Chapter 3
* * *
Sarah’s kindness waited beside my inbox the next morning. A steaming coffee. A cheese Danish, its sweetness curling through the air.
An apology she didn’t owe me.
Each bite sat heavy. Sugar clung to my tongue, thick and lingering, the way guilt always did. The skirt dug into my waist, and with it came the memory—
Kitchen light too bright.
My mother’s hand smoothing fabric over my stomach.
My father saying nothing.
You’d be so beautiful if you just tried a little harder.
The words still lived under my skin, unwelcome and familiar, tangled with the rest. I chased the sting with coffee, letting the bitterness shoulder the blame.
The intercom crackled. “Ms. Sinclair, Kevin and the others would like to meet in the conference room in ten minutes. You’re clear until noon.”
I glanced at the unopened briefcase. “Have them come here instead. I don’t have the energy to relocate today.”
“Of course, Ms. Sinclair.”
Jennifer arrived first—polished as always, though the shine had dulled at the edges. David followed, rolling up his sleeves as he dragged the velvet chair from the corner closer to my desk without asking. Kevin came last, balancing an untouched cup of coffee like a peace offering.
“Thanks for meeting here,” I said. “I needed something less formal this morning.”
“No problem,” Jennifer replied as she settled in, clipped but gentle. “I’ve already filled them in.”
My face fell. “So you all know.”
“Every detail,” David said. His voice carried an uncharacteristic tenderness.
Kevin loosened his tie. “Davidson’s a damn ass.”
Understatement of the year. His laugh still echoed in my head—mean, lingering.
“How’s everyone holding up?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” Jennifer said, then sighed. “Just juggling too much. As usual.”
David leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I won’t lie—I’m exhausted. And I had to tell Rebecca last night we’re canceling the Hawaii trip.” He shot Kevin a wry look, a flicker of shared misery cutting through the fatigue. “You can imagine how that went.”
Kevin’s chuckle was low, scraped raw by lack of sleep. “I’d trade you both. The twins have decided nighttime is optional. If I make it through this week, it’ll be out of spite.”
David’s expression softened. “Be grateful for this age. One minute they’re yelling for help finding the bathroom at two a.m., and the next they won’t answer your texts unless you bribe them.”
Kevin grinned. Even Jennifer’s composure cracked—a surprised laugh slipping out, brief and bright, like sunlight through blinds.
We took the panic apart. Piece by piece. Pulled it loose, examined the fractures, and wound what remained back into a plan. We pressed at weak points until only the essential pieces held. The click of markers and the rustle of paper layered into a rhythm that almost passed for control.
By the time the meeting broke, sunlight had shifted across the carpet. Something lighter hovered in the room—tentative, fragile.
Hope, maybe.
Or maybe I’d just let them walk out carrying it for me.
* * *
Hours later, the office had emptied into stillness.
Calyx—our Hail Mary—had soft-confirmed the bridge financing. One brick on a wall that still shook. Enough to make payroll. Enough to keep the lights on.
For now.
My phone buzzed on the desk.
Candace.
“Em…” Her voice was raw. “He did it again.”
The room narrowed. Sound fell away, leaving only the rush of blood in my ears.
Not again. I knew that tone. Those words.
“What happened?”
“I found messages. Pictures.” She drew a breath that broke halfway through. “Three women. Maybe more. I wasn’t even looking—my phone died, I used his to order food and they were just… there.”
My hand pressed flat against my chest.
“Oh, Candace. I’m so sorry.”
“I’m such an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot.” I tucked the phone between my ear and shoulder, shutting down my computer, grabbing my purse and keys. The lights died behind me as I moved. “You’re not.”
“Do you think he’s… sick?” Her voice barely carried the word.
I stopped.
Neither of us spoke.
The empty floor stretched ahead—dark offices, abandoned desks, silence thick enough to feel deliberate. My employees had lives waiting for them. Families. Dinners eaten at tables instead of standing over sinks. I didn’t begrudge them that.
Most nights.
“I don’t know what to do,” Candace said. Her voice wavered.
“Nothing tonight,” I said. “Just breathe.”
“I can’t stay here. Everything smells like him.”
“Pack a bag and stay with me tonight. I’m sending a car.”
A pause. Then, softer: “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Minutes later, the back seat of Harold’s car closed around me.
Traffic crawled. Horns argued. Red lights smeared across the windshield.
Somewhere ahead, a siren wailed.
The familiar chorus pressed in, relentless. No amount of pressure against my temples quieted it.
When my building finally rose out of the tangle of streetlights, my hand was already on the door handle.
“Ms. Sinclair—” the doorman began.
“I’ve got it,” I said, already moving.
The elevator button absorbed my impatience, stabbed again and again as if urgency could coax the machinery faster. A faint ding. The cab arrived, carrying the faint scent of lemon cleaner and old perfume.
My reflection stared back from the metal doors—drawn, tired, walking toward someone else’s crisis on legs that felt strangely light.
The doors opened to my floor.
I stepped into the hush of my apartment as the lights flicked on, shadows retreating on cue. My hands moved on instinct—couch straightened, pillows aligned, surfaces cleared.
In the kitchen, the oven clicked to life. The scent of last night’s parmesan-crusted tilapia lingered faintly in the air. I lined the tray with chocolate-chip cookie dough—our ritual—each rounded mound placed with care.
A quiet promise of comfort.
When the elevator opened again, the air shifted.
Candace stood in the doorway—overnight bag slipping from her shoulder, hoodie twisted, mascara streaked. Her expression had gone flat, the way it always did when the shock finally settled.
I opened my arms.
She collapsed into me, sobbing hard enough to knock the breath from both of us. Grief tore out of her in uneven pieces, sharp and uncontained. I held on, letting the force of it move through us instead of fighting it.
Her tears soaked through silk, darkening my blouse. The scent of her shampoo curled through the air, threading itself into the fading smell of the city still clinging to my clothes.
How many times had we stood here like this?
I didn’t need to count. The memories pressed in anyway—Miami. The crypto disaster. The dress. Each moment blurring into the next, each promise she’d made herself dissolving under the weight of her breaking.
Every time, she’d sworn it would be the last.
Every time, she’d been wrong.
You can’t protect her. You never could.
You just tape the cracks and call it a fix.
The words lodged between my ribs, finding every bruise I pretended had healed.
Outside, the city kept grinding forward—distant traffic, a siren, the steady murmur of a world that didn’t pause for anyone’s breaking. Inside, everything narrowed to the circle of my arms around her, to the uneven pull of her breath against my shoulder.
Eventually, she said, “I want cookies.”
Her voice barely lifted above the quiet.
I eased back enough to see her face—blotchy, streaked, eyes rimmed red. “The oven’s already preheating.”
“Thanks.” The corner of her mouth twitched, fragile but real, before she pulled free and sank into the couch.
The oven timer chimed—too loud, too cheerful in the stillness. I slid the tray inside, heat blooming against my face. Sugar and butter filled the air, sweet and rich.
When I returned, Candace lay cocooned in the throw blanket, only the top half of her face visible above it. She reached for the remote without a word, scrolling until she landed on the only movie she ever chose on nights like this.
Twilight.
Of course.
Something tugged at my lips as the opening credits rolled, blue glow spilling across the walls.
“God, this movie is bad,” Candace said into the blanket, burrowing deeper. “Or amazing. I can’t tell which.”
“Come on,” I said. “Peak teenage angst. You can’t hate that.”
A sound slipped out of her—half laugh, half groan, as she burrowed deeper.
On-screen, Jacob appeared, all awkward limbs and unrequited love.
When the timer chimed, I ducked into the kitchen to pull the cookies from the oven, sugary warmth washing over me as I plated a dozen.
Candace stayed fixed on the screen, her hand finding a cookie without looking.
She tore it open; melted chocolate stretched between the halves before she took a bite.
“This sucks,” she managed around the mouthful, crumbs clinging to her lip.
“Is there anything I can do to make it better?”
She didn’t answer right away. Chocolate smeared her fingertips, and she licked it off absently while Bella made the same terrible choice she always did.
I would never understand it. Jacob was solid.
Real. Edward watched her sleep with the kind of intensity that should’ve required a restraining order.
After a long pause, Candace spoke through another bite. “You know what would make me feel better?”
I raised a brow, grateful for even the faintest flicker of mischief in her tone. “More sugar?”
“No.” She chewed, thinking. “Something… productive.” Her gaze slid to me, glinting now. “A project.”
“Oh no.” Half laugh, half dread.
“Making you a dating profile,” she said, too lightly. Too fast.
The idea landed like cold water. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Yes.” She reached for my phone. “That’s exactly what we’re doing.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why not?” She gestured at herself—puffy eyes, smeared mascara, devastation barely contained. “Look at me. My boyfriend is an undiagnosed narcissist and he made me sad. You kind of have to.”
“Candace.” A warning, softened by affection.
“Emma.” This time my name carried more plea than tease. “Please. Humor me.” Her words wobbled at the edges.
Guilt seeped in, slow and heavy. “Fine.” I sighed, tossing her my phone.
“You won’t have to do anything,” she said, fingers already flying. “I’ll handle it. I’ll only ask you questions when I’m missing details.”
“I really don’t want to do this.” My shoulders crept toward my ears.
“It’s too late,” she said, tapping decisively across the screen.
“Too late?” I stared at her. “How—”
“What’s your favorite hobby?” she cut in, all efficiency now.
I grabbed another cookie, pretending to sulk. “Working.”
She gave me a flat look. “I’m putting adventures.”
A crumb caught wrong and sent me coughing, vision blurring. “Adventures?”
“Yeah. It makes you sound exciting.”
“Then they’ll want to take me places.” The whine slipped out before I could stop it. “And do things.”
“That’s the point,” she said, brightness cracking through.
So I let her keep going. Question after question.
Favorite music. Favorite book. Deal-breakers.
Ideal first date. Dodging where I could, joking where I shouldn’t, giving in whenever her voice faltered.
It wasn’t about accuracy; the profile was never leaving the sandbox in my mind.
Just a small way of helping her patch herself back together.
An hour later, Candace dropped the phone into her lap, flexing her fingers. “All that’s left is photos.”
My stomach dropped. “Absolutely not.”
She stared at me. “You have to put at least one, or no one will match with you.”
“Perfect,” I said.
“Emma.” She dragged my name out. “Come on. You look gorgeous in half of these.”
“Half?”
She grinned, tilting the screen toward me. “What about this one?”
The photo was from last summer—her in a coral bikini, all sun and sparkle; me beside her in black.
The memory surfaced—warm sand, the rare weightlessness of that afternoon. But the photo only captured a smile that stopped at my mouth and a collection of chins the camera insisted on preserving.
Ugly.
Fat.
Disgusting.
“I’d rather die.” A brittle smile stepped in to cover the flinch.
Her brow furrowed. “Why? You look incredible.”
“It’s too much,” I said, the deflection thinning.
“I’m doing it anyway.”
“I’ll stab you in your sleep if you put that photo online,” I shot back, only half joking.
“Nice,” she said. “Waiting until I’m asleep. You really must feel bad for me.”
We cracked then—laughter breaking loose, raw and unguarded, spilling out in a way that felt more honest than anything else that night.
“Fine. What about this one?” She swiped. A close-up—collarbone up. Flattering. Still too exposed.
“I don’t want my face out there,” I said. “Not on a dating site.” A pause. The knot formed low and unwelcome. “What if someone from work sees it? That would get… messy.”
Candace rolled her eyes. “Fine.” Her thumbs flew in practiced flicks. “How about now?”
She turned the phone toward me again.
Same photo. Different version.
“I went for an artsy vibe,” she said. “It fits your personality. Plus, it makes you mysterious.” She winked.
My mouth betrayed me. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” she said lightly, “you love me.”
When she held up the finished profile—a version of me I barely recognized—I didn’t know whether to laugh or hide. The woman on the screen looked gentler. Softer. Less braced for impact. I tried to imagine how someone like that moved through a world like mine.
Then I saw the name.
“Don’t worry.” She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t use your actual one. Just E. I know better.”
A stiff curve tugged at my mouth, loosening the knot a fraction as she handed my phone back.
“There,” she said. “You’re officially in the wild.”
I groaned and buried my face in a pillow. “I already hate this.”
She curled back into the throw. “You’ll thank me when you meet someone wonderful.”
“When he turns out to be a serial killer, I’m haunting you.”
Her reply dissolved into a yawn. “Worth it.”
Something in her eased after that. Not fixed—just loosening. A spark edging back into place, joke by joke, threat by threat.
Eventually, stillness settled over the apartment, drifting into sleep along with her. I stayed where I was, the room dim and quiet, watching the faint glow of her phone spill across the coffee table.
My reflection wavered there—blurred, anonymous.
Already asking to be erased.