Chapter 39
You don’t see the lines as you cross them—
the “too lates” are painfully clear.
The silence of the hotel room was unbearable.
For a moment, Leah’s absence had felt like a relief—no more tension pressing between them.
But it didn’t last. Emma pictured her at the event instead, all laughter and bright energy, surrounded by brilliant, charming people who actually knew what they were doing.
Regret burned through her. Why had she even come to Comic-Con? She didn’t belong here. Never should’ve let herself believe she could.
She ordered room service, as if keeping up appearances mattered with no one there to see. When the tray arrived under a polished silver lid, she barely lifted the cover. Fries went limp, the burger cooled, melting ice turned her soda into a watered-down syrup.
The strain across her chest wouldn’t ease. Her ribs felt bound—like a corset laced too tight. She paced the carpet thin, then dropped onto the bed, only to start again. Dark thoughts circled like carrion birds—hovering, threatening, never letting her rest.
Finally, she mustered the courage to check social media.
It was a feeding frenzy. She scrolled through the hashtags, detached, as strangers hurled harsh words at her. Cold. Fake. And worse ones, far worse.
But the more sober comments cut deeper.
Yeah, I don’t care what happened, that’s not a professional way to talk about an industry peer @emmawhitehart
So . . . Darren: pours buckets of love on her in front of a live audience. Emma: dismisses him in public. WTF is wrong with you??#ColehartGate
Can’t believe how cold she came off. Always liked her before. Poor Darren, choose better next time bb #IllComfortYouDarren
A few people still defended her—or at least gave her the benefit of the doubt—but they were drowned out instantly, attacked for even trying.
The verdict was clear. She was being burned at the stake in real time—tied to a hashtag and set on fire.
She kept scrolling, letting wave after wave of hatred crash over her until she barely felt anything at all.
Then her eyes caught a post that sliced through the numbness. One that made her heart lurch.
Guys, new Darren interview, he’s commented!!! Starts at 2:13 in the vid. FYI @emmawhitehart, this is how you keep it classy . . .
She clicked the link, skin prickling feverishly. The smell of ketchup from the sagging burger was making her nauseous, but she didn’t care enough to put the tray away. A video window opened. Emma went utterly still. And then—
Darren.
Just the sight of him made her throat ache. He was wearing the same T-shirt she’d seen him change into before. She knew how it smelled. Clean, warm, him.
He sat alone, plain backdrop, no Darkreach branding. The male host beside him was loud, gesturing wildly. Emma winced at the burst of volume and turned it down. Her eyes stayed locked on Darren, reading every line on his face. He looked composed—too composed.
His beauty hurt, like something she’d lost the right to look at.
Everyone else saw his appearance, his charm, his wit. She’d seen what lay underneath. The way he cared, fast and fierce. His protectiveness. His stubborn need to be his own person, no matter what.
She clicked the timestamp the post had pointed out, jaw tightening.
Straight to the good stuff.
“So Darren, the thing that everybody’s talking about,” the host said on the screen, “that kiss went viral. Was it real? Is there something happening between you and The Bonds of Light author Emma Whitehart?”
She held her breath.
Darren’s face stayed composed. She leaned in, searching for the smallest fracture—any sign that he might be hurting too.
There was nothing.
“Things have gotten blown out of proportion,” he said lightly. “I’d rather not get into that. But Emma is brilliant, and I wish her nothing but the best.”
Something cracked in her at the words, a clean, merciless break. She pressed her hands hard against her chest, as if she could hold the pieces in place. This was worse than cruelty. It was . . . polite. Final. Like whatever they’d had was over far too soon—before it had even begun.
No. Not like this. A few hours ago, they’d had something. Been something. That couldn’t just be gone.
She went back to her messages, staring at her last one. Unanswered, blue, unforgiving.
Can we talk? she typed again, hitting send this time.
Not enough. Too weak. Too careful.
Fingers trembling, she hit call.
The signals rang. Sharp, unrelenting. Part of her prayed he wouldn’t pick up. That would mean she’d done all she could, wouldn’t it? That it was out of her hands and she could pretend to move on, try to forget what this could have . . .
A click on the other end. Her heart leapt, half expecting the voicemail.
“Emma.” Darren sounded tired, worn at the edges. Not angry. Just . . . distant.
Relief tangled with panic in her throat. “Hi. Um. I wasn’t sure you’d answer.” The words came out strained.
“I wasn’t sure I should.”
He sounded halfway gone already. Her pulse roared in her ears.
Fix this. Fix this. Fix this.
“Look, I . . . I didn’t mean what I said before. I was just—” She let out a brittle laugh. “You know. Tired. Overwhelmed. And then that interview—I panicked. I shouldn’t have—”
Darren sighed on the other end. “It’s fine. I’m not mad, Emma. I’m just . . . done trying to prove something I thought you already knew.”
She exhaled. “That’s not fair. I didn’t—”
“I just think we see things quite differently.” His tone cut clean through the line. “Maybe safe is what you want. That’s not me.”
Her lips parted, the truth poised—I don’t care about safe; I want you. But pride and fear strangled the words before they could leave her mouth.
A pause. Long enough for her to feel him slipping away.
“You know what, never mind,” Darren said, finality in his voice. “I have to go. Max is waiting.”
The call ended.
Emma sat stunned on the bed, the phone a dead weight in her palm. Every nerve screamed at the loss she’d carved with her own hands.
The hollow inside her widened, threatening to drag her under.
And she had nothing left to hold on to.