Chapter 3
GRIFFIN
FIVE YEARS AGO
I’m almost home.
And exhausted, having stayed at the office late to finish drawings for a build that W.H.M. is starting tomorrow. It’s our first big project since opening the firm, so I wanted to make sure everything was perfect.
The dashboard glow is the only thing keeping me awake. My phone sits in the cup holder with two unanswered texts to Lila.
On my way. Is everything okay at home?
Want me to bring dinner?
No reply. She’s probably wrangling Sylas into bed; he’s now one and takes gravity as a suggestion. I swing through her favorite spot anyway and order her a double cheeseburger with extra pickles, a large waffle fry and a diet Dr Pepper.
The bag warms the passenger seat, grease staining the paper. I’m picturing her stealing the crispiest fry when our street ahead starts flashing red and blue.
For half a second I tell myself it’s nothing. Anything but what it is.
But there’s an ambulance and cruiser in front of my house.
My heart drops so fast I nearly miss the turn. Tires squeal, and I kill the engine, out before the door slams. A cop on the porch lifts his hand to stop me.
“What happened? Where’s my wife—my son?”
“Are you Mr. Hayes?” he asks calmly, and I nod. “Your wife called 911. She said she felt a seizure coming on, and wasn’t sure she could reach her meds. She put your son in his crib. EMS is with her now.”
I shove past him.
A seizure is not a rare occurrence. We have a plan for this. We always have a plan.
The hallway is chaotic. Paramedics crowd the runner, gloves moving in rhythm, the sound of compressions thudding against the floor. I can’t see Lila’s face, only the top of her head.
“Mr. Hayes, let them work,” the cop says from behind me.
Then Sylas’s cry slices through the noise. High and terrified.
“Let me get my kid,” I rasp.
The nursery glows blue from the rocket night-light. Moon decals climb the wall. Sylas is standing in his crib, cheeks wet, fists tight on the rail. I scoop him up, bury his sobs in my shoulder.
“It’s okay, buddy. Daddy is here.”
From the doorway, I see Lila on the hall rug, hair spread like a halo, skin too pale. The medic at her chest presses down, counting under his breath.
“She has tonic-clonic seizures,” I try telling someone—anyone—in a whisper. “She always comes back. Please, come back.”
“Sir, step back.”
I don’t. I can’t. Time stretches on, and I count compressions, breaths, seconds. I count the dinosaurs on my son’s pajamas because numbers are all I have left.
Then a glance passes between medics.
“We’re sorry, Mr. Hayes.”
The words hit harder than any blow. My knees give out. Sylas cries harder. The world folds inward and goes black.
I jerk awake, gasping.
My sheets are twisted around my legs, damp with sweat. My heart still hammers like I’m mid-sprint, and I press the heel of my hand to my eyes until sparks flash.
Breathe. In four. Out four. Again, until I eventually calm down.
The house is quiet. Down the hall, the same thin blue of the rocket night-light seeps under Sylas’s door.
I look at my left hand. The ring glints in the moonlight filtering through my curtains.
The nightmares used to be worse in the first couple years after Lila passed. Back then, I barely slept at all because the second I closed my eyes, it started over again.
Now, the dreams are far enough apart that I convince myself I’m getting better. But when they hit, the memories tear straight through me like no time has passed at all.
The difference is that I’ve learned to recover faster and pull myself back before the panic fully settles into my bones.
I lie back against the mattress, staring at the ceiling while my chest slowly loosens, waiting for my body to catch up to the fact that I’m awake, that I’m home, that Sylas is safe down the hall.
Waiting for morning to drag me the rest of the way out of the past.
I usually keep my office door open, but today it’s closed. I can’t face having small talk with anyone.
I still haven’t shaken the nightmare from last night. It’s stuck under my skin like static. I keep telling myself it was just a dream, but my body hasn’t gotten the memo. My chest still feels tight. My hands still shake when I’m not paying attention.
I’m halfway through a stack of submittals for fire suppression when knuckles tap the frame.
I look up and wave Mya in.
“Hey, boss.” She walks in, a folder hugged to her chest. “Do you have two minutes?”
“Always. Sit.”
Mya is the newest junior designer at the firm.
She’s also the bane of Worth’s existence, even though he claims not to care about her.
Sure. He’s been different since she started, in a way I haven’t seen in years.
He even went above me to approve her concept set last week.
I didn’t take offense—good work is good work—but it read loud: the man is more affected by her than he’s letting on.
Worth might never come clean about whatever the woman does to him, but I’m not complaining that Mya is on my team. She’s talented as hell, and the work proves it.
She drops into the chair across from me and fans out drawings. “Mr. Miller asked me to check the status on the curtain wall specs. The vendor wants confirmation on the thermal break detail before they cut anything.”
“Already reviewed.” I pull a redlined sheet from my stack and slide it over. “Your solution on the corner return is clean. I ran it by structural—we got the green light.”
A smile breaks out on her face. “You just saved me an email volley. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. Procurement is a nightmare this quarter. We may need an alternate glazing if lead times slip.”
Mya nods, pen already moving. “I’ll price a plan B. By the way,” she adds, eyes flicking up, “are you sleeping at all? You don’t look great…” She winces. “That came out wrong. You just look like you’ve been dealing with stuff.”
“That’s the nicest way anyone’s called me tired.” I rub a thumb along my jaw. “I’m fine.”
“You don’t have to be, you know?”
I glance back at her. Despite her being one of my employees, Mya and I have quickly become friends in the little time that she’s been at W.H.M. She’s a good person. Beautiful and sweet in a way that should affect me if I were wired the way Worth is about her. But I’m not. She’s not my type.
Which is ironic because the woman I keep watching isn’t my type either. Too young for me to even be thinking about. Probably the same age range as Mya, give or take.
“Earth to Griffin?” Mya waves a pen in front of my face.
“Sorry.” I smile smoothly, tapping my desk. “I’ll loop procurement into a call at two. You free?”
“Yup.” She gathers her pages, then pauses. “Seriously, though. You’re good, right?”
“I’m good.” It comes out steady enough.
“Okay.” Mya backs toward the door with a bright smile. “Thanks, Griff.”
When she’s gone, I flip the sheet over and pretend to care about numbers for a full thirty seconds before my head goes back to someone I don’t have any business lusting over.
Young. Not my type. Not supposed to be, anyway.
The thought crawls right into the same hollow space the nightmare left behind. Five years, and grief still shows up like an uninvited guest. Some mornings it’s a dull bruise. Other days, like today, the wound feels fresh again.
I pinch the bridge of my nose until the emotion passes, until the ache in my chest eases enough for me to pretend I’m fine.
My thumb drifts to the ring on my left hand, tracing the groove where the engraving has started to fade.
It used to bring comfort—now, it just reminds me of how guilt and want can feel almost identical when you’ve lost too much.
I close my eyes, exhale slowly, and tell myself to get over it, knowing damn well I won’t.