Chapter 70

Cillian’s phone went straight to voicemail for the fourth time. My stomach knotted with anxiety. I hurled my phone onto the bed, my hands shaking. Aiden wasn’t answering either. Panic coiled in my chest. I’d tried Aiden’s phone several times; on the few attempts he’d answered, he’d immediately turned it off. My overactive mind conjured images I didn’t want to entertain.

The last time I spoke to Aiden, during his offer, the conversation had been tense—an understatement; it had been awful. He’d snapped at me, saying he shouldn’t have told me his past, that I felt like an intruder in his life.

It was my fault. He’d trusted me with a secret, and I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. How the hell did I screw this up so badly?

I paced the bedroom, my phone clutched in my hand. I repeatedly redialed his number, steeling myself for an answer, only to have my stomach drop when it went straight to voicemail again.

“He’s fine,” I told myself, trying to calm my heart. “He’s just angry, and he’s probably ignoring me.” That wasn’t reassuring, but the alternatives my anxious mind offered were worse.

Gia’s soft call, “Mommy?” snapped me back to reality. She stood in the doorway, holding her favorite stuffed rabbit, her sleepy eyes on me, her fingers rubbing its ear.

“Where’s Daddy?” she asked, climbing onto the bed with the confidence of a child who believed her parents could fix anything.

I swallowed my worry and smiled as reassuringly as I could. “I think he might be running late,” I said, smoothing her hair.

Her mouth turned down, and her shoulders slumped. Gia loved Aiden’s bedtime stories; it was their ritual.

“You need to get some sleep now,” I said softly. “Come on, I’ll tuck you in.”

As I walked Gia to her room, my heart ached. I couldn’t let her see my worry, but every minute felt like an eternity without hearing from Aiden.

AIDEN

I groaned as sunlight hit me like a sledgehammer. It was blindingly bright; for a second, I didn’t know where I was. My head pounded.

Where the hell was I?

I blinked, slowly taking in my surroundings: a sleek living room, a cityscape visible through floor-to-ceiling windows. Recognition hit me—Cillian’s penthouse.

Vivid images of last night crept into my head: jarring fragments. I’d started with one drink to calm my nerves; things quickly spiraled into double digits—so much whiskey.

I massaged my temples, hoping to ease the throbbing.

“Fuck. My head hurts,” I croaked, my voice raspy.

“Yeah, drinking a whole bottle of whiskey does that to you,” Cillian replied dryly, lounging on the couch as if he hadn’t been equally intoxicated the night before.

I saw my phone on the table. Dead. Of course.

“Give me your charger,” I grumbled.

Cillian muttered something before disappearing into his bedroom. He returned with a charger and his phone.

As I plugged in my phone, guilt crept in. I hadn’t called Freya last night. I hadn’t told her I wasn’t coming home. My phone had died, but that was no excuse.

Cillian was scrolling through his phone. “I have so many missed calls from Freya,” he said, casually but pointedly.

My chest tightened. Of course, she’d tried to reach him when she couldn’t reach me. I felt like a complete idiot. “She couldn’t reach me,” I muttered.

Chapter 20 (Fat's Check-in - This seems like a separate story, and should be presented as such)

Cillian snorted. “You didn’t tell her you weren’t going home?”

The guilt churned. “We didn’t talk after yesterday afternoon.”

Cillian’s eyes flicked to me, curious. “Why? Did you fight with her?”

I didn’t respond immediately, but his gaze didn’t waver.

“You did,” he muttered, half-amused, half-exasperated. “What did you say?”

I hesitated. “I snapped at her,” I finally admitted.

Cillian’s brow lifted, urging me to continue.

“And I asked her to go away.” The confession felt like a slap.

“Why?” His incredulity was palpable.

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “You know why.”

He shook his head, unconvinced. “Dude, it was me. I basically trapped her to tell me the truth.”

The morning light brought a brutal dose of reality. I’d had an idiot moment. I’d let my temper run wild and hurt Freya—whom I couldn’t imagine living without.

“I went overboard,” I admitted. “She’s probably mad at me.”

Cillian snorted, teasing but truthful. “You messed up by asking her to leave. You didn’t go home last night. And you didn’t take her calls. She’s more than furious. I’m sure she’s packing a bag as we speak.”

His words hit me like a brick. The thought of losing her, of not waking up beside her every morning, was unbearable.

No. Not that.

I grabbed my phone and jacket and marched to the elevator. I heard Cillian’s sarcastic remark: “Pussy whipped.”

Maybe I was. Maybe I’d been wrapped around Freya’s finger since the day I met her. But I didn’t care. Losing her wasn’t acceptable.

I wouldn’t let her leave. I’d go home, apologize, beg if I had to, and if that didn’t work, I’d probably lock her in my room. But I wouldn’t let her leave me.