CHAPTER 82: HATTIE

CHAPTER 82: HATTIE
The silence that followed was deafening, but it was better than the noise in my head. I pressed my palms to my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Then came the knock. Sharp. Firm. I froze. Another knock—louder this time. “Of course,” I muttered under my breath, anger flaring again. I yanked the door open. Preston stood there, his expression unreadable, his chest rising and falling like he’d run the whole way. Before I could say a word, he stepped forward, pushing past me into the apartment.

“Seriously?” I snapped, slamming the door shut behind him. “What do you want, Preston?” He turned to face me, his eyes raw, tired. “I need to say something. And you need to hear it.” I crossed my arms, still seething. “You’ve said enough.” “No,” he said quietly. “Not this.” Something in his tone made me stop. He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once before looking back at me. “I messed up, Hattie,” he said, voice rough. “I know that. But when you lost the baby… I got scared. Not just for you, but of losing you completely. You were in that hospital bed, pale and quiet, and I kept thinking—what if it had gone worse? What if I lost both of you?”

My throat tightened, but I stayed silent. “I didn’t know how to help you,” he went on. “I didn’t know how to fix it. I kept thinking it was my fault—that I’d done something to cause it. And instead of being there, I ran. Because I didn’t know how to face what I’d broken.” He took a shaky breath, his voice softening. “I was excited for that baby, Hattie. I was ready. I wanted to be a family. I even bought you a ring.” My heart stuttered. “What?” He nodded, eyes glistening. “I was going to propose. I had it all planned out. I was moving my headquarters to Idaho so I could be home more—for you, for the baby. I wanted to build something real.” He swallowed hard, his voice cracking.

“And then we lost the baby, and everything changed. I didn’t know how to look at you without seeing what we lost. I didn’t know how to be the man you needed me to be.” The room felt smaller, the air thick with everything we’d never said. I turned away, pressing a hand to my mouth. The anger that had carried me this far started to crumble, replaced by something heavier—grief, maybe. Or the ghost of it. “You should’ve told me,” I whispered. “I know,” he said. “But I didn’t know how.” I turned back to him, tears stinging my eyes. “You left me to grieve alone, Preston. You left me when I needed you most.” He nodded, his voice barely audible. “I know. And I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.” For a long moment, neither of us spoke.

The only sound was the faint hum of the city outside, the weight of everything between us pressing down. Finally, I said, “You can’t fix this with words.” “I’m not trying to,” he said softly. “I just needed you to know the truth.” He stepped back toward the door, his hand lingering on the knob. “I’m sorry, Hattie. For all of it.” When the door closed behind him, I sank onto the couch, my chest aching. For months, I’d wanted answers. Now that I had them, all I felt was tired. Because some truths don’t heal—they just explain the scars you already carry.

The next morning, the world felt muted. The light through the curtains was soft, the kind that usually made me feel calm, but today it only reminded me of everything that had cracked open the night before. I moved through the motions—coffee, shower, clothes—each step mechanical, my mind replaying Preston’s words. The ring. The move. The plans I never knew existed. For months, I’d told myself he didn’t care. That he’d walked away because he didn’t love me enough to stay. But now, knowing the truth, it didn’t make anything easier. It just made the loss heavier.

When I got to work, I buried myself in it. I edited photos until my eyes blurred, stayed late until the office emptied out. Anything to keep from thinking. By the time I got home, the hallway was quiet again. His door was closed. No sound, no movement. Just stillness. I unlocked my door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of lavender and coffee wrapping around me. I dropped my bag and leaned against the counter, staring at nothing. I thought about the baby. About the tiny heartbeat that had once flickered on a screen, the one that had changed everything before it was gone. I thought about the way Preston had looked last night—broken, honest, human. And I thought about how much I still hurt. I walked to the window, watching the city lights blink against the dark.

Somewhere out there, people were falling in love, starting over, finding peace. I wondered if I’d ever get there. My phone buzzed.

A message from Luca. You okay?

I stared at it for a long time before typing back.

Rough day. But I will be.

Because I would. Maybe not tonight, maybe not tomorrow—but eventually. I turned off the lights and crawled into bed, pulling the blanket tight around me. The ache was still there, but it felt different now—less like a wound, more like a scar that was finally starting to heal. And as I drifted toward sleep, I whispered to the quiet room, “You’re still here, Hattie. You’re still standing.” For the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.

Sleep wouldn’t come. I tossed, turned, flipped my pillow, kicked off the blanket, pulled it back on again. My mind wouldn’t stop replaying everything—his words, the look in his eyes, the ache that had settled somewhere deep in my chest. Finally, I gave up. Still wrapped in my blanket, I swung my legs out of bed and stood. The apartment was dark, quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. I padded to the door, barefoot, heart pounding even though I didn’t know why.

Before I could talk myself out of it, I unlocked the door, stepped into the hallway, and locked it behind me. The blanket trailed behind me as I trudged across to Preston’s door. I hesitated, staring at the wood grain, my hand hovering. I didn’t even know what I wanted—comfort, closure, something in between. I knocked softly, hoping he wouldn’t answer but also hoping he would. A few seconds passed. Nothing. I sighed, turning to go back to my apartment—then the door creaked open. Preston stood there, half‑awake, his hair tousled, eyes heavy with sleep. He looked surprised, confused, and something else I couldn’t name. “Hattie?” he said, voice rough.