Chapter 15 Shattered Hearts
The Final Draft
I didn't remember the drive home.
Later, I would recall pieces of it.
Red traffic lights.
Rain beginning to fall.
The sound of tires against wet pavement.
But the journey itself existed behind a thick wall of numbness.
Because my mind remained trapped inside Kane Customs.
Inside that office.
Inside the moment Jaxon told me to leave.
Every word replayed endlessly.
This was a mistake.
I should've ended this weeks ago.
You need to grow up.
The sentences echoed through my head like broken glass.
Sharp.
Relentless.
Impossible to escape.
By the time I reached my parents' house, darkness had fallen completely.
The estate looked exactly as it always had.
Perfect.
Orderly.
Cold.
Home no longer felt like home.
Not after finding something better.
The realization hurt more than I expected.
I parked the car.
Sat motionless behind the wheel.
Staring at the illuminated windows.
Somewhere inside, my father was probably reviewing campaign schedules.
Making phone calls.
Planning speeches.
Living his life.
Meanwhile, mine felt like it had ended.
The thought sounded dramatic.
Pathetic, even.
Yet I couldn't stop feeling it.
Because losing Jaxon wasn't like losing a relationship.
It felt like losing part of myself.
Eventually, I forced myself out of the car.
The house remained quiet.
Most of the staff had gone home.
My mother was attending a charity event.
My father was still working.
For once, the emptiness felt like a blessing.
I climbed the stairs to my room.
Closed the door.
Locked it.
Then stood in the center of the room staring at nothing.
The silence pressed in from every direction.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
I thought about crying.
Nothing happened.
I thought about screaming.
Nothing happened.
I thought about calling Jaxon.
That hurt too much.
So I sat at my desk instead.
Opened my laptop.
And stared at the unfinished manuscript waiting on the screen.
The Rider's Muse.
My novel.
The story that had started as fantasy.
Then slowly transformed into something real.
A story about a biker who saved a lost young man during a storm.
A story about healing.
About love.
About finding home in another person.
A story that suddenly felt impossible to finish.
I looked at the blinking cursor.
The half-written chapter.
The unfinished ending.
For several minutes, I simply stared.
Then I began typing.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I didn't know what else to do.
The words came slowly at first.
Painfully.
Every sentence felt dragged from somewhere deep inside me.
The fictional version of my biker stood alone in a garage.
Heartbroken.
Convinced he wasn't good enough.
Convinced he would ruin the person he loved.
The fictional version of my protagonist sat alone trying to understand why love sometimes hurt more than loneliness ever had.
The similarities no longer felt accidental.
They felt unavoidable.
Because every emotion pouring onto the page belonged to me.
Every wound.
Every fear.
Every heartbreak.
The story became the only place where I could still be honest.
Hours passed unnoticed.
The world outside disappeared.
My room vanished.
The house vanished.
Everything vanished except the manuscript.
And the memories.
God.
The memories.
Jaxon teaching me how to ride.
Jaxon laughing when I spilled coffee across his paperwork.
Jaxon reading over my shoulder and pretending not to be interested in books.
Jaxon holding my hands during a panic attack.
Jaxon smiling at me across a crowded motorcycle rally.
Jaxon looking at me like I mattered.
Like I was worth choosing.
The memories hurt.
Yet I couldn't stop writing them.
Couldn't stop preserving them.
Because if I lost the relationship, I refused to lose the truth.
The truth was simple.
He had loved me.
No matter what he'd said at the end.
No matter how cruel the words.
No matter how convincing the performance.
Somewhere beneath all that pain, I knew.
Jaxon Kane loved me.
The realization settled into every sentence.
Every chapter.
Every page.
Midnight arrived.
Then one in the morning.
Then two.
Still I wrote.
Coffee appeared at some point.
I barely remembered making it.
The manuscript grew.
Chapter after chapter.
Scene after scene.
The ending I'd been struggling with for weeks suddenly became clear.
Because life had handed it to me.
Painfully.
Completely.
The hero lets the man he loves go.
Not because he stops loving him.
Because he believes love means sacrifice.
The realization hit so hard I stopped typing.
My fingers hovered above the keyboard.
My chest tightened.
And suddenly, everything made sense.
Not the breakup.
Not completely.
But the reason behind it.
Jaxon wasn't protecting himself.
He was protecting me.
The understanding should have comforted me.
Instead, it broke something all over again.
Because if I was right, then he was hurting too.
Alone.
Just like me.
A tear finally slipped down my cheek.
Then another.
Then another.
The dam cracked.
At last.
Hours after the pain began.
I lowered my head into my hands and cried.
Not politely.
Not quietly.
The kind of crying that left your chest aching.
The kind that stole your breath.
The kind that came when you loved someone enough to understand them even after they shattered your heart.
When the tears finally stopped, dawn was beginning to brighten the horizon.
Soft gray light filtered through the windows.
The room felt different.
Still lonely.
Still painful.
But different.
I wiped my eyes.
Looked back at the screen.
And noticed something surprising.
The manuscript was finished.
Sometime during the night, I'd reached the final page.
The final chapter.
The final sentence.
For a long moment, I simply stared.
Disbelieving.
Months of work.
Months of dreaming.
Months of hiding this secret project from everyone.
Finished.
The realization felt surreal.
Slowly, I scrolled to the last page.
The ending waited there.
Simple.
Honest.
The rider and his muse standing together beneath an endless sky.
Still choosing each other despite everything.
Still believing love was worth the risk.
I read the final paragraph twice.
Then three times.
And finally, I smiled.
Not because I felt happy.
Because for the first time since leaving the garage, I felt something else.
Pride.
The manuscript wasn't perfect.
Neither was I.
Neither was Jaxon.
But it was real.
Every page carried truth.
Every chapter carried love.
Every word carried him.
My gaze drifted toward the dedication page.
The page I'd created months earlier and never shown anyone.
The page nobody else would understand.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
At the top sat a single unfinished sentence.
For the man who taught me that being seen and being loved are not the same thing—and gave me both.
My throat tightened.
Fresh emotion burned behind my eyes.
Because the words belonged to him.
Always had.
Always would.
Outside, the first rays of sunrise painted the sky gold.
A new day beginning.
A new chapter waiting.
Inside my room, I saved the manuscript.
Closed the laptop.
And rested my hand against the cover.
The novel was finished.
The story was complete.
Yet somehow my own story still felt unfinished.
Because even after everything, a stubborn part of my heart continued believing one impossible thing.
That somewhere out there, Jaxon Kane still loved me too.
Empty Roads
The first day without Elliot felt manageable.
The second felt worse.
By the third, I understood I'd made a terrible mistake.
Not that I admitted it to anyone.
Especially not myself.
Instead, I did what I always did when life became complicated.
I worked.
Work made sense.
Motorcycles broke.
You fixed them.
Engines failed.
You repaired them.
Customers complained.
You solved the problem.
Simple.
Predictable.
Nothing like love.
Nothing like heartbreak.
Nothing like waking up every morning expecting to hear Elliot moving around upstairs only to remember he was gone.
That particular realization never got easier.
The apartment above Kane Customs felt wrong now.
Too quiet.
Too clean.
Too empty.
The first night, I found myself listening for footsteps that never came.
The second night, I caught myself making enough coffee for two people.
The third night, I nearly asked Mason whether Elliot would be joining us for lunch before remembering the answer.
Each mistake landed like a punch.
Small.
Yet devastating.
The problem wasn't that Elliot had occupied space in my life.
The problem was that he'd somehow become part of it.
Part of every routine.
Every habit.
Every ordinary moment.
Now those moments felt broken.
I arrived at the garage before sunrise every morning.
Worked late every night.
Accepted every repair job possible.
The goal was simple.
Stay busy enough to avoid thinking.
Unfortunately, thinking happened anyway.
Everywhere.
All the time.
The spare office chair reminded me of Elliot helping with paperwork.
The couch upstairs reminded me of movie nights.
The kitchen reminded me of shared meals.
The motorcycle by the entrance reminded me of long rides and wind and laughter and happiness.
Everything reminded me of him.
Everything.
By the end of the first week, I hated my own garage.
Which was impressive.
Considering I'd spent years building it.
The worst moments arrived unexpectedly.
Tiny things.
Stupid things.
A customer walked in wearing the same cologne Elliot used.
I nearly dropped a wrench.
A song played on the radio that he'd sung badly during a road trip.
I turned the station off immediately.
Someone left a notebook on the office desk.
For one stupid second, my heart jumped.
Then reality returned.
Not Elliot.
Never Elliot.
Not anymore.
The realization hurt every single time.
Mason noticed first.
Of course he did.
The man treated other people's emotional problems like a hobby.
Unfortunately, he wasn't wrong very often.
"You look terrible."
I continued working.