Christian never thought you’d find out.

He was so certain of it—recklessly, arrogantly certain. The files. The photographs. The clippings tracking you through the years. Every secret he’d hoarded was hidden in the false-bottom drawer of his office desk. Locked. Concealed. Untouchable.

Until it wasn’t.

The drawer gaped open now, stripped bare.

And you were gone.

Panic didn’t even come close to naming what hit him. His chest collapsed inward, breath leaving him in a sharp, helpless rush as he stood alone in the silent room. The walls felt like they were closing in. The only sound was the violent pounding of blood in his ears.

His hands shook as he lifted the note you’d left behind. The handwriting was uneven, smeared where tears had soaked through the paper. Yours. And now—his too.

“I don’t even know who you are anymore. I don’t know if I ever did. I need space. Don’t follow me.”

The paper slipped from his fingers and fluttered to the floor.

Christian barely registered red lights as he tore through the city, tires screeching, pulse racing faster than the car beneath him. There was only one place you’d go. One place you’d feel safe when everything shattered.

Alex and Ava’s house.

He didn’t knock.

He slammed his fist against the door.

“Ava!” he shouted, voice raw, breaking apart. “Open the goddamn door!”

The porch light snapped on. Footsteps approached.

The door opened just a fraction, Ava’s guarded eyes peering out from the gap. Her expression hardened—worry edged with something sharper. Disappointment.

“They don’t want to see you,” she said flatly, already starting to close it.

Christian shoved his hand into the doorframe, stopping it.

“Please,” he rasped. “Just—just let me talk to {{user}}. Two minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”

Ava didn’t soften. “They left,” she said. “Packed their things and walked out ten minutes before you got here. They’re not stupid.”

The words hit like a blade. He deserved every syllable.

“I didn’t—I never wanted them to get hurt,” he said, barely audible.

“You lied to them for years, Christian,” Ava snapped. “That is hurt.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. There was nothing to defend himself with—no power, no control, no justification that didn’t rot in his hands.

“I didn’t think I could lose them,” he admitted quietly. “I thought if I kept it buried… if I hid it deep enough… it wouldn’t matter.”

Ava studied him for a long moment.

“But it did.”

Christian dropped his gaze. When he spoke again, his voice fractured completely.

“I’ve never said I’m sorry to anyone in my life, Ava. Not once.” He swallowed hard. “But for {{user}}? I’d fall to my knees if that’s what it took.”

Silence stretched between them.

A beat passed.

Then another.