Chapter 27
TWO SIDES, SAME PAIN
Some need healing, some need vengeance
Della
“That takes immense courage, Della.” Dr. Davis’s voice is calm, a steady anchor through the phone. “Choosing the pain of separation over the comfort of Dorian’s protection is a huge step toward claiming your own power. Are you allowing yourself to feel the grief of that hard decision?”
I squeeze my eyes shut, my free hand gripping the armrest of the wicker chair I’m sitting in.
“I am. Grief and guilt, all together.” My voice comes out thick, betraying the tears I’m holding back. “It’s… hard. I don’t think I’ve ever cried this much… only because the night has the color of his eyes and the pillow still smells like him. Or when the phone buzzes.”
“What are your feelings regarding his messages?” She asks gently.
“At first, I felt pushed, pressured. The flowers, the chocolate, the everyday poems felt like ‘Come back sooner. I can’t wait anymore’. But now,” I pause. “I understand. It's not a demand. It's a promise. His way of keeping hope and saying ‘I'm here. I will wait.’ “
I swallow, the resolve hardening in my chest.
“But I have to hold the line."
"You're holding the line beautifully," Dr. Davis affirms. "That's the difference between this time and five years ago. You aren't running from fear; not hiding. You’re moving toward yourself—uncovering every feeling. And this is great, Della. Now, tell me. What's the immediate goal for this week?"
"To get through a day without checking his last text,” I say, the confession feeling small but heavy. “And... to go on that trip with Silvia. To actually be there and enjoy it.”
"That's an excellent goal. We start small, Della. We start with distance and self-focus, and we rebuild the foundation, brick by safe brick. Enjoy your travel, and we'll talk next week."
I end the call and slip the phone onto the small table, finally letting out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for an hour.
I’m sitting on Silvia’s porch, infusing with sun rays and listening to the ocean waves.
My body still aches in some places—a constellation of bruises from Leah’s men, the sharp sting of the cut on my arm, and… the hollow place where I used to feel the warm ruby.
Dorian left. Five days ago. I stayed.
The screen door slides open, and Silvia steps out with her hair in a messy top-knot and holding one cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice. She hands me the juice and flops into the wicker chair opposite.
"Okay," she says, her voice bright with a manufactured energy I've come to recognize. She's been a fortress of strength for me, but I've seen the circles under her eyes. She needs this break as much as I do.
"Okay, what?" I ask, taking a sip from the juice.
"Okay, I did it," she says, a slow, real smile spreading across her face. "I just got off the phone with my supervisor. I cashed in every vacation day, every sick day, and, yeah, I may have faked a small, very convincing sob, for effect. I’m on leave. We both are."
"Silvia, you didn't have to—"
"Shut up. I wanted to," she says, waving her hand. "And... I booked the flights."
I blink, faking surprise.
"You are fast, Chiquita. Where?"
"Bozeman, Montana," she says, her eyes glittering with excitement. "We fly out tomorrow morning. I've got the whole itinerary: Yellowstone, Salt Lake City, Arches National Park, Grand Canyon, and... Vegas, baby."
We both start laughing.
The trip. We are finally taking the trip we’ve been talking about since college, the "someday" adventure we always planned. It's the first thing in five days that has cut through the gray, mental fog. A spark of genuine, uncomplicated joy.
"Silvia, thank you... " I whisper, my eyes filling with tears.
"Ah, no. None of that," she says, though her own eyes are watery. "This is a 'Healing Girl Trip.' We are going to feel the sun, breathe air that doesn't smell like a city, and yell at geysers. It's going to be great."
Right then, as if the Universe is in on it, my phone buzzes on the table beside me.
A message from Dorian. A soft smile comes to my lips as I open it to read a new poem.
You smell of midnight
And starlight’s shine,
You taste like petals in the wind
And raindrops in spring.
You feel like fire born
And a thousand colors dawn.
Under the poem, another link to the Spotify list intitled “I will forever love you”. The first song he sent the first day is our song, “Desnudo”.
Every day a new poem and a new song.
Today it’s “Written in my heart”. I pull the phone closer to my chest. I’m not ready for him, but this... this steady, non-intrusive devotion is a balm I didn't know I needed.
Just as I'm about to read the poem to Silvia, a delivery van pulls up.
Silvia quirks an eyebrow.
"Another one? What is it today? More chocolate? That man is… sweet." Her smile is a little teasing, a little awed.
Flowers have arrived every morning, and the kitchen counter is overflowing with Hershey's Kisses and exotic pralines.
But this... this is different.
The driver brings a small, beautiful box from a high-end jewelry store.
"What specialty chocolate is it today?" Silvia asks, leaning forward as I sign for it.
My hands are trembling as I take the box back to the table.
"I don't think it's chocolate."
I lift the lid.
Inside, nestled on black velvet, a delicate, gold chain with a single, perfect, teardrop-shaped stone. A small, luminous turquoise teal sapphire, the exact color of the Pacific Ocean in the morning light. The color of the waves that had taken our past.
I blink, spotting a small, folded slip of paper. I carefully unfold it and see Dorian's perfect, masculine script.
“They say this sapphire holds the heart of a calm sea. Let it be your anchor. May it grant you the clarity to judge the past, the balance to walk your own edge, and the unshakeable peace that makes you whole again. I’ll wait for the woman you are becoming. I’ll wait for you, my love.”
I'm speechless. He replaced the stone of our pain with a symbol of our healing.
Silvia just whistles, low and long. "Della... That’s... wow."
I lift the necklace from the box. It’s cool against my skin.
This isn't just a gift.
It's understanding.
* * *
Dorian
The Chicago skyline is a row of steel teeth against a bruised purple sky, but I don't see it. I barely see anything that isn't the ghost of her face.
Leaving her on that beach was the hardest surrender of my life. The distance was supposed to help with the pain but it doesn’t.
I need to work and exhaust myself so I don’t think of Della, of this emptiness I feel since I left her.
My office is dark, the only light coming from the glowing screen of David's laptop. I’ve been driving David to the brink of collapse, demanding constant updates, constant movement.
The only peace I find is in control, and the only thing I can control right now is the destruction of our enemy.
"He's tangled in deep," David says, his voice a low, dispassionate rumble. "He's in debt—gambling, mostly. Now he's running product to try and pay it off. He's sloppy."
He clicks, and a grainy surveillance photo fills the screen. Andy.
My vision narrows. The man who killed our baby, our dreams and almost killed Della.
The source of the original wound. I can feel that cold, clean, inhuman rage I experienced in the warehouse bubbling beneath my skin.
"Where is he?" My voice is flat.
"That's the problem." David closes the laptop, turning to face me in the dark. "We can't just touch him, Dorian. He's under Morozov's protection, I told you. We go in loud; we start a war with the Bear. That's a war we don't win."
"I don't care," I cut him off, the ice in my voice cracking to show the fire beneath. "I don't care if he's with the goddamn lord of the lords, mafia king. I want him in a hole by the end of the week. I'll do it myself."
David sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He's not just my security; he's the only man alive who can talk me down.
"And then what, Dorian? You kill Andy, you start a war, and you spend the rest of your life in jail or looking over your shoulder? Is that the future you're offering Della? Is that what she gets to come back to?"
His words are a bucket of ice water. Della. He's right, and I hate him for it.
I sink back into my chair, the feral rage simmering down to a low, lethal burn.
"Then what? We let him walk?"
"No," David says, a tactical gleam in his eye. "We don't let him walk. We let Morozov take him out for us. We just... make a request first."
I look at him, listening.
"He's reckless and desperate," David continues. "My gut says he's stealing from them. I'm 99% sure. I just need time to get that undeniable proof. He's gone to ground for now, but he'll be back soon, looking for a score."
"And when you have the proof?" I ask.
"We set up a meeting. Not with Morozov, but with his right hand. We present the evidence as a... professional courtesy. We show them how Andy is a liability and a rat who's about to bring our kind of attention to their operation. And then we make a simple, reasonable request."
I'm following now, the cold logic seeping in. "The request."
"We tell them, 'Our associate has a personal, pre-existing grievance with this man. Before you dispose of your trash, we request one hour of his time. For the favor, and for the evidence, we'll even deliver him to you.'"
It's clean. It's smart. But it's missing one thing.
"One condition," I say. "When we have him—I want him to know it's me. I want him to know why this is happening. And when the Russians show up to finish it... I want him to know I sent them. He doesn't just get to die. He gets to die knowing I was the one who arranged it all."
A grim smile touches David's lips. "That can be arranged."
"Good." My mood shifts, the rage replaced by cold, hard purpose. "You have two weeks to get the proof." I hold out my hand. "Now, the other matter."
"The report." He gives me the single folded sheet of paper. The daily report from the security detail I hired to watch over Della. She is not to be approached. She is not to be engaged. Just keep her safe. At all costs. And report daily.
I scan the lines.
"10:00: Subject on porch with friend.
10:17: Subject received delivery, signed for."
My eyes find the only detail that matters. "Subject appears calm. No signs of distress. No unknown contacts."
I fold the paper. She's safe. For now.
As if her thoughts heard mine, my phone buzzes on the desk. It's her. My heart kicks against my ribs as I read the message.
Thank you for the ocean drop. It's beautiful.
‘Ocean drop’.
She named it. She understood and she accepted it.
The necklace was an apology, a promise to rebuild. A way to tell her I support her journey and that I would spend the rest of my life making up for the pain I caused.
Her naming it—her acknowledging the symbol of emotional healing, and self-empowerment —is the first true sign of hope I’ve received since I left her on that beach, forcing myself to respect the boundary she needed to set.
Another message appears and I read it with a catching breath.
I'm going on a trip with Silvia. To Yellowstone. We leave tomorrow. I’ll be safe.
She told me although she didn't have to. She's not asking for permission but she's including me.
A small, desperate light sparks to life inside me. A warm feeling is surrounding my heart. For the first time in days, something inside me unclenches. She’s letting me stay in her orbit.
And I swear to God—I will tear down every monster hiding in the dark before I let anything touch her again.
The rage returns, but not the kind that burns recklessly. I have a clear purpose and a good plan now. Andy will be dealt with and Leah will rot in jail.
Every threat to Della’s safety will be erased.
I will clear the path of every shadow that ever dared reach for her.