Chapter 68

It had been a frantic day. Three meetings back-to-back. My lunch hour was practically nonexistent; besides, it wasn't even over yet. I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. Just then, the door swung open with enough force to startle me out of my brief respite.

I muttered, "Jesus," straightening up. I wasn't expecting anyone, least of all Freya, who hadn't mentioned coming to see me. But there she was, standing in the doorway. Seeing her was always a welcome distraction, just what I needed after the grueling day I'd had. Her presence grounded me, pulling me out of my head. But the look on her face made my stomach churn. Something was wrong.

"Hey," I stood up, already circling my desk to reach her. "What's wrong?"

She hesitated, her mouth opening and closing as if struggling to find the words. That hesitation alone set my nerves on edge.

I gently placed my hands on her shoulders, my brow furrowing with concern. "What happened?" I tried again, softer this time. My mind raced through a million possibilities.

"Cillian called," she finally whispered. "He said he wanted to meet. He knew there was something about your past that you hadn't shared with him, but that you had told me."

The air thickened. I stilled. Tension settled over me like a second skin. I had a guess where this conversation was headed, and none of it was good.

"I'm sorry," Freya said, her eyes darting away from mine. "I told him."

All I could do was stare at her, the words hanging in the air like a cold, dead weight. "I swear I tried," she continued, her voice trembling. "I repeatedly told him he should talk to you, but he was persistent, and—"

"What did you tell him?" My words came out colder than intended, and Freya visibly flinched.

"Aiden, I—"

"Freya," my voice was sharper this time, snapping her out of her hesitation. "What did you tell him?"

Her eyes welled up, but she didn't look away. "That your mother was an addict," she said quietly. "And that she wasn't even a mother to you."

My jaw clenched so tightly it hurt. "What else?"

She hesitated again, and my patience, already frayed, threatened to snap.

"I told him you ended up in the hospital because of her," she admitted, her voice a near whisper. Her face clouded with concern. "He drove off, and I'm not sure he should be driving; he was so upset."

The room felt suffocating. My chest tightened as I pulled out my phone and dialed his number. It rang once before going to voicemail.

"Fuck," I swore under my breath, dialing again. Same result.

"He's not answering the bloody phone," I said, frustration boiling over. I pinched the bridge of my nose, exhaling slowly to control my anger.

"I'm sorry," she whispered again.

"You shouldn't have fucking said anything!" I snapped, the words sharp and cutting. I didn't care.

"I know, and I'm sorry."

"Are you?" I snapped, anger seeping into my voice. "Or are you happy you popped the bubble he was under?"

Her eyes widened in shock, her head jerking back. "No. That wasn't my intention, I swear."

"I hope not," I said sharply. "Because you just stripped something huge from him."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she repeated, her voice cracking.

I couldn't look at her. I turned away, fists clenched at my sides, glaring at the city skyline blurred by my frustration and anger. I whispered, more to myself, "I made a mistake. I shouldn't have shared anything with you."

"Go away, Freya," I said firmly. "I need to find my brother before he wraps his car around a pole." She stood there a moment, as if wanting to say something else, but I didn't give her the chance. I grabbed my jacket, my focus shifting to finding Cillian. I stormed past her.

The elevator seemed to crawl down; each second felt like an eternity. Freya's words echoed in my head: My mom is an addict. She isn't a mother to you. You were hospitalized because of her.

I'd spent years hiding those memories. Christ, Cillian. He'd been too young to remember most of it, and I'd worked so hard to shield him from the worst of it, to protect him from the truth.

But now he knew. And I had no idea what that knowledge was doing to him.

I stepped out into the cool night air, my phone pressed tightly to my ear, dialing his number again. Voicemail. Again.

Think, Aiden. Where would he go?

A memory surfaced: Cillian, at that age, standing on the edge of the pier after a particularly vicious argument with me. It was always where he retreated to clear his head, to be alone. I must have had a feeling he was there.

I got in my car, throwing my jacket onto the passenger seat and starting the engine. My knuckles were white from gripping the steering wheel.

Driving to the pier, I was lost in thought, not really paying attention.

I arrived to find his car parked at a drunken angle near the edge of the parking lot. Relief washed over me, but it was quickly replaced by a growing unease.

I got out and scanned for him. Then I saw him, standing at the far edge of the pier, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders slumped.

"Cillian," I called across the still water; my voice carried.

He didn't turn around.

I approached slowly, my feet making elephantine noises on the wooden planks.

"I know you're hurting," I said when I was within range, "but we need to talk."