Page 25 of Glass Jawed

Lucian

There she is.

Diana Marie Graham .

I haven’t slept in days. Not real sleep, anyway. Just long stretches of darkness where my body shuts down and my brain claws at itself until morning.

I’ve been sealed inside my apartment like a man on house arrest. Everything outside feels irrelevant. Noise. Distraction. The only thing I’ve been able to focus on—the only name my thoughts will allow—is Aarohi’s.

My job? Doesn’t matter. Food? Doesn’t register. The mirror? I don’t look at it anymore.

Last week, I finally went on an indefinite leave from Kepler Health. Just like that. CEO no more. For a long while.

Since that day on her couch—since I undeservedly confessed my feelings—I haven’t messaged her. Haven’t sent her food. Haven’t hovered in her shadow, hoping for scraps of forgiveness. It’s the one thing I’ve managed to do right.

Respect her boundary.

Stay gone.

But absence doesn’t mean peace. Her silence hasn’t freed me—it’s gutted me. I don’t even cry anymore. I just... sit. Still. Rotting in guilt I can’t rinse out of my bones. My skin—a persistent itching tightness around my soul.

The only thing holding me upright is the need to understand what I did. Really understand it. To dissect the ugliness inside me that let it happen.

That’s why I gave Sean, our VP of Product, full reins as acting CEO. Gave Liam the burden of every major executive decision. He didn’t take it well. Not because he couldn’t handle it—but because he could. And he saw what I was doing.

Running .

And maybe he was right.

I’m not proud of that.

But I’m not running away from the truth. I’m running toward it. Limping, crawling, dragging myself to whatever painful clarity I deserve.

So I reached out to her.

Diana Marie Graham. Sixty-seven. Lives in Dallas, Texas.

I found her through a podcast where she spoke about what was done to her—how a man she loved turned out to be an undercover FBI agent.

He married her. Slept beside her. Lied through his teeth.

And when the operation ended, so did the illusion of their life.

She sued the agency. But the case went nowhere.

He never even said he was wrong.

But she did.

She turned her pain into something. Built The Purple Box , a not-for-profit for survivors of sexual assault—especially those whose lives were torn apart by deception. She’s raw. Brilliant. Unapologetically furious.

I never expected her to reply to my cold email.

But today, she did. For some reason... she’s responded to me .

Maybe I don’t deserve that grace.

But I need it.

Because if I don’t face this—if I don’t name what I did—I’ll never crawl out of this grave I dug myself into.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Seeking Perspective

Hello Diana,

I’m someone who has been accused of something that happened to you, too. Like your ex-husband, I deceived someone into a relationship. I wasn’t part of an agency. I didn’t have a mission. But I did have intent—malicious, manipulative, harmful.

You owe me nothing. But I want to understand the damage I have caused to this woman. I don’t want her to carry something that should be mine. I hope you respond.

Best,

Lucian Vale

My hands tremble as I click open her response.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Dear Lucian,

You’re not the first person in your position to reach out. But you are the first to acknowledge the wrongness of your actions and center the survivor, not yourself.

You didn’t write to absolve yourself. You asked about her .

This is my calendar link: [link].

Feel free to book a convenient time.

Respectfully,

Diana M. Graham

Fuck.

I stare at the screen. Then I click the link and book an hour-long slot with her a week from now.

After that, I return to what I’d been doing for the past several nights: researching. Reading. Learning.

I’ve devoured over a thousand Reddit posts. Every single one written by someone who lived through a betrayal like Aarohi’s. Each story like a dagger in my gut.

The realization that I made her one of those stories...

That she’s someone’s cautionary tale.

It’s unbearable.

Also, yes. Aarohi .

Even in my head, I don’t dare call her anything else. I can’t. I shouldn’t.

I’m not worthy .

My phone pings.

Liam: Unlock your door.

I frown at the screen.

What?

It’s nearly 12 am, and I thought he’d be knocked out cold by now. He got back from Vancouver a few days ago, and with me on leave, his workload’s doubled. Investor meetings, platform upgrades, client onboarding cycles—he’s juggling fire with one hand and ice with the other.

So what the hell is he doing here?

Still, I drag myself to the front door, confusion turning into unease. The kind that crawls up your spine and whispers this isn’t just a drop-by.

I unlatch the deadbolt. Barely three seconds pass before the door swings open and in walks Liam—looking like hell.

Suit still on from the day, his tie is undone, collar open, hair disheveled, and his face... fuck .

He looks haunted .

There are dark shadows under his eyes, not just from exhaustion but something else.

“Hey—” I start.

But he doesn’t even look at me. Doesn’t speak.

He beelines straight to the bar cabinet. Opens one. Shuts it. Opens another. A third.

Slamming doors. Grabbing at nothing.

“Liam,” I say, more firmly this time, stepping closer. “I don’t keep alcohol anymore.”

He freezes, hand still resting on the cabinet handle. Then his shoulders drop. And for a second, I swear he might collapse.

He looks at the ceiling. Eyes closing. His jaw tight. His entire body looks like it’s clenched in one breath he can’t quite let out.

“Liam?” I repeat, my voice quieter now. “What happened? Why are you—?”

“I fucked up.”

His voice cracks.

Two words. Croaked out like they’re killing him.

A beat of silence passes, and I stare at him. I’ve seen Liam angry. I’ve seen him exasperated, frustrated, annoyed, flirty, even blackout drunk once in Vegas.

But I’ve never seen him... helpless . It’s like looking into a mirror.

“What kind of fuck-up are we talking here?” I ask, cautious. “The I didn’t reply to a VC email kind or the I need a shovel and an alibi kind?”

He lets out a huff of air. It’s not a laugh. Not even close. More like disbelief. Self-loathing in sound form.

He finally turns to me.

“I hurt her.”

His voice is low. Ragged.

“And I don’t even think I realized I was doing it. That’s the worst part.”

My stomach drops.

I don’t need to ask who.

There’s only one her in his vocabulary right now.

Kashvi.

For the next hour, Liam rants. Unfiltered. Disheveled. Fully spiraling.

“And then—two days ago—I didn’t even know I was tagged in that photo, okay?

You know, man. You know I don’t check my fucking DMs or notifications.

I’ve got like 50 followers. Zero posts. Instagram is basically my burner account for doom scrolling.

But apparently— apparently —if someone tags you, your profile shows it to everyone .

” His arms dramatically flail at the word.

“It’s like sneak-attack social media warfare. I didn’t even— fuck .”

He looks like he might cry again.

And despite myself, despite everything... I snort.

“You can change who tags you in settings,” I offer unhelpfully.

Unsurprisingly, Liam punches me in the shoulder. “Shut it!”

The guy actually pouts. “I’m in hot water, man. Vee is gonna murder me. With something blunt. Like my own phone.”

I rub my shoulder, still half-laughing. “You really are a dumb fucker.”

He groans and flops onto my couch, face buried in his hands. “This is worse than when I accidentally called a one-night stand ’dude’ in bed and she thought I was into pegging.”

I snort. “Sounds a lot like Kashvi. Maybe that’s how you win her back—”

His hand slaps over my mouth before I can finish.

“Don’t,” he mutters, voice pained.

I laugh anyway, peeling his hand off. He groans again, this time slapping a fist to his own forehead.

“Fucking hell. I mean, Layla’s post was... shit. Shit, shit, shit. I’m so fucking screwed . Lucian, I looked... committed . What the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“About Layla?”

“Yes—NO! I want Vee to answer my damn phone.” He whines into his hands. “She has two reasons to castrate me now. One for knowing you , and now this .”

“Harsh,” I say, chuckling. “But fair.”

It feels bizarre. Laughing.

I haven’t made this sound in weeks. I’m not even sure it still belonged to me.

But Liam groaning like a melodramatic sitcom husband is... comfortingly stupid.

“You’re not that screwed,” I add, after the laughter dies down. “You can fix this.”

“I don’t think Vee gives second chances. Hell, getting a first chance took months. You weren’t there, man. It was, like, a full audition. She grilled me over drinks, made me read feminist literature—”

“Good for her.”

“Yeah, and now she’s probably planning my evisceration with a group strike named Kill Liam, the Two-timer .”

I raise an eyebrow. “Clever branding.”

He groans— again . I think that’s his default for tonight and the foreseeable future.

But the lightheartedness fizzles fast.

Because his gaze drifts to me. Studies me. Quiet for a beat too long.

“You doing okay?” he asks, softer now. “I mean really . You’ve been quiet about her. About... everything.”

I stiffen.

He doesn’t know. About what she said. About who I am.

Because I can’t say it out loud. I’m terrified it’ll stain the last person in my life who still sees me as something more than what I did.

So I dodge. Like a coward.

“I’ve been... existing,” I say finally. “Trying to do right. Even if it’s too late.”

Liam just nods. He doesn’t press. Maybe he sees too much. Maybe he’s too tired to pull.

Then, like it’s nothing, he says, “By the way, UofT’s convocation is in two days. You’re still on the guest list.”

Fuck.

My stomach lurches.

I forgot. Or maybe I purposely buried it under everything else.

She’s graduating.

Aarohi is fucking graduating.

Her name hits different now. It always has. But this time, it’s pride—and pain—in equal parts.

“You should go,” he adds. “I think... you’d want to see her make that stage walk.”

I don’t respond right away.

Because yes, I want to. I ache to.

But I don’t want to taint a day that should be hers. I don’t want my presence to sour her triumph.

I close my eyes. Nod slowly. “I’ll think about it.”

Liam doesn’t push again.

Just stands. Stretches. Gives my shoulder a reassuring pat. “Sleep, dumbass. You look like someone unplugged your soul.”

“So do you, fucker.”

Then he heads to my guest bedroom, muttering curses under his breath the whole way.

And I sit there in the dark, wondering where the fuck will I sleep, because Liam just took my only sanctuary.

Fucking hell. Couch it is.