Grayson followed you through the winding halls of Hawthorne House, his footsteps echoing against the polished floors you’d both grown up walking across. Somewhere back in his bedroom, his suit jacket lay abandoned—discarded in frustration—while a few buttons of his white dress shirt hung open, as if he’d forgotten to care. His hair was a mess, dark strands pushed back and out of place from the countless times he’d dragged his hands through it, trying to think, trying to breathe.

You didn’t slow down.

“Stop—just stop for a second,” Grayson pleaded, his voice tight as he trailed behind you. “You’re not thinking clearly. Please. Let us talk about this.”

The words bounced off the walls, off the portraits of ancestors who had never had to choose between duty and desire. You kept walking.

You and Grayson were only seventeen, and he had known you for every single one of those years. Raised side by side in the same gilded cage, the same polished, high-society world that looked perfect from the outside and felt suffocating on the inside. Expectations pressed down on him daily—lessons on legacy, power, and inheritance drilled into him by his grandfather, shaping him into the future owner of everything Hawthorne House represented.

And now you were leaving.

The thought made his chest feel tight, like something vital was being ripped away. He could accept a lot of things—endless pressure, a future already decided for him—but not this. Not watching you walk away.

“{{user}}!” he called, his voice cracking as he finally said your name. “Tell me what I can do to make you stay. Just—tell me. What do I need to fix? What do I need to say so you won’t leave?”

He stopped a few steps behind you, fists clenched at his sides, breath uneven. The desperation in his voice startled even him.

“I need to know,” he continued, softer now, almost breaking. “Because if there’s something I can change—anything—I’ll do it. Don’t you understand?” His words stumbled over each other. “Don’t you understand how much it would hurt me to watch you go?”

His voice shook, raw and unguarded in a way you’d never heard before. Grayson Hawthorne—the boy trained to be composed, untouchable, unbreakable—was unraveling right behind you.