Chapter 26 The Truth She Almost Said
Darcy's POV
I don’t realize how long I’ve been sitting there until my neck begins to ache.
Hazel sleeps quietly in her crib, her breathing soft and even, one small hand curled near her face like she’s holding onto something only she can feel. The nightlight casts a faint glow across the room, just enough to see her without disturbing her rest.
I should leave.
There’s nothing more to do here. She’s settled, her medication taken, her temperature normal. Everything is exactly as it should be.
And yet
I stay.
Maybe it's a habit.
Maybe it’s the need to make sure she’s still breathing, still okay, still here.
Or maybe it’s something else entirely.
I exhale slowly, shifting slightly in the chair, my fingers brushing lightly against the edge of the crib.
“You’re going to be fine,” I whisper, more to reassure myself than her.
“She already is.”
The voice comes from the doorway.
I turn.
Adrian stands there, one hand resting lightly against the frame, his expression unreadable in the low light.
“I didn’t hear you come in,” I say quietly.
“I didn’t want to wake her.”
His gaze moves past me, settling on Hazel for a moment before returning.
“You’ve been here a while.”
“I lost track of time.”
He nods once, stepping inside.
There’s something different about the way he moves tonight.
Slower.
More deliberate.
Like he’s not entirely sure what he’s walking into.
Or what he wants from it.
“You should rest,” I say, standing slowly.
“So should you.”
“I will.”
But I don’t move toward the door.
And neither does he.
For a moment, we just stand there, the space between us smaller than it should be, filled with things neither of us is saying.
“You went out today,” he says finally.
“I told you that.”
“You didn’t tell me everything.”
I hesitate.
Because I know what he’s asking.
And I know what comes after.
“It was just a visit,” I say. “Nothing decided.”
“But you’re considering it.”
“Yes.”
Honesty comes easier than I expect.
His jaw tightens slightly, though his expression doesn’t change much beyond that.
“You didn’t think to tell me before you went?”
The question is quiet.
But there’s something beneath it.
Something I don’t want to name.
“It’s my decision,” I reply carefully.
“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”
“But you’re asking like it is.”
“I’m asking because it affects my daughter.”
There it is.
The line again.
Clear.
Defined.
And I understand it.
I do.
But something about the way he says it still settles wrong.
“I wouldn’t leave without making sure she’s okay,” I say.
“That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
The question comes out sharper than I intended.
He doesn’t answer immediately.
And in that pause
something shifts.
His gaze holds mine, steady, searching, like he’s trying to decide how much to say.
“Why that place?” he asks instead.
“What?”
“The daycare. Why that one?”
“It’s simple,” I say. “It’s stable. It makes sense.”
“And this doesn’t?”
I don’t respond.
Because I don’t have an answer that won’t complicate everything.
He takes a step closer.
Not enough to crowd me.
Just enough to make the distance between us… noticeable.
“This doesn’t make sense to you?” he presses.
“It wasn’t supposed to,” I say quietly.
“And now?”
The question lingers.
Too long.
Too close.
I swallow lightly, forcing myself to hold his gaze.
“It still doesn’t,” I say.
It’s not a lie.
But it’s not the whole truth either.
He studies me for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression.
Then
“You’re leaving because of me.”
The words land between us.
Soft.
Certain.
I blink.
“That’s not—”
“It is.”
“No, it’s not,” I say quickly. “I told you why—”
“You told me what makes sense,” he interrupts. “Not what’s true.”
My breath catches slightly.
Because he’s closer now.
Not just physically.
And I don’t like how easily he’s cutting through everything I’ve tried to keep simple.
“You’re making this something it isn’t,” I say.
“Then tell me what it is.”
I open my mouth
and stop.
Because I don’t know how to explain something I haven’t even admitted to myself.
The silence stretches.
Heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Honest.
And suddenly, being in this room feels too small.
“I should go,” I say, stepping past him.
I don’t wait for a response.
I just move.
Out of the room.
Into the hallway.
Away from something that feels like it’s getting too close to the surface.
“Darcy.”
His voice follows me.
I won't stop.
Not immediately.
Not until his hand closes gently but firmly around my wrist.
The contact is enough to halt me.
Not forcefully.
Just… there.
Warm.
Steady.
I look down at it for a second before turning back.
“You’re avoiding this,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
His grip doesn’t tighten.
But it doesn’t loosen either.
“I don’t want to argue,” I say quietly.
“This isn’t an argument.”
“It feels like one.”
“Then stop running from it.”
The words land harder than they should.
I pull my wrist slightly.
He doesn’t let go.
Not immediately.
And that more than anything makes my heart stutter in a way I don’t expect.
“Adrian—”
“Just tell me the truth.”
His voice is lower now.
Not demanding.
Not sharp.
Just… real.
Too real.
I shake my head faintly.
“I already did.”
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
The hallway feels quieter than before.
Closer.
Like the walls are listening.
And for a moment
I almost say it.
Almost tell him that this isn’t just about stability or jobs or belonging.
That it’s about how easy it’s becoming to stay.
How dangerous that feels.
How I don’t trust myself to draw the line if I don’t leave soon.
But the words don’t come.
Because once they do
there’s no taking them back.
“I can’t give you an answer you’ll like,” I say instead.
“I didn’t ask for one I’d like.”
I look at him then.
Really look.
By the way his expression has lost its usual control.
By the way, his hand still hasn’t left my wrist.
By the way, the distance between us feels smaller than it should.
And something in my chest tightens.
“You don’t understand,” I whisper.
“Then help me.”
The simplicity of it makes it worse.
Because I want to.
More than I should.
My gaze drops briefly to where he’s holding me.
Then back to his face.
And before I can stop myself—
“I’m leaving because staying here—”
I stop.
His grip tightens slightly.
“Because staying here, what?” he asks.
My heart pounds.
Too loud.
Too fast.
Too close.
I shake my head.
“I can’t—”
“You can.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Because if I do
everything changes.
I inhale slowly, trying to steady myself.
Trying to pull back.
But his hand is still there.
And he hasn’t looked away.
And the words are right there
on the edge.
“Because if I stay,” I start, my voice barely above a whisper, “I might—”
A sharp knock cuts through the hallway.
Loud.
Suddenly.
Jarring.
We both freeze.
Another knock follows.
More insistent this time.
Adrian’s hand slips from my wrist as his attention shifts toward the door.
I step back instinctively, my pulse still racing.
“Are you expecting someone?” I ask.
“No.”
The knock comes again.
Harder.
This time, accompanied by a voice from the other side.
“Mr. Ashford, we need to speak with you immediately.”
Adrian’s expression shifts.
Controlled again.
But not calm.
He moves past me toward the door.
I stay where I am.
Watching.
Waiting.
Because something about the tone
the urgency
doesn’t feel normal.
He opens the door.
And the moment it swings wide
everything changes.
Because standing on the other side
holding a file and looking directly at me
is the last person I ever expected to see.