Page 37 of Shattered

Axel looked up from his laptop, his expression shifting the moment he saw my face. He started to stand but I shook my head, mouthing “it’s okay” even though it wasn’t.

“Actually, Mom, Miguel’s right here. Do you want to talk to him?”

“Oh, yes! Put him on!”

I held out the phone to Axel. He looked confused for half a second, then understanding crossed his face. He took the phone without a flicker of hesitation.

“Hello, Elena.” His voice dropped into something warm and gentle. “Yes, I got the roses. Red ones, just like you asked.”

I sat on the couch and listened to Axel pretend to be my dead father. Listened to him tell my mother about flowers and anniversary plans and how much he loved her. His voice stayed steady, patient, while I pressed my hands against my thighs to keep them from shaking.

“The reservation is confirmed,” he was saying. “Seven o’clock, our favorite table by the window. I’m looking forward to it.”

My mother said something I couldn’t hear, and Axel’s face softened. “I love you too. More than anything. I’ll see you soon.”

He handed me back the phone. Mom was crying—happy tears, from the sound of it—saying how lucky she was, how she couldn’t wait for their anniversary.

I talked her through the rest of the call, my voice somehow staying level while everything inside me crumbled. When I finally hung up, the apartment was too quiet.

Axel didn’t say anything. Just stood and walked to the kitchen.

I sat there, holding my phone, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying not to think about how my mother had forgotten her husband was dead. How she’d been so happy talking to him.How I’d lied to her because the truth would have destroyed that happiness.

Axel reappeared with tea, set it on the table in front of me without a word, then went back to his laptop like nothing had happened.

The gesture cracked something small and fragile in my chest.

Not the tea itself—though it was perfect, the exact temperature I liked, with honey the way I preferred. But the fact that he’d done it without being asked. Without making it a thing. Without forcing me to explain or justify or fall apart with an audience.

He’d just… helped.

I picked up the tea and drank it, and tried not to cry.

Friday morning, Axel left for work early.

“Board meeting,” he said, grabbing his coat. “Might run late.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll make sure to?—”

“Axel. It’s fine. Go to your meeting.”

He nodded and left, and suddenly the apartment was too quiet.

I tried to paint. Lasted maybe thirty minutes before I noticed the silence getting louder. The apartment felt wrong without the click of his keyboard, without his occasional phone calls conducted in that low, professional voice that made him sound like someone who had his life very well-put together.

I checked the time and it’s 10 a.m. He’d been gone for an hour.

This was ridiculous. I’d lived alone for years. I’d been fine. I didn’t need Axel Irving’s presence to function like a normal human being.

By noon, I’d checked the time six more times.

By three, I was actively annoyed with myself.

By five, when I heard his key in the lock, my heart did something stupidly eager before I could stop it.

He walked in carrying takeout bags that smelled incredible.