Chapter 63 Chapter Sixty-three
Lena’s POV
The second I step out of Sebastian’s office, I swear the hallway tilts.
The fluorescent lights feel too bright, the air feels too thin, and my legs… they barely feel like they belong to me. My chest is tight, burning, as if someone reached inside and ripped something out with their bare hands. I blink to steady myself, trying to breathe, trying to at least look like I didn’t just have my soul stepped on.
But I can’t hide everything.
My eyes are wet. My throat hurts. My palms are shaking.
I don’t even get three steps before I hear her.
“Lena?”
Sienna.
Of course it’s Sienna.
She stands right in front of me, perfectly dressed, hair sleek, face painted with a level of innocence so fake it should be illegal. Her heels click once as she steps toward me, lowering her voice like she’s suddenly the office mother.
“Oh my God… are you okay?” she asks, all sweetness and concern. “You look… I mean—you look like you’ve been crying.”
I don’t stop walking.
I don’t look at her.
I don’t answer.
Her perfume chokes the air around me. Vanilla and something sharp underneath—something that reminds me of everything I now regret.
She tries again, a little louder this time, stepping partially into my path.
“Lena, wait. Did something happen? Was it the meeting? Or… did Mr. Sebastian say something?”
She says his name like she owns half of it.
Like she’s testing me.
Like she knows.
And maybe she does.
But I don’t give her a thing.
I sidestep her and walk straight to my desk.
Her voice follows me, more insistent now.
“Lena, seriously, you don’t look—”
I sit, open my laptop, and pretend the world isn’t falling apart.
She stands there for a moment, waiting for me to respond, and when I don’t, I feel her eyes narrow—sharp, cold, assessing—before she finally gives a tight scoff and walks away.
The second she leaves, the room feels quieter, but it doesn’t help.
Nothing helps.
Not when Sebastian’s words are still echoing in my head.
“It was just a fling.”
“I’m tired. Tired of you. Tired of fucking you.”
“Whatever happened there is off.”
The last one slices me all over again.
Off.
Like a switch.
Like I was some temporary entertainment he could turn on and off when it suited him.
I swallow hard and try to focus on my screen. The numbers blur. The letters blur. I can barely see anything through the tears threatening to fall again.
I force myself to straighten my back.
I will not cry at work.
Not here.
Not where Sienna can see.
Not where Sebastian might walk past.
Not where I’ll look like the fool he already painted me as.
I keep my head down and pretend to type.
Minutes pass.
Or maybe hours.
Time dissolves into a heavy, numb fog.
Every sound digs under my skin—footsteps, the ding of an elevator, the low murmur of coworkers chatting. Every noise feels like pressure on a bruise, reminding me of the reality I’m trying not to think about.
I check my phone once.
No message.
No call.
Not even a follow-up lie.
He really meant it.
The man who held me like I was breakable.
The man who fed me, carried me, kissed me.
The man who whispered my name like a promise—
Is the same man who just told me he’s tired of me.
I press my hand to my chest.
It hurts.
Physically hurts.
Like something inside is bruised and swelling and begging for relief.
By noon, I can’t breathe in the office anymore. So I stand, close my laptop, and walk straight to my supervisor’s desk.
“I’m not feeling well,” I say, voice shaking. “Can I head home early?”
She looks at my face once and doesn’t even ask a follow-up question.
“Of course, Lena. Go rest.”
I nod, grab my bag, and walk toward the elevator.
Every step feels like an effort.
Like I’m dragging my heart behind me on the floor.
When the elevator doors close, I finally let a tear fall.
Just one.
But it’s enough to break the dam.
By the time I reach the lobby, I’m wiping my cheeks with my sleeve. I keep my head low, hoping nobody looks too closely. I push through the revolving door, the cool afternoon air hitting my face—and something inside me cracks again.
I stand on the sidewalk, staring blindly at the cars passing, and I swear I’ve never felt so stupid.
So small.
So disposable.
How could I read him so wrong?
How could I think he felt something?
How could I let myself fall this hard for someone who sees me as nothing but… nothing?
Another tear slips out.
I take a shaky breath and limp toward the bus stop. My toe still aches a little, but the pain doesn’t even scratch the surface of the one inside my chest.
By the time I get home, my hands are trembling as I unlock the door.
Inside, the silence hits me harder than anything.
The apartment feels too still.
Too empty.
Too quiet.
I drop my bag on the couch and crumble to the floor, covering my mouth with both hands to stop the sob that rises too fast.
But it doesn’t work.
I cry.
For the first time all day, I really cry.
Not quiet tears. Not contained ones.
Real, body-shaking, weak sobs.
I cry until my throat burns.
Until my eyes ache.
Until I can’t breathe through my nose.
Because he didn’t just reject me.
He humiliated me.
He dragged my feelings out, looked me in the eyes, and crushed them like they meant nothing.
I don’t know how long I’m there.
Minutes. Hours. I don’t know.
All I know is that I hear the front door open at some point, and footsteps rush toward me.
“Lena?”
Avery.
Her voice breaks on my name.
She drops her bag instantly and kneels in front of me, wrapping her arms around my shoulders before I can even warn her not to.
“Oh my God,” she whispers, holding me tighter. “What happened? Baby, what happened?”
And just like earlier, the tears don’t stop.
I shake my head against her shoulder, unable to speak.
She strokes my hair gently, the way someone strokes a child who’s had a nightmare.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re safe. Talk to me when you can.”
I try.
I really do.
But the words get stuck in my chest.
It takes nearly five minutes before I manage to choke anything out.
“He…” I whisper, voice cracking. “He said it was a fling.”
Avery freezes.
“A fling?” she repeats, disbelief thick in her tone. “Sebastian?”
I nod.
Her hold tightens instantly.
“That bastard.”
And then she says it again, louder.
“That absolute bastard.”
More tears spill down my face, soaking her shirt.
She pulls back slightly, cupping my cheeks gently, forcing me to look at her.
“Lena. Look at me.”
I do.
Barely.
Her eyes soften, dim with anger and sympathy at the same time.
“You did nothing wrong,” she says slowly. “He did. He hurt you. Not because you’re not enough—but because he’s not the man you thought he was.”
My lip trembles.
She thumbs the tear from my cheek.
“He doesn’t deserve you crying like this.”
She pulls me into her again, rocking me a little.
And in her arms, I finally let the pain come out the way it needs to—not silent and held back, but raw and honest.
Avery stays with me on the floor until my breathing calms.
Until the sobs fade into hiccups.
Until the ache settles into something dull and heavy instead of sharp and tearing.
Then she whispers, soft but firm:
“I’ve got you. You’re not alone.”
I close my eyes.
I’m exhausted.
Drained.
Heartbroken.
But Avery’s warmth beside me is the only thing keeping me from completely collapsing.
She holds my hand, squeezes it once, and rests her head against mine.
And that’s where the night ends.