Chapter 7
Chapter seven
Candace
The apartment still didn't feel like mine.
Days of unpacking and I'd barely made a dent. Boxes leaned against the walls like cardboard witnesses, each labeled in Emma's neat handwriting.
I wouldn't have done this on my own. Wouldn't have picked the place. Wouldn't have signed the lease.
Damien had.
He'd found it, called it safe, handled the paperwork like it was nothing.
Technically making him my landlord. Which was absurd. Uncomfortable. And still kinder than anything Garrett had ever offered.
One floor below Emma's penthouse, and a world apart.
She had a private elevator that opened into marble. I had apartment 4B and a welcome mat from Target. She had the entire top floor. I had a neighbor who played bass guitar at midnight and a view of the building's HVAC unit.
Same address. Very different lives.
Not that I was complaining. Emma had offered her guest room—insisted on it, actually, with that stubborn set to her jaw that meant she'd already decided.
But Emma needed her own space. Her own life.
A life that increasingly revolved around Damien and late nights at his penthouse and mornings she didn't come home from.
And I had no intention of being the third wheel curled up in the next room while they tried to pretend I couldn't hear everything.
I curled into the new couch—the leather still stiff, not yet molded to anyone's shape—another gift from Damien after I'd refused to buy my own.
Couldn't.
Years of influencer money sat untouched in an account I rarely looked at—because Garrett had always insisted on paying. A man takes care of his woman. I'd thought it was romantic.
Now I recognized it for what it was. Another leash.
The money was gone. Drawn from the account the moment I'd walked out the door.
I was back where I started.
Target welcome mat. Trader Joe's wine.
I hadn't told Emma. Had lied to her about the dentures deal.
And she'd believed me.
I stared at the TV I'd finally managed to hook up. Some reality show blared across the screen: women in sequins screaming at each other over a man who wasn't worth the mascara they were crying off.
Relatable content.
My phone buzzed against the cushion.
I didn't look. I didn't need to.
The buzzing came again. And again.
I reached for the wine instead—a Trader Joe's rosé that tasted like it cost exactly nine dollars—and took a long swallow. The bubbles bit at my tongue.
The phone buzzed a fourth time.
Just look at it. Get it over with.
I grabbed it before I could stop myself.
Garrett: I miss you.
Garrett: I know I messed up. I know I don't deserve another chance.
Garrett: But I'm trying. I started therapy. Real therapy.
Garrett: Please just let me explain.
I stared until the words smudged.
Trying.
Real therapy.
Please.
Garrett didn't say please.
Garrett demanded. Pushed. Twisted things until I couldn't remember what I'd been upset about in the first place.
But this Garrett…
The guy who brought me flowers on random Tuesdays. Who held me every night as I fell asleep. Who said I was the best thing that ever happened to him.
Before the arguments curdled.
Before the jealousy sharpened.
Before the first time he grabbed my arm hard enough that I had to buy concealer two shades darker.
I flipped the phone face-down and pressed my palms to my eyes.
Don't do it. Don't respond. Emma would murder you.
But Emma wasn't here.
Emma was at a hospital, sitting beside a man she hardly knew because that's who she was—loyal.
And me?
I was alone in a crappy apartment, drinking cheap wine, missing someone who hurt me.
Pathetic.
The thought landed like a stone—my own voice this time, not his.
I picked up the phone again.
Candace: I don't know what to say.
Three dots appeared immediately. He'd been waiting.
Garrett: You don't have to say anything. Just let me come over. Let me show you I'm changing.
Garrett: One hour. That's all I'm asking.
Garrett: If you still want nothing to do with me after that, I'll go. I mean it.
I'd heard "I promise" so many times the words barely had shape anymore.
But he'd never offered therapy before.
He'd never admitted he was wrong.
He'd never sounded afraid of losing me.
Maybe—just maybe—this time he meant it.
Before I could stop myself, I typed:
Candace: One hour.
He showed up forty-five minutes later with two brown paper bags from an Indian place we used to love—warm even through the paper—and a bottle of wine that definitely cost more than nine dollars.
"Hey," he said quietly, looking at me like I was something precious.
"Hey." My voice came out small.
I stepped aside, and the second the door shut, my stomach dipped—not dread exactly, but close enough to borrow its shape.
He was here.
In my space.
The space I'd fought to carve out without him.
"Nice place," he said, setting the bags on the counter. He scanned the room, taking everything in—lingering a second too long, like he was memorizing it. "Cozy."
"It's temporary," I said too quickly.
"I like it." He smiled, that familiar crooked-boy charm. "It feels like you."
It's supposed to be free of you.
But the words wedged in my throat.
I dug plates out of a half-open box while he unpacked the food. Butter chicken. Garlic naan. Samosas still hot enough to fog the plastic container.
He remembered everything.
"I didn't realize they still delivered this late," I said, mostly to fill the air.
"I called in a favor." He shrugged lightly. "Told them it mattered."
We sat on the couch because I didn't have a table yet. He didn't complain. Didn't raise an eyebrow at the boxes everywhere or the fact that I was drinking wine out of a mug because I couldn't find the glasses.
He just… talked.
About therapy.
About Dr. Reeves, a sixty-something therapist who, according to him, "doesn't humor bullshit."
About his father. His childhood. Patterns he never learned to break.
"I'm not saying that excuses anything," he added quickly, setting down his fork. "It doesn't. What I did was... wrong. There's no excuse."
I swallowed hard.
This—this accountability—was what I'd begged for.
What I'd waited YEARS to hear.
He was trying.
God help me, he was trying.
So why did I feel like the room was shrinking?
"Garrett…" I began.
"I know." He reached out, fingers brushing mine. My body reacted before my mind—a flash of warmth, followed by the sharp memory of flinching. "You can't trust me yet. I get that. I have to earn it back. But, Candace—" His gaze found mine, raw with vulnerability. "I love you. I never stopped."
I should have pulled away.
I should have told him to leave.
I should have demanded my money back.
But his hand was warm.
And loneliness did strange things to a person.
"You should go," I whispered.
His fingers tightened—only a moment, but my skin lit up with recognition, nerves bracing before pain ever came.
Then he let go.
"Okay," he said softly. "I get it."
He cleaned up the containers. The wine bottle. The napkins. Like he was careful not to leave a trace. Like he wanted to give me back the space he'd borrowed.
At the door, he turned.
"Can I call you?" he asked. "Not right away. Just… when you're ready?"
I should've said no.
I should've said never.
But the loneliest part of me answered instead.
"Maybe. I need time."
He nodded once. "Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."
The door clicked shut.
I stood in the center of my apartment—my new beginning, my escape—and felt none of it.
He had stood on my rug.
Sat on my couch.
Touched my hand.
And now his ghost clung to every corner.
The smell of spice still hung in the air, rich and wrong. Tomorrow's Instagram campaign would hit, and I'd smile for the camera, pretending everything was fine.
A new apartment. A new life.
And I was already letting the past find its way inside.