yes, Harrison. Yes.”
He comes in a rush and cries out, “Ava!”
And suddenly I know.
The sound shatters something inside me.
Ava.
Not Pix.
Like he already knows this ends with goodbye.
An hour later, Harrison finally shifts beside me.
Not because he wants to.
I can feel that much.
But because his phone won’t stop buzzing on the nightstand.
His arm tightens around my waist one last time before he reaches for it.
The screen lights instantly.
Connor.
Harrison locks up beside me.
Then answers quietly, “Hey, buddy.”
Connor’s voice crackles through the speaker loud enough that I hear every word.
“Did you find her?”
Harrison exhales slowly beside me. Like even that question hurts.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I found her.”
A pause.
“Did you talk to her? She’s not answering my calls.”
Wait—what?
Shit.
I shut my phone off.
“I’m worried, Dad.”
Harrison glances toward me in the darkness. Then rolls away and presses the phone to his ear.
“No,” he says quietly. “I haven’t talked to her.”
My stomach drops.
He’s already cutting me out.
Of all of their lives.
Harrison suddenly climbs out of bed, pinning the phone between his shoulder and ear as he drags on his jeans fast enough you’d think the building was on fire.
“But I tracked her to her house. She’s okay. You don’t need to worry anymore. Go back to sleep. I’ll be there soon.”
“How do you know she’s okay if you haven’t talked to her?”
Connor’s voice cracks slightly on the last word.
Panic flashes across Harrison’s face so fast I almost miss it.
And suddenly every protective instinct in him shifts straight to Connor.
“Because I do.” His tone sharpens instantly. “Connor—”
“You promised we’d work it out. You didn’t even try.”
Harrison closes his eyes briefly.
But the damage is already done.
“I know.”
A long silence.
Then, Connor’s voice sharpens around the hurt. “Why did you have to ruin it?”
Harrison’s expression cracks with regret.
And then Connor says the thing that rips whatever’s left of my heart straight out of my chest.
“I’m old enough, Dad. If she’s leaving anyway, then stop pretending she’s not. Now… she won’t even talk to us.”
I stop breathing.
Not because I’m sad.
Or hurt.
Because I’m panicked.
Harrison’s face crumples for one horrible second before he turns away from me completely.
Like he’s already decided what’s best for the kids.
And suddenly… it’s not me.
Well, I’ve had it.
“Give me the phone.”
“No,” he shoots back in a harsh whisper. “They can’t go through this again.”
He races out of the room.
I follow hot on his heels, outrage hitting full force.
“Give me the phone,” I demand.
But he’s already halfway out the door while I’m standing there completely naked.
“I’m on my way,” I hear him say before the call abruptly disconnects.
For a moment, he hesitates.
With a slow turn and for one terrible lingering second, he just looks at me.
Then he walks away.
The man I accidentally fell hopelessly in love with just left.
And took his family with him.
Honestly, it probably would’ve hurt less if he’d run me over with a Mack truck, then backed up to finish the job.
I stare at the door long after he’s gone.
Waiting for him to come back.
Even after I already know he won’t.