“Do you have to go right now?” I ask, though I know how useless the question is.
Jude glances at me with that same haunted look from last night and nods. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “We don’t have a choice.”
He zips his bag shut, the sound too loud in the quiet room. His hands are shaking worse now. Micah catches it, digs through his jacket for a small white baggie.
“Not yet,” he says. “I can make it until we’re there.”
My throat tightens. I want to tell him to stop. To stay. But he’s already halfway gone, mind pulling him back toward the darkness he’s still tangled in.
And as they head for the door, Micah turns back long enough to say, “We’ll call you later, okay?”
I nod, even though my chest feels like it’s splitting open from everything I’ve learned this weekend. Jude is barely even looking at me this morning, and I don’t know how to feel about it.Does he even remember telling me he loved me last night? Is he embarrassed? Probably.When the door closes behind them, the silence hits so hard. I press my palms to my eyes, inhale, exhale, and try not to fall apart. Because now I know that they’re just walking back into hell.
I take a shaky breath, then pull out my phone and call Heather.
Chapter twenty
EMMA EASTON
My mind is everywhere as I wait for my first client. The air is crisper this Monday morning, carrying the faint scent of rain and woodsmoke—the quiet signal that October is close. My birth month. Heather says I’m indecisive because I’m a Libra. Honestly? I believe her.
I sink into the green velvet couch near the window and let out a slow sigh. Sunlight slips through the blinds, pooling in soft, golden stripes across the studio floor. It feels almosttoocalm after everything that’s happened. Nova is curled up on her dog bed in the corner, paws twitching as she chases something only she can see. Lucky her.
I haven’t slept much since this weekend—since seeing Jude like that. Since knowing what he’s done.
I texted him earlier. Nothing dramatic. Just simple.
Dinner tonight? You and Micah. Me and Heather.
It’s time to talk. Time to make arealplan. The thought tightens my chest. I keep seeing his face from that night—how he could barely form words, the red marks on his skin, the exhaustion etched into every inch of his body. The way he saidI love youlike it was both a confession and a goodbye.
I’m not even sure he remembers saying it.
The door chime breaks my spiral, and my first client stepsin. A young woman, barely in her twenties, clutching a tote bag to her chest. Her parents were killed in a car wreck a few months ago, and her grief has been harder than most I’ve seen. Heavier. I can see it in the way her shoulders hunch, like she’s carrying something far too big for her small frame.
I smile gently and motion her toward the easel. Helping people face their darkness is what I do best. What I never thought I’d have to do...is help the man I love face his.
The house smells like garlic, butter, and chicken bone broth. I stir the soup again, even though it doesn’t need it. My mind won’t stop replaying all the trauma I’ve helped my clientsuntangle—grief, rage, guilt, the slow climb back to themselves. So many of them have improved. Found their footing again. I’m proud of that work. I just hope I can use what I’ve learned to help Jude. And Micah.
But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous.
Usually, I can care from a professional distance. With Jude, there has never been distance. He was my first love. Well, my only one. And whatever tether bound us back then never snapped. It just stretched while we were apart.
The idea of stepping back into his darkness scares me. Especially the anger. It’s always been there, simmering in his blood. Everything changed after Nicholas died.Hechanged. Jude never forgave the man who drank too much and swerved into the wrong lane. He never forgot the sound of metal folding in on itself. The sound of screaming in genuine fear.
Even after the sentencing and apologies, prison bars weren’t justice to Jude. He wanted to kill him. I remember sitting beside him while he clenched his jaw through various triggers, white-knuckling his way toward something like control. For a while, the anger management worked.
But knowing he’s a loose cannon again terrifies me. He could turn on a dime if something sets him off. And now, layeredwith drugs and blackmail?
Jesus.
Heather’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “You’re gonna burn that if you keep zoning out.”
I blink, realizing I’ve been staring into the pot without seeing it. “Sorry,” I say quietly. “Just...thinking.”
“Yeah,” she says gently, sliding past me to take the baguette out of the oven. “I kind of figured.”
She’s in her usual comfort clothes. Black leggings, oversized sage-green hoodie, messy bun. Even Nova looks more relaxedthan I do, sprawled on the kitchen rug, tail thumping lazily each time one of us steps near her.