The hum of the office was a thin veneer over the screaming in my own head.
For a week, I’d been a ghost in my own life, haunting the periphery of meetings, subsisting on stale coffee and the acidic churn of guilt.
I’d perfected the art of being busy—a flurry of emails, a stack of floor plans, a phone perpetually pressed to my ear. Anything to avoid the quiet moments when the memory of Rhys’s body, warm and solid against hers, would flash behind my eyes.
Anything to avoid seeing the man himself.
I’d managed it, too. A series of near-misses in the hallway, a strategically timed lunch break, a feigned migraine to get out of a team-wide site visit. It was exhausting, cowardly, and utterly necessary.
“Ava. ”
The voice, low and familiar, cut through my concentration. I didn’t have to look up from the swatches I was pretending to organize. I knew that voice. I
t was the sound of my past, of late-night study sessions, of a life I’d neatly packed away.
Marcus.
He was leaning against my doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He wasn’t wearing his usual power suit; instead, a soft grey jumper clung to his broad shoulders. It was a deliberate choice, I knew.
A casual disarming.
“I’m swamped, Marcus,” I said, my voice brittle. “The caterer for your wedding is having a meltdown over linen colors. ” A lie. The caterer was a consummate professional.
“The linens can wait,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “We need to talk. ”
“There’s nothing to talk about. Everything’s on schedule. ”
He pushed off the doorframe and took two steps into my office, closing the door behind him. The small click of the latch was like a gunshot in the tense silence. “This isn’t about the wedding, Ava. And you know it. You’ve been avoiding me for a week. Ever since I sent the flowers. ”
“I’ve been busy. ”
“You’ve been a ghost,” he corrected softly. He came to a stop in front of my desk, and I was forced to finally look at him. His blue eyes, usually so confident and sharp, were clouded with a genuine concern that made my stomach twist. The lilies on my credenza felt like accusations.
“You ignored my calls. My texts. I’m worried about you, Ava. ” He gestured to the city outside. “Let me take you to dinner. Just to talk. No work. I promise. ”
My first instinct was to say no. A hard, fast refusal. Dinner with Marcus was a minefield of shared history I wasn’t equipped to navigate. Not now, when my nerves were already frayed to the breaking point by Rhys.
But then I saw the look on his face—not just concern, but a deep, aching familiarity.
And I was so, so tired of running. Maybe this was the answer. Maybe this was how I fixed this, how I got back on track. This was the *safe* choice. The *right* choice.
“Fine,” I heard myself say, the word tasting like surrender. “One dinner. ”