Chapter 24
We stepped out of the theater into the parking lot. The afternoon sun hit my face, bright and warm after the dim theater.
Amy yawned and rubbed her eyes.
I buckled her in, my hands moving on autopilot.
Adam stood by the passenger door, waiting.
I straightened up. "Mr. Sterling, do you need me to drive you home?"
"Sure," he said. "Thanks."
Wait. What?
"I was just—" I started.
"Let's go." He opened the passenger door and slid into the seat.
I stared at him through the windshield.
He's seriously taking me up on this?
I was being polite!
I got in the driver's side, gripping the steering wheel harder than necessary.
Fine. Whatever. I'd drop him off and be done with it.
---
The drive to Seaport was quiet.
Amy hummed softly in the backseat, her head resting against the side of the car seat.
Adam stared out the window, his profile sharp against the afternoon light.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled up in front of 50 Liberty Drive.
"Mr. Sterling," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "We're here."
"Amy," he said, turning to look at the backseat. "Want to come up and see my place?"
"No," I said quickly. "We can't. We have plans tonight."
Adam's gaze shifted to me. "Plans?"
"Yes. Plans." I gripped the steering wheel. "With a friend."
"What friend?"
I clenched my jaw. "The one who helped us buy the car."
Why am I even explaining this to him?
He's not my boyfriend. He's not my husband. He has no right to question me.
But I answered anyway because I wanted this conversation to end. I wanted him out of my car.
Adam's expression softened slightly. He nodded once, then slowly unbuckled his seatbelt.
Finally.
He opened the door and stepped out.
I leaned over and grabbed the door handle, yanking it shut before he could say anything else.
The door slammed harder than I intended.
Adam jerked back, his hand barely missing the edge.
I bit back a smile.
Oops.
---
When we got home, I helped Amy out of the car seat. "Come on, baby. Let's go inside."
As I locked the car, I glanced at the car seat still strapped in the back.
That thing probably cost a fortune.
But we'd had the movie. I'd driven him home. That made us even, right?
Right.
I grabbed Amy's hand and headed toward the building.
We're done. No more contact. No more Adam Sterling.
I had a job to focus on. A daughter to raise. A life to build.
I didn't have time to get tangled up in Adam Sterling's mess again.
That night, after Amy fell asleep, I sat on the couch with my phone in my hand.
Adam Sterling.
I opened his contact, my finger hovering over the "Block" button.
Then I pressed it.
A confirmation message popped up.
Block this contact?
I tapped "Confirm."
Done.
I opened Instagram next.
I clicked "Remove Follower."
Another confirmation message.
Remove @AdamSterling?
I tapped "Confirm" before I could overthink it.
There.
It's done.
I set my phone down and leaned back against the couch.
It's better this way.
---
The next week was a blur.
Julian was drowning in meetings for the Austin project. Which meant I was drowning too.
I barely had time to eat, let alone think about Adam Sterling.
My days were packed with conference calls, document reviews, travel arrangements, and putting out fires.
I'd get to the office at 8:30 AM and wouldn't leave until 8:00 PM. Sometimes later.
By the time I got home, I was too exhausted to do anything but collapse on the couch.
This is good, I told myself. This is what I need.
Work. Amy. That's it.
No space for anything—or anyone—else.
And honestly? It felt good.
It felt safe.
---
Saturday night, Amy was already asleep when Chloe showed up at my door with two bottles of wine and a bag of takeout.
She pulled out containers of pad thai, spring rolls, and mango sticky rice. "Sit. Eat. And then we're drinking."
I sat down at the table. "What's the occasion?"
"Do I need an occasion to see my best friend?" She poured herself a generous glass of wine.
I frowned. "What happened?"
She took a long sip of wine. "He came back."
I stilled. "Your ex?"
"Yep." She refilled her glass even though she'd barely touched it. "Marcus fucking Hayes. Showed up at my building this afternoon."
"Chloe—"
"He said he missed me." She laughed bitterly. "Can you believe that? He missed me."
I set down my fork. "What did you say?"
"I told him to go to hell." She drained half her glass in one gulp. "But then he started crying. Actual tears, Maya. Saying his marriage is a disaster. Saying his wife doesn't understand him. Saying I'm the only one who ever really got him."
"Chloe—"
"And you know what the kicker is?" She looked at me, her eyes glassy. "He asked me to wait. Again. Just wait a little longer while he 'figures things out.'"
"Tell me you said no."
"Of course I said no." She poured more wine. "But then he said if I really loved him, I'd be patient. I'd understand that he can't just abandon his kids."
"His kids that he never told you about for three fucking years," I said flatly.
"Exactly." She stabbed a spring roll with her fork. "So I told him that if he really loved me, he wouldn't have lied. He wouldn't have wasted three years of my life. And he sure as hell wouldn't be asking me to be his side piece while he plays happy family."
"Good."
"And then—" She paused, her voice cracking. "And then he had the audacity to say I was being selfish. That I didn't understand how hard this was for him."
I stood up, walked around the table, and pulled her into a hug.
She clung to me, her shoulders shaking.
"I hate him," she whispered. "I hate him so much."
"I know."
"But I hate myself more." She pulled back, wiping her eyes. "For believing him. For wasting all that time. For being so fucking stupid."
"You weren't stupid," I said firmly. "He was a manipulative asshole. That's not on you."
"I'm done wasting my life on that bastard."
"So what's next?" I asked. "What are you going to do?"
She was quiet for a moment, picking at her spring roll. Then she looked up. "I'm thinking about traveling for a while. Get out of Boston. Clear my head. Maybe come back and look for a new job."
"That sounds perfect," I said. "Where are you thinking?"
"I don't know. Europe? Southeast Asia? Anywhere that's not here." She managed a small smile. "Maybe I'll meet a hot twenty-five-year-old with abs and no emotional baggage."
I grinned. "Now you're talking. Ditch the old men. Find yourself a nice young guy with energy and a functioning moral compass."
"From your lips to God's ears," Chloe said, raising her glass in a mock toast.