Page 28

“Recently?”

I sigh. “Very recently.”

Her expression softens enough to catch me off guard. “That sucks.”

“It wasn’t great.”

“Was he terrible?”

The answer comes so quickly I don’t even have to think about it.

I reach for my drink instead. “For a long time.”

Lena studies me for a few seconds, and I brace myself for the next question. I’m trying hard to leave Spencer where he belongs, firmly in the past, and I have no interest in dissecting the relationship over lunch.

To my surprise, she lets it go.

I pull my phone from my pocket as I leave the conference room, already thinking about getting home, changing into pajamas, and spending the rest of the evening with absolutely no conversations about passwords, onboarding procedures, or corporate objectives.

The screen lights up.

Spencer.

A message sits beneath his name.

Can we talk?

People move around me in both directions while I stand in the middle of the corridor staring at the screen.

A month ago, seeing his name would’ve hooked itself into the rest of my evening. I would’ve picked apart every possibility, wondering what he wanted, what he’d decided, whether he’d finally found the right combination of words to explain why we’d spent so long trying to force a relationship to work when neither of us had been happy.

Now I mostly feel drained.

The realization settles deeper the longer I look at the message.

I spent years treating our relationship like a project that needed constant maintenance. Every disagreement turned into a discussion. Every discussion turned into another attempt to repair whatever had cracked.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped asking myself whether I wanted to keep doing it and focused entirely on whether I could.

Now I don’t want another conversation. I don’t want another explanation. I don’t want another attempt to salvage a relationship that exhausted both of us long before it ended.

I delete the message, open Spencer’s contact information, and block the number while walking down the corridor.

Relief hits harder than I expect.

The constant question mark that’s followed me around for weeks finally disappears.

I don’t have to wonder whether he’ll text again. I don’t have to prepare myself for another conversation that circles through the same arguments and apologies before ending exactly where it started.

I’m so busy absorbing that realization that I turn the corner and walk straight toward a closing door.

A hand catches it before it connects with my face.

The sudden stop sends my notebook sliding from my arm. I grab for it awkwardly, nearly drop it again, and finally manage to pin it against my chest before looking up.

Of course it’s Bane.

Heat rushes into my cheeks. At this point, the building has to be messing with me.