Chapter 17 Almost Saying it
Coralyn's POV
By the time I finally gather enough courage to go downstairs the next morning, my nerves are stretched thin, frayed like old rope holding up too much weight.
But the universe isn't on my side because Orion is already there.
He’s standing by the counter, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows in a way that looks devastatingly casual, phone gripped in his hand.
He looks… the same.
He looks calm, composed, and perfectly put together, his expression a fortress that remains completely unreadable to me.
The sight of him, so steady while I feel like I’m losing my damn mind, makes my stomach flip in a way I immediately and deeply resent.
“Morning,” he says when he notices me, his voice steady and low.
“Morning,” I reply, the word tripping off my tongue too quickly.
I sound so breathless that I want to slap my cheeks and give myself a pep talk at the corner. But I don't.
Silence follows and it’s the awkward, fragile kind.
Neither of us seems sure how to take the first step without seeming like total fools. I hover near the edge of the room, my feet glued to the floorboards, suddenly hyperaware of the way my hands are dangling, the stiffness of my posture, and the rhythmic, too-loud sound of my own breathing.
I don’t know how to talk to him now.
The bridge we crossed last night is the cause of all this... Tension.
Yesterday flashes through my mind in very vivid pieces.
What did that mean?
I open my mouth, but the words got stuck in my throat so I close it again.
Orion shifts, the movement fluid and deliberate, like he’s finally about to break the tension and speak too. His lips part, his eyes searching mine—
“Orion!” Zilla’s voice cuts through the moment like a sharpened blade.
She barrels into the room with all the unbridled energy of a small, localized storm, effectively shattering the quiet. “I’m bored. I wanna play today.”
"Zilla." He growls, the sound frustrated. Whether from his daughter calling his name or from him being irritated.
Just like that, the tension snaps, the pieces scattering to the corners of the room.
Orion looks at her, a subtle loosening of his shoulders that somehow stings more than it should. Does he really want to escape me that badly? “You want to play?” he asks her, his focus shifting entirely.
“Yes,” she says emphatically, crossing her arms over her chest. “Like really play. Not just sitting here watching shows.”
He nods thoughtfully, his thumb stroking the side of his phone. “Let me check something. But... Don't call Daddy by his name anymore alright?"
"Yes Daddy." She answered sweetly.
I somehow doubted that she would listen to that warning.
He calls the hotel, pacing the length of the kitchen slowly as he listens. I stand there, suddenly feeling invisible, a ghost in my own life, watching him nod and hum in response to whatever the person on the other end is saying. He’s back in his element—decisive, parental, distant.
When he hangs up, he looks at Zilla with a small, genuine smile. “They have a kiddies area which has games, activities, the whole thing.”
Her face lights up, the boredom vanishing instantly. “Really?”
“Really.”
She claps, bouncing on her toes with a frantic kind of joy. “Let’s go! Right now!”
He glances at me then. It’s just a quick look, a mere second of contact, but it lands heavy in the pit of my stomach.
“We’ll talk when I get back,” he says, his voice final, leaving no room for argument.
I nod, because there is nothing else to do. “Yes sir...err, I mean okay.”
And just like that, he’s gone. The door closes behind them, the heavy click of the lock echoing louder than it should in the sudden quiet.
The penthouse feels empty without them, the high ceilings and wide-open spaces suddenly feeling like a vacuum that wanted to suck me in. I wander around at first, trailing my fingers over the backs of chairs and the edges of tables, trying to distract myself with the place, but my thoughts refuse to cooperate. They spiral fast, sharp, and merciless, carving paths of doubt through my mind.
What if he spent the whole night regretting what happened?
What if he wanted to say something this morning and didn’t because he didn’t know how to find the right words to tell me to leave?
What if that’s what “we’ll talk” means? A polite way to usher me out of his life?
My chest tightens, a knot of anxiety forming just under my ribs as the minutes tick by. I sit on the edge of the sofa, then stand, then pace to the window and back again. I check the time, certain an eternity has passed. Only five minutes. It feels like twenty. It feels like a lifetime.
I replay every interaction, every syllable, every stolen glance, searching for a hidden meaning or a secret sign that may not even exist outside of my own desperate imagination.
He was calm. Too calm and besides, he wasn't shaken like I am.
What if I misread everything? What if the softness I thought I saw was just my own heart playing tricks on me because it was what I wanted to believe?
What if last night was just a mistake to him? A moment of weakness he’s already moved past?
The thought makes my throat burn with the threat of tears I refuse to shed.
I wrap my arms around myself, shivering, suddenly cold despite the artificial warmth of the room.
I hate how quickly my mind jumps to the worst possible conclusions, the way it builds a platform for my own execution. I hate how vulnerable I feel over something that hasn’t even been said yet, how much power he has over my heartbeat without even being in the room.
By the time the door opens again, my nerves are shot, frayed into nothingness.
It hasn’t even been thirty minutes. He must have just dropped her off and turned right back around. Orion steps inside alone.
Was he that eager to get rid of me?
My heart leaps straight into my throat, thudding against my pulse point so hard it hurts.
“Sit down,” he says gently, gesturing toward the couch with a tilt of his head.
The tone of his voice makes my stomach drop into a free fall. It isn’t angry. It isn't cold or dismissive. It’s serious. It’s the tone of a man who has made a decision. I sit, my knees feeling like they’re made of water.
He takes the opposite end of the couch, leaving a careful, measured amount of space between us. It feels like a boundary he’s afraid to cross.
The silence stretches between us, thick and unbearable, vibrating with all the things we haven't said.
I can’t take it. The pressure is too much, the silence too loud.
“I don’t feel like last night was a mistake,” he says at the exact same time I blurt out the words I’ve been dreading: “Last night was a mistake.”