Page 124 of Mending Hearts
Yeah. Almost.
But even with the quiet, even with the lobby’s soft lighting and the smell of polished stone, my heart is already pounding like I’m about to go onstage. Because I’m not walking into a performance. I’m walking into the aftermath of my husband’s parents ripping open our life, and I have no idea what Ollie looks like right now.
That scares me more than any camera ever has.
The elevator doors open onto Ollie’s floor, and for a second, I don’t move.
It’s absurd, the hesitation. I just flew halfway across the country. I just walked through a press gauntlet without saying a word. I’ve faced stadiums of fifty thousand people without blinking. And yet stepping into this hallway feels like crossing a line I can’t uncross.
Cassius is waiting outside the loft door, arms folded, posture loose but alert. The moment he sees me, something in his expression shifts—not relief exactly, but confirmation. Like he’d been holding a position and can finally stand down.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey.”
We clasp hands, and he pulls me in for a quick, firm hug that says more than anything verbal would. I know that grip. It’s the grip of someone who stayed when things got loud.
“He’s solid,” Cass says quietly near my ear. “But he’s been solid before.”
That lands harder than he probably intends.
“I know,” I answer.
He nods once and pushes the door open.
The loft is warm and orderly, the kind of space that feels curated rather than decorated. Clean lines. Soft lighting. A faint citrus scent that suggests Ollie scrubbed something recently, probably as a way to burn off energy.
And then I see him.
He’s standing near the kitchen island, phone in hand, a man who I have no doubt is Eric beside him. He looks composed. Centered. His shoulders are squared, jaw set, not pacing, not hollow-eyed.
Relief hits me so suddenly it almost makes me lightheaded.
But I don’t mistake composure for calm. I’ve seen him hold himself together before while something catastrophic was happening under the surface.
“Ollie,” I say.
He turns immediately. There’s a flicker in his eyes—raw and unguarded emotion—before he moves toward me.
We meet halfway across the room, and when his arms wrap around me, they do it with force. Like he needs to verify that I am physically here.
I bury my face in his neck and inhale. “You with me?” I murmur against his skin.
“I’m not spiraling,” he says, and there’s almost disbelief in it. “That’s new.”
The honesty in that makes something ache in my chest. “I’m proud of you,” I tell him quietly.
His grip tightens briefly, then loosens. We turn when Eric steps forward. He’s younger than I expected. Late thirties, earlyforties. Controlled but not cold. He studies me with professional caution but not suspicion.
“Rafe,” he says, offering his hand.
“Eric.”
His grip is firm. Direct.
“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he adds.
“I wasn’t going to sit on my hands.”
