Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Annabelle
“Stop staring at your phone like it’s a shirtless firefighter calendar.”
I freeze with my phone halfway to my face like a raccoon caught stealing pizza.
“I was not,” I say, which is a lie so offensively obvious it should come with a laugh track.
Karen from accounting raises a brow. “Uh-huh. And I don’t have three cats named after members of One Direction.”
She walks off.
I stare after her.
…She definitely does.
I look down at my phone.
The text from Bryce is still there:
Last night wasn’t an accident.
I read it again. Definitely not for the seventh time. Absolutely not. Nope.
My phone buzzes. My soul leaves my body.
It’s an email from a vendor.
I sag into my chair.
Get it together. Professional. Mature. Emotionally stable.
I open a spreadsheet and pretend to care about column formatting. My brain, however, is staging a flash mob.
His hands. His mouth. The way he said my name like a sin he wanted to repeat.
“Nope,” I whisper, a little too loudly. “We are not thinking about hotel rooms, tongue, or that thing he did with his...”
A passing intern jumps. “Should I… leave?”
I close my eyes. “Please do.”
He flees. Which is fair. I would also flee from me.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling.
“It was a one-time lapse in judgment,” I tell the fluorescent lights. “Mistake. Temporary. A blip. Rebound sex. A moment of insanity caused by champagne, music, and a very unfair jawline.”
My body responds by flashing me a highlight reel.
Traitor.
I force myself upright and push hair behind my ears like that somehow pushes my sanity back into place.
Right. Time to function. I gather my tablet, straighten my skirt, and walk toward the hallway like a responsible adult who did not spend New Year’s Eve doing things that belong in paid subscription content.
Two steps later, I see him.
Bryce. Leaning against the wall near the conference room door. Casual. Confident. Wearing a fitted long-sleeve athletic shirt that looks illegal in several states.
His eyes gaze over to mine. And it happens. That stupid thing. Where my heart short-circuits like someone spilled Diet Coke on emotional electronics.
He doesn’t smirk. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at me. Like he already knows every single thought I shouldn’t be having.
I panic. Obviously.
“Morning,” he says, voice low.
I respond with, “Yep.” Which is not a greeting. It’s just… noise.
He raises one brow. “Yep?”
“I mean, yes. Good. Morning. Fine. Everything’s fine.”
He studies me for a second longer than should be legal. Then steps aside so I can pass.
I do. Very quickly. Like he’s made of fire and I’m wearing gasoline.
I make it maybe ten feet before I stop and press my back to the wall.
Breathe. Do not spontaneously combust. Do not turn around and drag him into a supply closet and do extremely naughty things to him.
I whisper, “We are normal. We are chill. We are beige.”
Someone snorts.
I look up.
Dex. Holding a protein shake and grinning like he just unlocked a new form of entertainment.
“Ohhh no,” he says. “That is the face of someone who did something fun and is now terrified of feelings.”
“I am fine,” I insist.
He shakes his head. “That’s what people say right before they panic adopt a cat and cut bangs.”
“Go away.”
He sips his drink. “Can’t. I was sent to get you.”
“By who?”
“Colby.” Dex shrugs. “Apparently something ‘dramatic and floral’ arrived at reception and you need to see it before someone streams it.”
My stomach drops. No. Nope. The universe would not be that cruel...
Spoiler: The universe is that cruel.
I walk into the lobby and stop dead.
Because there it is. On a marble pedestal. Right in front of the elevator bank.
A floral arrangement the size of a mid-sized SUV.
Roses. Peonies. Lilies. Baby’s breath. Twinkle lights. A string quartet could absolutely live inside it.
“Oh my god,” I whisper. “It looks like the finale of The Bachelor.”
Dex walks around it. “Nah. This looks like someone proposed and got rejected so badly he panic ordered a whole botanical garden.”
There’s a card. Of course there is. A fancy one. Wax seal. Calligraphy. Probably scented.
Before I can grab it, Colby appears out of nowhere, snatches the card like he’s intercepting a grenade, clears his throat dramatically, and reads in his best overly romantic poet voice:
“Annabelle, Some loves don’t end… they just pause.”
Dex clutches his chest. “Bruh.”
Colby continues because he is committed to the bit:
“You and I are a song unfinished. But I’ve written the ending. And I want you to hear it.”
I groan. “Oh no.”
Colby lowers the card and widens his eyes. “Girl. This boy is hurting like a country singer after a breakup tour.”
Dex squints at the card like it personally offended him. “Man wrote one sad poem and suddenly thinks he’s Shakespeare with a Spotify Premium heartbreak playlist.”
Before I can defend myself or crawl into the nearest air vent, Eli strolls up, takes one look, and immediately pulls his phone out.
“Selfie with the breakup bush,” he announces.
“No,” I say.
“Too late,” he replies and clicks the picture.
Then, while I am still dying inside, something unexpected happens.
Gabriel Shelly… quiet, intimidating, gives off ‘don’t fuck with me’ energy… silently walks past us, grabs the entire bouquet with one arm, and pretends to carry it toward the loading dock.
Colby calls after him, “Where are you taking it?”
Shelly doesn’t slow. “Emotional garbage pickup.”
Dex bows. “Environmentally friendly. I'm impressed.”
I stand there, stunned. And maybe… grateful.
Because nobody here is laughing at me. They’re guarding me. Like chaotic guard dogs with media training.
Bryce appears while this is happening. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t even step fully into my space, but the shift in the air is instant. The joking suddenly dies. The boys go still like someone hit a locker room mute button.
His eyes focus on the bouquet. Then to the card still in Colby’s hand. Then to me.
Not angry. Not dramatic. Just… aware. Sharp. Focused.
Dex breaks the silence first. "So what’s our move? Do we send this guy a warning letter? A bat? A thug? I know a guy."
Colby nods. "You always know a guy."
Eli adds, "We could send him a cactus in the shape of a middle finger. The card could say 'Fuck Off.’"
I squeeze my eyes shut. "Please stop. All of you. He’s just trying to talk to me."
Dex snorts. "Nah. He’s trying to handle you. Big difference."
My throat tightens. Because he’s right. Because I know he’s right. Because part of me hates that I didn’t see it sooner.
Finally Bryce speaks. His voice is low, but edged.
"He’s testing boundaries to see which ones you’ll let him cross."
I swallow. "Bryce."
He steps closer, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that my pulse skips.
"Annabelle," he says, voice softer, quieter, meant only for me, "if you don’t want him showing up here again, say it. And he won’t."
A beat. Heavy. Loaded.
Dex whispers loudly, "Okay, but tell me that wasn’t the sexiest threat ever."
Eli nods. "Top five. Minimum."
Colby fans himself. "I suddenly need ice."
I glare at all of them. "This isn’t funny. It’s awkward and confusing."
"I… don’t want any of this," I whisper. "Not the flowers. Not the dramatics. Not whatever game he thinks he’s playing."
Bryce’s jaw flexes once. Controlled. Contained. But deeply felt.
The chaos trio backs up like they know better than to stand between a woman and the man she is very clearly trying not to fall for.
"Then he doesn’t get access to you anymore. Not here. Not at work. Not in your life."
Something in me wavers, fear and relief colliding.
"Bryce… it’s complicated."
He holds my gaze. Unblinking. Steady.
"No. It’s not. He cheated. You left. You healed. He doesn’t get to walk back in because he remembered what he lost.
I don’t know what to say because part of me wants to argue, and another part of me wants to lean into him and let that sentence break every wall I’ve built.
Then…
My phone vibrates. Once. Twice. A third time. Persistent. Targeted. Wrong.
Caller ID lights the screen in bold letters:
Mark.
The boys react instantly.
Eli: “Nope.” Dex: “Absolutely not.” Colby: “What an asshole.”
But Bryce...he doesn’t move. He doesn’t joke. He doesn’t blink.
He just steps close enough that only I can hear him and says, slow and certain:
“Don’t answer that.”
I don’t.
I hit decline.
My hand shakes, just barely, but enough that Bryce notices.
I force a breath. “I’m fine.”
He gives me a look that says he absolutely does not believe me.
I want to walk away, pretend everything is normal, pretend that bouquet and that call and that history doesn’t rattle something old and bruised inside me.
So I straighten my shoulders and say, “I have a meeting. I need to go.”
Bryce doesn’t stop me.
He just watches.
Like he already knows the next round is coming.
***
By the time work ends, I’m wrung out.
Emails. Schedules. Conversations I pretended not to hear.
And every few hours a text from Mark.
Can we talk?
Please answer.
I miss you.
By the fourth one, my stomach is tight and my pulse is high and I’m suddenly very aware I’m not as past him as I thought.
I walk into the parking lot telling myself I will just go home, take a shower, eat something comforting, and forget this day existed.
Then I see him.
Standing beside my car.
Holding. A. Guitar.
Of course he is.
Because the man doesn’t know how to have a normal conversation like a human adult, he has to show up like the ghost of every Nicholas Sparks adaptation.
He brightens when he sees me. “Belle.”
I flinch.
He steps forward. “I didn’t want you to think the flowers were… dramatic. I just… I wanted to remind you what we were. What we had.”
I keep my distance. “Mark, you shouldn’t be here.”
He laughs softly. “Come on. We’re not strangers.”
“We’re not together either.”
That hits. His smile falters. “We were happy.”
“We were comfortable,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
He swallows. “Let me play you something. Just one thing. I wrote it for you.”
“No.” My voice is firmer now. “Mark, listen— this isn’t—”
Footsteps echo behind me.
Slow.
Confident.
Controlled.
I don’t have to turn around.
I know.
Bryce stops at my right side.
Not touching.
Not speaking.
Just existing with the kind of presence that feels like a warning.
Mark’s eyes flick to him.
Assessing. Sizing.
His jaw tenses. “So this is why you won’t talk to me.”
I grit my teeth. “This has nothing to do with Bryce. It has to do with boundaries and respect.”
Mark laughs once, humorless. “He’s an athlete, Belle. He’ll get bored. They always do.”
Bryce still doesn’t move. But something in the air gets colder.
I take a breath. “Mark, I’m leaving now.”
He steps forward, desperate creeping in. “Just five minutes. I drove across the city. I…”
Bryce finally speaks.
Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a calm razor blade.
“She said no.”
Mark stiffens. “This isn’t your business.”
Bryce stares at him, steady, unblinking. “She made it mine when you showed up uninvited and wouldn’t take her answer.”
Mark scoffs. “You don’t even know her.”
Bryce’s voice doesn’t rise, but it feels like it fills the whole deck.
“I know enough.”
The tension stretches sharp and ugly.
I step in before testosterone becomes weaponized stupidity.
“That’s enough. Mark, please go.”
He looks at me again. Hope. Anger. Something wounded.
“Belle… I love you.”
My voice cracks but stays steady.
“That doesn’t mean you get access to me.”
Silence. Then, slowly, he nods.
And walks away.
I don’t breathe until he turns the corner and disappears.
Bryce waits. Not talking. Not asking. Just present.
Finally I whisper, “I can handle this.”
He leans down, close enough that his breath grazes my cheek.
“No,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to handle everything alone.”
My heart misfires.
I don’t respond.
I just unlock my car, mumble, “Goodnight,” and get in before I do something irresponsible.
***
Later that night, I’m curled under a blanket on my couch with tea and a headache when my email notification pops.
From Mark.
Subject line: One Last Song.
I stare at it.
I shouldn’t.
I know I shouldn’t.
I click.
A demo link. A single sentence:
Please listen. Then I’ll stop.
I press play.
His voice fills the room. Soft. Hurting. Familiar.
The lyrics are good. Painfully good. Every line a memory. Every chord a history I don’t know how to neatly box away.
One tear falls. Then another.
When the last chord fades, I close the file. Delete it.
And breathe.
***
I’m brushing my teeth, trying to convince myself I’m fine, when my phone buzzes again.
Another email? Another apology? Another song?
No.
A voice message.
From Bryce.
My pulse stutters.
I stare at it for a full minute.
Then I press play.
His voice pours through the speaker like low, rough velvet.
“Annabelle.”
Just my name.
It does something to me.
He continues.
“He doesn’t get to rewrite the story. Not when you’re finally living it. And you’re not going back.”
There’s a pause, soft breathing, like he’s deciding whether to say the last line.
Then:
“Sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The message ends.
My heart does something reckless.
I stare at my phone and whisper into the quiet apartment:
“This is getting dangerous.”
And deep down, I already know the truth.
It’s too late to stop it.