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I couldn’t fix her. And I hated that. Even worse? I couldn’t fix her money problems. Shouldn’t a good daughter be able to come up with the money?
So I chased the next distraction. Poured gasoline on my own grief and called it adrenaline. Because if I was moving fast enough, maybe the guilt couldn’t catch me.
But it did.
It caught me when I watched Elias sleep, soft and unguarded, and realized he was offering me more than sex or safety. He was offering sanctuary. A life raft I hadn’t asked for but desperately needed. A future with insulation. With rescue.
It caught me when I stepped back into my apartment and saw Emmaline curled up like a child in my bed, exhausted from carrying a burden she never asked for. A burden I should’ve been sharing.
It caught me now, as I sat on the edge of the sofa, arms wrapped around myself like they might hold me together.
I didn’t know what scared me more—that I couldn’t fix any of it alone … or that I didn’t have to.
Because if I took Elias’s help, if I said yes to his billions, I’d be admitting that I couldn’t do it all myself. That I needed saving. That my independence, the thing I’d bled for, was maybe never strength at all—just fear dressed up as pride.
And I didn’t know who I’d be without that fear.
I glanced at Emmaline again.
She shifted in her sleep, brow creasing like even her dreams weren’t safe anymore.
And I knew—deep down, where the truth lived—that this wasn’t about a silk dress or a glass of champagne. It was about choosing to stay. Choosing to stop running. Choosing to fight, not just for survival, but for something better.
Maybe that started with asking for help. Maybe it started with one call. Maybe it started with love that didn’t need to be earned. Just accepted.
But before I could sit with that truth—before I could let it root itself inside me—I panicked.
The idea of accepting help, of letting someone like Elias see the cracks and not flinch, felt more dangerous than any rooftop stunt I’d ever pulled. More terrifying than the thought of losing everything, because it meant giving up the one thing I still had control over: my story.
And I wasn’t ready to rewrite it.
I stood suddenly, blood rushing to my head. My skin itched with the need to move, to run, to do something reckless enough to drown out the noise in my chest.
I crossed the room in quick strides and shut the bathroom door behind me before I could second-guess it. The water in the shower took forever to warm, so I stepped into the icy spray and let it jolt me awake, shivering as it dragged me back to the surface.
Five minutes. No more. Just long enough to wash off the silk and guilt and lingering traces of Elias’s touch.
Then I was out, toweling off with a ragged breath, tugging on ripped jeans and an old gray tank top like armor. No makeup. No perfume. No softness. Just the girl who ran when things got too real.
When I opened the door, Emmaline was sitting up in bed, blinking blearily.
“Hey,” she said, voice scratchy from sleep. “You’re back.”
“Yeah,” I said quickly. “Just for a second. I’ve got somewhere to be.”
Her brow furrowed. “Now?”
I nodded, already grabbing my phone and bag. “Work thing.”
It wasn’t a lie. Not really. I did need to work—at staying distracted. At not unraveling.
I kissed her on the top of the head as I passed. “We’ll talk later, okay?”
She looked like she wanted to protest, but I didn’t wait.
I was down the stairs before she could say another word. Outside, the air was thick and heavy, pressing down on my skin like a warning.
I hit Jessa’s contact and raised the phone to my ear, pacing in the alley behind the bar.