35. Cloe
CLOE
The city was still on Sundays.
Still in the way grief settles into your bones when no one is looking. Still in the way guilt makes the air taste sharper. Everything moved slower. Sound echoed longer. And shame stuck to your skin in places you couldn’t scrub clean.
I wore Wolfe’s hoodie.
Not for warmth.
Just for the weight.
Like if I wrapped myself in his scent one more time, it might stop me from doing what I came here to do.
It didn’t.
The fabric was soft.
Familiar.
The cuffs were stretched from me fisting them in the dark the night before. It still smelled like him. But it didn’t feel like safety anymore. It felt like a memory I was about to ruin.
The building lobby was empty.
Security gave me a nod.
Not a second glance .
Because why would they?
I was hers.
His.
Theirs.
The girl from the footage.
The girl with bruises and silence and borrowed clothes.
The girl who walked like she might break if someone looked at her too hard.
The elevator ride stretched.
Too slow.
Too quiet.
Each floor a new excuse to turn around. Each ding a warning I didn’t listen to. I watched the numbers climb. Felt the cold metal railing against my back. Held the edges of the hoodie closed like it was armor.
But it wasn’t.
It never had been.
By the time I stepped out onto the top floor, my knees had already started to shake. Not from fear. From guilt. The kind that builds bone-deep. That crawls into your ribs and doesn’t come out. That whispers in your ear when no one else is speaking.
Every footstep sounded like betrayal.
Like I was breaking a promise I hadn’t said out loud.
The promise to stay.
To try.
To be honest.
The chain wasn’t around my neck anymore.
I’d left it behind that morning. Folded it into the pocket of his hoodie like a confession I couldn’t say out loud.
Because I couldn’t take it with me. Not when I was about to do this.
Not when I was about to open the one door that might tear everything apart.
Not when I wasn’t sure which of them would burn first.
Me.
Or him.
I passed Wolfe’s office.
Didn’t look in.
Didn’t breathe.
The air felt thick here—like it remembered me. And it hated what I was about to do.
Barron’s office loomed at the end of the hall. Dark glass. Heavy door.
I reached into my pocket for the code. Slipped the slip of paper out. My fingers trembled. Not from doubt. From knowing I’d already made my choice. I typed the numbers. Camille’s birthday.
The lock clicked open. The door opened with a sigh. That was the worst part. Not the resistance. Not the weight. The ease. Like the lock had been waiting. I stared at it longer this time. Not like a thief. Like a girl standing at the edge of something permanent.
Sweat slid down my spine. The weight in my chest made my breathing shallow. Not panic. Not quite. But the kind of ache you get when you know you’re about to be unforgivable.
I imagined Wolfe walking in. What he’d say. What his face would look like when he saw the book in my hands and realized I hadn’t just left him?—
I’d chosen someone else. I blinked hard. Grabbed the book. And shut the safe before I could change my mind. It didn’t feel like paper. It felt like weight. Like heat. Like every lie I’d ever told had been stitched into the spine.
I reached for it.
Paused.
Then picked it up.
My hands didn’t shake. Not this time. Because when you’re already broken, there’s nothing left to drop. I pressed it to my chest for a second. Closed my eyes.
Whispered—
“I’m sorry.”
Not to Wolfe.
Not to Barron.
To Camille.
To the girl I used to be when her laughter made me feel like I belonged somewhere.
I turned. Walked out. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t stop. Not until I passed Wolfe’s office. The light was off. But I knew what waited inside.
His desk.
His chair.
The velvet box still open where I left it.
I stepped inside. Closed the door behind me. It felt wrong to be here. Like I was inside the skin of a man I’d betrayed.
But I didn’t flinch.
I walked to the desk.
Opened the drawer.
Slid the chain inside.
Didn’t fold it.
Didn’t bury it.
Just let it settle—loose and raw—like a wound.
I placed the lid on the box. Didn’t close it. Because closure felt like too much to ask for. The hallway was too quiet. Even for a Sunday.
I walked with the book pressed flat inside my tote bag. Wrapped in a sweatshirt. Not hidden—just… muffled. Like guilt could be padded with cotton and memory. Every step felt heavier. Not because the book weighed anything. But because I did.
I passed the wall of windows overlooking the city .
Stopped.
Just for a second.
I could see Wolfe’s building from here.
Knew exactly which windows were his. Wondered if he was there. Wondered if he was watching. Wondered if even knew I was gone.I pressed my palm to the glass. Cold. Clear.
Unforgiving.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered again.
But it didn’t sound real anymore. I made it to the elevator. Paused when the doors opened. It reflected my face back at me—too pale. Eyes too wide. Too much space where the chain used to sit.
I stepped inside. The doors closed. And that was it.
I stared at my reflection in the polished steel.
I didn’t look like a traitor. I looked like a secretary in an expensive hoodie with too much guilt in her eyes.
And that scared me most. Because I could pass.
I could walk out of this building and no one would know what I’d done.
The elevator buzzed as it descended. Somewhere on floor twenty-three, it jolted. Just a flicker. A sound. But my whole body locked up like he was behind me again.
I turned.
Of course no one was there.
But the damage was done.
By the time the elevator hit the lobby, I wasn’t breathing right anymore.
But I still walked. I didn’t cry. Didn’t shake.
I just stood there. Counting the floors like they meant something.
Like I wasn’t walking out with a piece of Wolfe’s soul in my bag.
At the ground floor, the security guard waved.
“See you tomorrow,” he said.
I smiled.
Didn’t answer.
Outside, the wind caught the hem of my coat. The sky had started to grey. Not dark yet. But close.
The kind of light that makes it hard to know what time it is. The kind of light that tells you it’s already too late. I walked to the corner. Paused at the red light. Waited. When it changed, I crossed. Didn’t look back. Not once.
Because I knew?—
If I looked over my shoulder and saw him standing there?
I wouldn’t be able to keep walking.