Page 18

KNOX

“I’m sorry, sir. Unless your match parts ways amicably, we cannot put you back into the system for a rematch.”

“Our match is amicable about the split,” I lie, hoping they take that as is and go with it.

It’s not that I don’t want Remi. I do. She’s a beautiful woman.

I just don’t think she would be well-suited to the type of setting I would put her in.

She’s too … good. They’d eat her alive, and with her being as nice as she is, she wouldn’t say anything in return.

She’d allow those vipers to attack her. All for the sake of not creating waves.

So, I can’t, in good conscience, accept her as our mate with that future in front of her. Doing that would be akin to throwing her to the wolves.

I know she’s being stubborn and refusing to tell Select-A-Mate that we want to be rematched, but I’m not doing it to be a dick. I’m doing it because I don’t want to see her hurt.

Yes, I used the excuse that she would be bad for my image, but my image is the last thing I’m worried about. It’s her. Her kindness will slowly disappear the longer she’s subjected to the social circle I run in.

Even Boone and Tripp believe the only reason I don’t want her as my mate is because of the image she would portray, as I’ve made them come to believe. But it’s not that. Not at all.

It’s easier to lie because then I don’t have to explain the real reason she can’t be with us.

I don’t think she’s strong enough to survive.

Over the years, I had to become someone I’m not. I’ve hardened my veneer to the point I’m impenetrable. It takes a lot to get past my walls, to the point where not many people have managed to do so over the years. The only person who can do it with ease is my father.

I can survive the masses. Remi, however, cannot. She’s too good, too wholesome. She’s the kind of person you wrap in a bubble and protect, not throw to the vicious crowd, and hope she can stay afloat.

She has to change her mind. I love that she wants to fight for what she wants, but at the end of the day, she’s not strong enough not to crack under the pressure.

“Oh, well, if she’s amicable to the split, all she needs to do is call in and verify her information. We will be glad to reassign,” the customer service lady on the other end of the phone says, making my heart fall to the pit of my stomach.

“You can’t just take my word for it? You know who I am, right?” I ask, hating the fact I’m throwing my identity around as some barter.

“Of course, sir, all of your information is listed under the account, as well as the other two account holders. However, we still need her confirmation before putting you all back into the pool to be rematched.”

At least Boone did that much when he created the account without our knowledge. But that still leaves us in a predicament. Without Remi’s permission, we will not be matched in the system to someone else.

None of us has the time or energy to find a mate on our own, especially one that can survive in my world.

We need someone with a thick skin and a no-nonsense attitude.

We need someone who can carry on a conversation about politics as if it’s the most fascinating thing in existence.

No one in my social circle will take anything less.

“Very well. She will be getting in contact with you shortly.”

“Of course! Is there anything else I can assist you with today?” she asks.

“No.” A sense of doom envelopes me when I answer her.

“Thank you again for contacting Select-A-Mate. Have a nice day.”

As the call ends with a clinical beep, I set the phone down with a deliberate slowness, the weight of the conversation pressing heavily against my chest. My elbows find the edge of the desk, and I bury my face into my hands, the coolness of my palms a fleeting contrast to the heat of frustration bubbling beneath my skin.

A ragged sigh escapes me, more resignation than relief, as the reality of the situation settles like a stone in my gut.

The silence that follows is deafening, amplified by the thoughts racing through my mind, each one a reminder of just how precarious this predicament has become.

For a moment, I remain frozen, hands shielding my face as if to block out the world and the impossible task ahead.

Lifting my head slowly, I stare blankly at the desk, the grain of the wood seeming to twist in chaotic patterns that mirror the storm in my mind.

How do I approach her? Remi is unwavering, her convictions solid as bedrock, and persuading her to reconsider—especially something as personal and sensitive as this—might feel like chipping away at a mountain with nothing but a spoon.

I trace the edge of a nearby pen absentmindedly, pondering her motivations.

What could make her see reason? The answer must lie somewhere within her stubbornness—a strength she carries with pride, but one that might harbor a kernel of flexibility if approached the right way.

Perhaps I need to appeal to her sense of fairness, reminding her that this decision doesn’t just affect her, but all of us. A shared investment, a shared future.

Or maybe it’s not logic that will move her.

Perhaps it’s emotion. She has a soft spot for the grand sweep of human connection—those intricate threads tying people and lives together.

I could remind her of how much Select-A-Mate was meant to offer us all a chance to find someone who fits, someone who can navigate the complexities of our world and make life’s burdens easier to bear.

Perhaps the thought of leaving us stranded in this limbo will weigh heavier on her heart than her reluctance.

But even as I craft these mental arguments, doubts creep in.

What if she doesn’t respond to fairness?

What if the appeal to emotion leaves her unmoved?

A knot tightens in my chest, the familiar dread of facing someone who might not see things the way I do.

I could concoct a dozen strategies and frame a hundred scenarios, but it all comes down to Remi—a puzzle that refuses to be solved unless she chooses to let me in.

I inhale deeply, steadying myself, and rise from the desk.

The air seems heavier somehow, the space around me thick with the magnitude of the task ahead.

One thing is certain: whatever approach I take, it will have to make her see reason.

This isn’t just about convincing Remi. It’s about ensuring that we all move forward.

I begin to pace the office, each step weighted with the burden of the decision ahead of me.

The rhythm of my movement is erratic—short strides followed by abrupt halts—as if the physical act of walking might somehow untangle the thoughts knotted in my mind.

The carpet, once plush underfoot, feels worn and indifferent, offering no comfort as I cross it again and again.

My gaze drifts aimlessly from the bookshelf to the window and back again, the objects in the room blurring into a meaningless haze.

A half-empty coffee mug sits abandoned on the corner of the desk, its contents now cold, much like the resolve I struggle to muster.

The walls seem closer than usual, their muted tones pressing inward, amplifying the claustrophobia of indecision.

For a moment, I stop by the window, the glass cool against my fingertips as I press my hand against it.

Outside, the world moves on—cars hum along the street, pedestrians drift by, the mundane flow of life unbroken by my turmoil.

The sight only deepens my isolation, a stark reminder that while the outside world churns forward, I remain suspended in this liminal space of doubt.

Turning away, I resume pacing, my thoughts circling the same unyielding questions, searching for answers that refuse to reveal themselves.

Each step feels heavier than the last as if the weight of my indecision were manifesting physically, dragging me down with every lap around the room.

The air grows thick with the tension I’ve conjured, and I find myself rubbing my temples, as if the pressure might somehow force clarity to emerge.

Finally, I stop near the desk once more, my reflection faintly visible in the mirror above the bookshelf.

The person staring back at me looks as lost as I feel—furrowed brow, tight jawline, shoulders slumped beneath the invisible load.

The sight is sobering, a quiet reminder of the stakes at hand and the courage required to confront them.

I exhale, the sound sharp in the silence, and allow my pacing to cease.

Although my thoughts remain unresolved, the storm in my chest begins to subside, giving way to a quiet determination.

The office feels no less oppressive, yet I know that the answer, whatever it may be, cannot be found within these four walls.

It waits for me out there, with her. And so I gather myself, preparing to take the next step—not in hesitation, but in resolve.

If she won’t see reason, I’ll give her a reason to. It’s the only way to save her from the harshness of my reality. To save her, I’ll have to sacrifice my pack’s happiness. It’s something I never thought I would have to do, but it’s something that must be done.

She’ll hate us for this. No doubt about her anger and frustration. But this is something that needs to be done. There’s no other way.

Bringing up the app I downloaded on my phone, I send a message and hope it’s received.

The guys will kill me for this, but again, it must be done.

3xtheCharm: I know our last meeting left a lot to be desired. Please, if you will, meet us at Sip-A-Brew tonight at eight o’clock so that we may become better acquainted.

With a flick of my wrist, I toss the phone onto the desk, its corner landing with a muted thud against the wood. The screen dims as it rests near the abandoned coffee mug, a reminder of the decision I’ve now set in motion.

For a moment, I linger, my fingertips brushing the edge of the desk as if drawn to the weight of what I’ve just done.

Then, as though propelled by the restless energy that refuses to dissipate, I turn away and resume pacing.

My feet trace the same familiar route across the room, each step stirring the air thick with tension and apprehension.

The rhythm of my movement is erratic, matching the disquiet that brews beneath the surface—a symphony of doubt and determination, vying for dominance in the space I cannot seem to escape.

The dread settles in like a creeping fog, heavy and suffocating, wrapping itself around my chest with the grip of inevitability.

The message, so deceptively simple in its wording, feels like the tolling bell of a fate I cannot escape.

Its stark glow on the phone screen, now dimmed, burns in my memory—a signal sent into the void, a spark igniting consequences I have yet to comprehend fully.

What I’m about to do doesn’t sit well with me. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. Remi is a nice girl, and she doesn’t deserve any of this. She deserves far better than a bastard like me.

The truth is, I wish I could have her. I wish I could claim some small corner of her world, one where her laughter fills the silence and her presence chases away the shadows that haunt me.

But deep down, I know it’s a dream built on fragile hope, destined to shatter under the weight of who I am and what I bring.

She’s too kind, too pure, too untouched by the darkness that clings to me like a second skin. The thought of dragging her into my reality, of letting her see the broken pieces that make up the whole of me, feels like an unforgivable sin.

She deserves sunlight, not the storm I carry with me.

She deserves love unburdened by fear, not the fragile, trembling thing I could ever hope to offer.

Yet, knowing all this, I cannot stop myself from wanting her. It’s a cruel irony that the very thing I can never have is the only thing that feels like it could make me whole again. So, I will keep my distance, watching from the edges of her life, aching with a longing that will never be fulfilled.

Because to love her is to doom her. And I could never live with myself if I were the one to extinguish her light.

The sound slices through the tension like a blade – a single, sharp ding that reverberates in the silence, pulling my attention like a marionette's string.

I halt mid-step, the rhythm of my pacing shattered, my heart skipping a beat as the room seems to hold its breath alongside me.

The phone, still resting on the desk among the clutter of unspoken decisions, now glows faintly with new life.

Its screen pulses softly, casting an eerie glow over the abandoned coffee mug and the scattered papers that lie speckled with the evening's shadows.

For a moment, I stand frozen, my pulse quickening as the sound echoes in my ears, louder than it has any right to be.

The ding lingers, its presence refusing to be ignored, a herald of something unknown waiting to be acknowledged.

Against the backdrop of my indecision, the glow becomes a beacon, insistent and unyielding.

A message has arrived. Though I have yet to read its contents, the weight of its implications presses down on me, heavy and unrelenting.

I force myself forward, my steps tentative as I approach the desk, feeling as though I’m stepping into the void itself. My fingers hover above the phone, trembling with the apprehension of what awaits me.

With a deep breath, the world seems to narrow, and the glow in the darkened room becomes the only thing I see. The screen brightens fully as I tap it, the message appearing like an uninvited guest, bringing with it the promise of answers—or perhaps more questions.

RemiWithAnI: That sounds absolutely lovely. I’ll see you guys then.

Step one in the process is now underway. I pray that fate will forgive me for what I’m about to do.