Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Ophelia

You know those moments when the world feels too big, when the weight of everything threatens to crush you? When all you need is someone to gather the scattered pieces of you, hold them gently, and say, You’ll get through this. This moment won’t last forever. You’ll be okay?

I have someone like that. My person.

Haydn Wesford is the one I turn to when life feels too much, too tangled. He’s the first call when there’s something to celebrate, the arms I seek when everything collapses around me. On any other day, I wouldn’t hesitate to lean on him. That’s what you do with your partner, isn’t it? You let them catch you when you’re falling, hold you together when the cracks start to show.

But today isn’t any other day.

Today, my world has flipped, and I can’t seem to find my footing. It’s one of those days that should feel monumental—a best-day-ever kind of day. My fiancé is alive. Keane. He’s here. Breathing. His heart is still beating in a world I thought had already stolen him from me.

That light I thought had been extinguished?

It’s flickering again. In fact, it was never gone.

And yet . . . what am I hoping for? Relief? Joy? I feel neither. Instead, there’s this unrelenting ache, a fear that grips me so tightly I can barely breathe. Because this changes everything. I know it in my bones. It’s like standing in a room full of open doors, each one leading to a place I don’t recognize, with no map to guide me.

Which one do I step through?

How do I even choose?

I need Haydn. I need his voice, his calm. But how do I tell him this? How do I explain that instead of feeling relief, I’m falling apart in ways I can’t articulate? How do I confess that Keane’s return doesn’t just complicate things for me, but for us? For everything?

There’s a hollowness in my chest, an emptiness so vast it feels like it might swallow me whole. My thoughts spin wildly, out of control, like a film reel unraveling too fast for me to grasp. Haydn’s always been my constant—the person who helps me find my way when everything else feels like too much. But how do I tell him I need that now?

When I think about him leaving—or worse, staying but closing himself off—I can feel it unraveling. If not leaving entirely, he’s already breaking the bridge we built together. I saw it earlier, caught it in the way his eyes avoided mine, in the quiet distance that settled between us like an invisible wall. And honestly? I’m surprised he didn’t shut me out sooner.

He told me once, in that hesitant, vulnerable way of his, that his biggest fear is being left behind. This was back when we were just starting out as friends—before I gave him every reason to believe people don’t stay, not for him, not for long. Just like his mother did.

The worst part? I can’t even fault him for it. I have no answers, no promises to offer him. Keane needs me. I’m all he has. And what am I supposed to do now?

The drive to the restaurant is short but drags on endlessly. The silence in the car feels oppressive, thick with everything neither of us is saying. Haydn keeps his eyes on the navigation system, his hands gripping the wheel just a little too tightly. His mind is somewhere else—I know it is. Probably replaying that last game of the season. The play that cost them their shot at the Cup.

He’s been fixated on it ever since, like if he relives it enough times, he’ll figure out how to rewrite the ending. Next season, they said. This is the year. And now, here I am, throwing his perfectly calculated world off balance. I can feel it—the way he’s pulling back, maybe even trying to figure out how to sideline me completely.

When we pull up to the restaurant, the valet is already waiting. Haydn steps out, handing over the keys without a word. The chill in the air creeps in as I wait, and he walks around to open my door. It’s a small, automatic gesture, but there’s a detachment in it that stings. His eyes flick to mine briefly before shifting away again.

The restaurant is as elegant as I expected, all sleek lines and hushed conversations. A hostess in a perfectly tailored black dress greets us, her smile polished and professional. Haydn mutters his name, and she nods, leading us through the quiet, candlelit space to a private room.

As we walk, I steal a glance at him. His hands are stuffed deep into his pockets, his shoulders hunched in a way that makes him look smaller. Like he’s folding in on himself, trying to take up as little space as possible. He doesn’t look at me—not really—and it’s unbearable.

The Haydn I know—knew—was larger than life, his energy filling every room. He had this way of making people stop and take notice, even when he wasn’t trying. But now, he feels far away, as though he’s slowly fading out of reach, and I don’t know how to pull him back.

In the private room, the soft light from the chandelier bounces off the polished wood of the table. Haydn sinks into the chair across from me, his gaze fixed on the smooth surface as if it holds all the answers. The hostess reappears, setting down the drink menu and announcing that our food will be out shortly as per Haydn’s request.

He doesn’t look at the menu, doesn’t even glance at the hostess. It’s like he’s physically here but somewhere else entirely, a shadow of himself that I can’t quite reach.

And the space between us feels impossibly wide.

I take a breath, my fingers curling around the edge of my menu. I can still hear his voice from that fourth date, hesitant and raw: “People don’t stay. Not for me. Not for long.”

And honestly, I didn’t want to stay.

Why would I?

People die on me.

That’s what they do. It’s not the same as leaving, but it’s close enough to keep you from wanting anyone around. Grief leaves a different kind of scar, one that makes you push people away before they can disappear on their own.

I went out with him because Haydn was relentless, not because I believed in this— us . I figured he’d get bored eventually, that he’d see what I saw every time I looked in the mirror: I’m not the kind of woman men stay with.

I’m not the one they bring home to meet their parents, the one they carve out a future for, the one they fight to keep. I was sure he’d come to his senses, and that would be that.

But Haydn didn’t leave.

Instead, he made me fall in love. With him. With the idea of us. He tore down the walls I thought were impenetrable and filled the cracks with something dangerously close to hope. He made me believe in something bigger than my fears, something I didn’t think I deserved.

And then, somehow, he made me want things I’d convinced myself I wasn’t allowed to want. He made me feel like the most desirable woman on the planet. The way he looked at me, like I was the only thing he could see. The way he touched me, with this mixture of reverence and need that made my skin feel electric.

He put me in the most fuckable situation—one where I wasn’t just his lover but someone he cherished, someone he respected. He made me feel like the kind of woman you don’t walk away from.

And I still can’t figure out why. Why he stayed. Why he chose me.

Because now, sitting across from him, I can feel the cracks forming again. I can feel the fragile thing we built together starting to tremble, and I’m terrified that this time, he might finally realize what I’ve known all along.

Maybe I’m not the woman you stay for after all.

And maybe it is time for him to leave. Which is fair because I might not have anything to give him. I don’t deserve Haydn.

The waitress approaches, a polite smile on her face as she sets down two glasses of water. “Would you like anything else to drink?”

I open my mouth to answer, but Haydn cuts in, his voice low and distant, barely lifting his head. “Water’s fine.”

The waitress glances at me expectantly. “Just water, thank you,” I manage, offering a quick, forced smile.

When I look back at Haydn, he’s still staring at the table, his jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line. He doesn’t even look at me, and something inside me cracks a little more.

“I could stay,” I say, my voice soft, tentative, like it might shatter under the weight of everything unsaid between us. “Here in Connecticut if that’s best.”

“Is that what you want?” He shrugs, his tone sharp enough to sting. “Tell me now before Lang starts moving everything.”

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I say, the words trembling as they leave my mouth.

“Of course not,” he replies, leaning back in his chair, his laugh bitter, almost hollow. “It’s just my fucking luck, though, isn’t it?”

His words hit like a slap, my breath catching as I try to steady myself. “We could stay away . . . away from you,” I offer, trying to be calm, grounded and mature even when on the inside I’m falling apart. “Find a place in Portland. Somewhere quiet?—”

“Why go back to Portland?” he cuts me off, his tone cold, calculated, like he’s already made up his mind about where this is going. “You can live in Seattle. Lang mentioned a center there. His cousin owns it. You wouldn’t have to worry about Keane’s care, and . . .” He trails off, shrugging like the rest of it doesn’t even matter.

“Because my fucking life is in Portland.” I snap, the words bursting out of me before I can stop them. “Because you are in Portland.” My voice cracks, and suddenly, I can’t hold it in anymore. The tears come fast and hot, spilling over as I bury my face in my hands.

“Fuck you, Haydn,” I sob, unable to stop, my chest heaving as I break apart in the middle of this stupid restaurant.

I feel like I’m dying all over again. Like I’m standing at another goodbye I never saw coming. Because this is what he’s doing, isn’t it? Rejecting me. Pushing me away because he’s scared, because he thinks it’s easier to let me go than to stay and fight for us.

“Fuck you,” I choke out, my hands shaking as I wipe at my face. “Fuck you for making me fall in love with you. For making me believe we could do this. And now, now you’re just—” My voice breaks again, and I press my palms to my face, trying to stifle the sobs that won’t stop coming.

The chair across from me scrapes against the floor, and I feel Haydn’s presence before I see him kneel next to me. His hands are on my shoulders, firm and warm, and I feel his voice more than hear it. “Pia,” he says softly, and that stupid, tender tone just undoes me more.

“No,” I cry, struggling to pull away, but his grip doesn’t falter. “You don’t get to push me away and then act like this.”

“I’m not pushing you away.” His voice is raw, rough and spilling over with something I can’t quite name. “Fuck it, Pia, I’m trying to keep you from having to choose because I don’t know if either one of us would survive a situation like that. You think I want to do this?”

Before I can answer he continues. “Of course not. You’re my life, baby. All I want is for you to be happy, and if he is it . . . I’d rather walk away today.”

I freeze, his words crashing into me like a wave I wasn’t ready for. The fight drains out of me completely, leaving only the raw truth hanging between us, cutting into the space like something sharp and unrelenting. My breath catches, hitching in my chest, and for a moment, it feels like the world tilts—just enough to make me lose my footing.

In the middle of all my anger, all my heartbreak, I see it. I see him. Haydn, next to me with his jaw tight and his eyes filled with something I can’t quite name but can feel all the same. It hits me—he’s just as terrified as I am.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to find the words even though they burn in my throat. “He’s a stranger to me now,” I say softly, my voice trembling. “But I owe him, Haydn. I owe him the chance to get back on his feet.” I glance down at my hands, twisting nervously in my lap. “And yes, he was the man I loved once, but now?—”

I stop abruptly, overwhelmed by everything I can’t say. I don’t know how to finish that sentence, because the truth is, I don’t know what comes after “but now.”

My voice wavers as I try again. “He was there for me when my dad died. He held me together when I thought I couldn’t survive it. Francine and Constantine were too wrapped up in their own pain to care for their youngest sister. But he was there. I can’t just walk away from him, not when he needs me.”

Haydn exhales sharply, his hand raking through his hair in a gesture that feels more like frustration than anything else. His voice, when he finally speaks, is low, subdued and unsteady. “You’ll remember him,” he says, each word deliberate, as if he’s bracing himself for the impact. “Your heart will remember everything. Like every other muscle, it’ll remember how to love him, and you’ll love him back. And then . . . you’ll forget me.”

He looks away, as if the thought is too much for him to hold. “Lang warned me not to be in the line of fire. He said he’s seen you two together. That I don’t stand a chance.”

I scoff, the bitterness rising in my throat. “Fucking Byron Langdon shouldn’t be meddling. He’s a cold, soulless bastard,” I snap, frustrated and so angry at him. Don’t get me wrong, I respect him because he’s the best agent I could ask for. Since he took me as his client I’ve sold more images than I could have ever imagined. He even got me a book deal, but he’s all business and no heart . . . “Well, unless you’re his husband or his kids. Then he’s a complete softie. But you know that already. He’s worried about the Cup, the sponsorships and everything that you might lose if your head isn’t in the game. I wouldn’t listen to him, Haydn.”

Haydn’s eyes narrow slightly, locking on mine. “And is he wrong?” he asks, his voice quiet but edged with something sharp. “Is he wrong about you two?”

I open my mouth to answer, but the words don’t come immediately. My breath catches, and for a moment, I hesitate. “It was a different time,” I finally manage to say, my voice soft, pleading. “I was a different person. I don’t even know if I’d be in love with a man like Keane now.”

“But you were in love with him,” Haydn presses, his tone filled with a frustration that feels too much like heartbreak. “You were engaged, Pia. You never told me that.”

“There are a lot of things I don’t want to discuss about that time,” I say quickly, my defenses rising. “Yes, we were supposed to get married. After a five-year relationship and a baby on the way, that’s kind of what you do. At least that’s what he said when he proposed and handed me the fucking ring.”

Haydn’s expression shifts, confusion giving way to something deeper—something almost like fear. “A baby?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “What happened to the baby?”

I freeze. The room blurs at the edges, and for a moment, I can’t breathe. The words stuck in my throat, jagged and unrelenting. “I was in a car accident, remember?” My voice trembles, cracking as the memories come rushing back, vivid and cruel. “I almost died. Keane died. And . . .”

My chest tightens, and I press a hand to my stomach, the pain as fresh now as it was all those years ago. “I was in critical condition for a week, and when I woke up . . . she was gone,” I say finally, my voice hollow. “I never got to hold her. Never got to hear her cry. She was just . . . gone.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Haydn doesn’t move, doesn’t speak. He just stares at me, his eyes wide with something that looks like both grief and helplessness. I hate this. I hate this moment, this conversation, this feeling of being torn apart all over again.

“I’m sorry,” Haydn says, his voice barely audible. “Pia . . . I didn’t know.”

“You didn’t need to know,” I snap, harsher than I intend, and his head jerks slightly, like I’ve slapped him. “It’s not something I wanted to talk about. It’s not something I can even think about without—” My voice falters, breaking under the weight of it all, and I shake my head. “I’ve tried to forget. I’ve tried to bury it. But now . . . now it’s all coming back, and I don’t know how to deal with it.”

“Pia, babe?—”

“No,” I cut him off, my voice firm despite the tears streaming down my face. “You wanted me like this, vulnerable and exposed. Showing you all the pain that the accident caused? Why do you think I keep telling you that I’m not sure if I’ll want a baby? The guilt. I lived and she didn’t. I would’ve given my life for hers. How can I protect a new baby if I couldn’t protect her?”

Haydn’s eyes stay locked on mine, his expression unreadable. But the tension between us is undeniable, humming like a live wire, filled with unspoken questions and fears he refuses to voice. He’s always been the one I could count on—the one who pulls me back when I start to lose my way. But now? Now it feels like we’re standing on opposite sides of a bascule bridge, and neither of us knows how to cross the widening gap.

I want to promise him. I want to say that nothing will change, that we’ll be fine, that this thing between us won’t break under the pressure of everything happening around us. But I can’t. Because I don’t know. I don’t know how this ends, and the uncertainty is already wrapping around us like a rope, pulling us further and further apart.

He exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself for the words he’s about to say. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry,” he murmurs, his voice low and strained. “My house is yours. Whatever you need—whatever Keane needs—my home is at your disposal. I’ll help you, Pia. I want to help because I love you with everything I have.”

I feel the sting of tears behind my eyes, a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he’s not about to say what I know is coming.

“But now more than ever we have to pause our relationship,” he says, the words landing like a punch to my chest.

“What?” My voice cracks, trembling under the weight of disbelief. “Haydn, no. We can’t. We?—”

“There’s no we,” he interrupts, his tone cutting but not cruel. “Not right now. There can’t be a we when you haven’t had closure from him. Technically, you’re still engaged to the man.”

“Closure?” I snap, my voice rising as panic claws its way up my throat. “I don’t need closure. I. Need. You. I. Need. Us.”

He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips, like he’s already made peace with the words that are breaking me. “You said it yourself once. Back when I was trying to convince you to give me a chance. Don’t you remember?”

And I do. God, I do.

I hate him for remembering it, for throwing those words back in my face like an ax aimed straight for my heart. “You said you couldn’t move forward with someone new until you’d fully let go of what was holding you back,” he says, his voice quieter now, but no less devastating. “You told me that, Pia. That you couldn’t be all in unless you knew there was nothing left to haunt you. And from what you’re telling me there’s a lot still haunting you—you need to let the pain out. You should’ve shared that pain with me before. I want to be your partner, your everything, just like you’re mine.”

I press my hands to my temples, as if I can physically hold myself together while everything inside me cracks wide open. “That was different,” I whisper. “That was then. I was a different person.”

“Were you?” he asks softly, and the question hangs in the air between us, heavier than anything else he’s said.

I glare at him, hating him in this moment—not because he’s wrong, but because he’s right. I did say that. And now, here we are, and I’m the one holding on to something that feels like a ghost.

“I’m not giving up on you,” he continues, his voice gentler now, but no less firm. “But I can’t be in this, Pia. Not like this. Not when you’re splitting yourself in half between me and him. Not when you’re still not willing to trust me with all of you. It’s not fair to either of us.”

His words cut deeper than I thought possible, and I shake my head, tears slipping down my cheeks before I can stop them. “Don’t do this,” I plead, my voice breaking. “Please, Haydn. Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not leaving,” he says, hand lifting to brush a tear from my face. “I’ll still be here. For you, for whatever you need. But I can’t be your partner, your lover, or your anything while you figure out how to save a man you once loved. You deserve to figure this out without me clouding your judgment. And I deserve to know that when you’re with me, you’re really with me .”

A choked sob escapes me, raw and uncontrollable, as my chest tightens with everything I want to say but can’t. My throat burns, my hands trembling at my sides. “Fuck you,” I whisper, my voice breaking, trembling with the force of it. “Fuck you for doing this, for being so goddamn noble that I can’t even hate you for it.”

He lets out a soft, bitter laugh devoid of warmth. His hand lingers against my cheek, his thumb brushing over my skin with a tenderness that only twists the knife deeper. “I love you, Pia,” he murmurs, his voice low but steady, his eyes shining with something that looks far too much like heartbreak. “That’s why I have to let you do this. That’s why I have to let you go. For now.”

His words cut through me, and the air between us feels impossibly thin, fragile.

“I just hope that at the end of all this, you come back to me,” he continues, his voice faltering, his gaze never leaving mine. “And if you don’t . . . I just hope you’re happy. Even if it’s with him.”

And just like that, the ground beneath me gives way, and I’m falling.

This is the fault in forever. Forever is never truly ours to keep, just a momentary promise that vanishes when you start to believe in it.