Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

Haydn

“Are you sure you can do this?” Lang, my agent, asks me for what feels like the fifth time since I first called him. His voice has that familiar edge, like he’s trying to talk me down from a ledge.

“What else am I supposed to do?” I snap, my patience razor-thin. “If you’ve got some magic solution, let me know. Otherwise, shut up and just handle what I asked you to do.”

“There’s plenty of money in that trust for her to buy a house where they can live comfortably. No need to share your too-many-fucking-bedroom mansion with some stranger,” he says, not skipping a beat. “I know a place in Seattle that could help them. State-of-the-art facilities, and all the shit for his recovery. My cousin owns it, so I can pull some strings.”

“And there’s no place like that in Portland?” I ask, already knowing where this is headed.

“Sure, they’ve got a place there. Co-owned with some big-shot neurosurgeon and the best orthopedic surgeon in the country. But that’s not the fucking point,” he fires back. “The point is, it would be better for everyone if they were farther away from you. Out of sight, out of mind, Haydn. That’s what you need. You’ve got the season to think about. The Cup. Remember?”

He’s fucking insane if he thinks I’m going to let her leave. “Being away from her is not an option.”

“It should be,” Lang says, his tone sharper now, like he’s trying to cut through whatever loyalty he thinks is clouding my judgment. “The thing is, I knew them together. I saw it with my own two eyes, and man, I say this with all the love I can muster for you—you don’t stand a chance here.”

His words hit like a slap, the kind you feel in your chest before the sting reaches your face. I bite the inside of my cheek, resisting the urge to snap back immediately. Because a part of me—the part that’s spent sleepless nights imagining what Keane being alive would mean—knows Lang isn’t entirely wrong. There’s history there, years of it.

Their love might’ve been the biggest. But mine for her is just as big, maybe even monumental.

Just because they have a history, it doesn’t mean he knows her. Not the Ophelia I’ve spent years building a life with. Not the Ophelia who crawled out of that grief, broken but determined, and found something real with me. “You don’t know her like I do,” I finally say, my voice low, dangerous. “He doesn’t love her like I do.”

Lang sighs, like he’s already resigned to losing this argument. “Haydn, I get it. You’re all in. You always are. But you need to be honest with yourself about what you’re walking into. You’ve got your whole future ahead of you, and it’s my job to make sure nothing derails it. Including this.”

“This,” I say, my voice hardening, “is my life. She’s my life, Lang. And I’m not abandoning her now. Even if, at the end of this, she walks away from me to be with him. All I care about is that she’s happy and whole.” The words come out rough, raw, because saying them feels like ripping myself open.

But I mean it.

Every single fucking word.

Lang lets out a low whistle on the other end of the line. “You’re a better person than I am,” he says, his tone quieter, almost contemplative. “If it were my husband, I’d probably drag him away from his ex kicking and screaming. Because, damn, it’d kill me to lose him.”

I swallow hard, forcing down the lump rising in my throat. “It’ll kill me, too,” I admit, the words quieter now, almost a whisper. “If she chooses him . . . if this all ends with me losing her, yeah, I’ll probably die of a broken heart. But at least I’ll know she’s finally okay. That she’s safe, that she’s happy.” My voice cracks, but I push through. “And that’s enough for me.”

Lang doesn’t say anything for a moment, and I can hear the faint sounds of traffic on his end of the line, like he’s walking somewhere, letting my words sink in. Then he sighs, long and deep, like he’s finally giving in. “Alright, man. I’ll look into the Portland option. I’ll make the calls and have you out of there by the end of the night with the ex in hand. But I’m just saying—this could get messy. Real messy. And you better be ready for that.”

“I am,” I say, my jaw tight, my grip on the phone so hard it feels like it might shatter. “I don’t need you to worry about me. Just do your job.”

Lang exhales, a sound that’s part frustration, part reluctant acceptance. “You’re a good guy, Haydn,” he says, and I can hear the tension in his voice. “But don’t let that goodness destroy you, alright?”

The line clicks, and the silence that follows feels suffocating. I put my phone away and take a seat. After taking a deep breath, I lean forward and brace my elbows on my knees, my head in my hands. Lang doesn’t get it. He thinks I’m some self-sacrificing fool, but he doesn’t know Ophelia like I do. He doesn’t know what it’s like to love someone so much that even the thought of their happiness means more than your own survival.

I might lose her. Hell, I might already be losing her. But even if I am, I’ll go down fighting. Because love—real love—isn’t about clinging so tightly that you crush what you’re holding. It’s about letting go if you have to, knowing they’ll be okay, even if you’re not. And for Ophelia? I’d do that. Every single time.

The call with Lang has left me buzzing with nervous energy, like I’m balanced on the edge of a blade. When I finally find the strength to face them again, I stand up and approach the room. That’s when I hear her voice.

“We were so close, Keane. You were . . . everything.”

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, my breath catching in my chest. I shouldn’t listen, I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t stop myself. I tilt my head slightly toward the door, her voice carrying through the small crack.

“And then I lost you. We lost . . . everything,” she says, her voice trembling, raw with emotions she’s trying and failing to hold back. “I had to let you go, learn to live again. It was hard, so fucking hard. And now, even though you’re here, it feels like I’m meeting a stranger.”

I close my eyes, trying to shut out the sound, trying to block the way her pain wraps around me like a vise. She’s never talked about Keane like this with me—not this openly, not this vulnerably. And as much as I love her, as much as I want to be the one who holds her up right now, I can’t help the jealousy curling low in my stomach. I can’t help but wonder where I fit into this picture.

Her voice drops, softer now, almost a whisper. “Just hold on, okay?” she pleads. “Hold on to this. Hold on to me. We’ll find a way through this. We always do. Even when everything feels impossible, we find a way.”

I press the back of my head against the wall, letting out a slow, measured breath. She’s trying so hard, pouring herself into a man who doesn’t even know who she is. And me? I’m just the guy on the sidelines, listening to her beg someone else to hold on when all I’ve ever wanted was for her to need me like that.

How much can I take before I break?

Is Lang right? Should I just tell her to hit the road and find her way to Seattle? Call me when this is done and if you want to . . . would I take her back after she leaves me for him?

My hands clench at my sides, and for a second, I want to storm in there, to pull her out of that room and tell her that she doesn’t have to deal with this shit. That she’s mine, just like I’m hers. But I know it wouldn’t matter. Not right now. She’s with him—completely with him, even if it’s just in this moment.

I take one more breath, push off the wall, and step back into the room.

She glances up at me, startled, her hand still resting lightly on Keane’s. Her cheeks are wet, tears streaming down her face, but she quickly swipes them away like she doesn’t want me to see. “Hey.”

I clear my throat, forcing my voice to stay calm, even though everything inside me feels like it’s about to crack wide open. “Lang’s making the arrangements. We’ll be out of here in a few hours,” I say. “And you need to eat.”

Her brows pull together in that way they always do when she’s about to argue. “I’m fine. I don’t need?—”

“You do,” I cut her off, firmer than I intended. “There’s a restaurant nearby. They’re already preparing a meal for us—special for you because of your diet restrictions.”

Her lips press into a tight line, and I can see the fight brewing in her eyes. “I don’t need a special meal, Haydn. I can eat anything.”

“Maybe. But you won’t. Not when you’re this stressed,” I say, taking a step closer to her, lowering my voice so it’s gentler now. “You have to take care of yourself, Pia. I’ll help you, I’ll be here for you, but only if you promise to look after yourself first. Don’t make me fight you on this.”

She exhales, shaky and uneven, and for a moment, I think she’s going to keep pushing back. But then her shoulders sag, and she nods, her gaze flickering back to Keane. “Okay,” she whispers. “Okay, I’ll eat.”

“Good.” I glance toward the bed, catching Keane’s tired eyes locked on me, watching me. “We’ll figure this out. All of it. But not if you wear yourself down before we even get started.”

Her hand tightens on Keane’s for a second before she finally pulls away, her fingers lingering like it takes everything in her to let go. It’s a small moment, but it’s enough to make my chest ache.

“Let’s go,” I say softly, holding out a hand for her. “Just a quick break. He’ll be fine.”

He’s been fucking fine without you for five years, I want to say, but instead I stay quiet. This isn’t the time nor the place to behave like a jealous boyfriend who wants to defend what’s his.

She hesitates but finally slips her hand into mine. As we leave the room, I can feel Keane’s gaze following us, a tension in the air I don’t know how to shake. And as much as I want to believe my words, as much as I want to believe we’ll figure this out . . . the truth is, I’m not sure we will.