Chapter 54 Radio Silence

Chapter 54 Radio Silence
The work had been going well. That was the cruelest part—how smoothly everything had been flowing, how confidently she had moved from sketches to patterns to fabric selection, how the collection had taken shape beneath her hands like it had been waiting all along to be born. Hallie had almost allowed herself to believe that she had found her footing, that the worst was behind her, that she could finally breathe.
But the shadows had been restless for days, and she hadn't understood why.
She understood now.
Two weeks. Fourteen days without a word from Seth. Not a text, not a call, not even a brief message to say he was busy. The café on the corner had become a graveyard of empty chairs and cold coffee, and Hallie had stopped stopping by because the sight of their usual table made something in her chest crack.
At first, she told herself it was fine. She was busy too. The collection demanded every spare moment—sketching, drafting, choosing fabrics, the endless back-and-forth of decisions that would determine whether her designs lived or died. She didn't have time for coffee dates. Didn't have time to sit in a café and talk about nothing and everything.
But the days passed, and the silence grew louder, and Hallie found herself checking her phone with a frequency that bordered on obsessive.
No messages. No missed calls. Nothing.
Had something happened to him? The thought arrived unbidden, bringing with it a cold tide of fear. The Slayers. The shadows. Bram. Any of them could have reached across the distance between their worlds and pulled him back into a life he had been trying to escape. Any of them could have hurt him, taken him, done something terrible while Hallie sat in her Parisian studio, sketching gowns and choosing fabrics like the world hadn't shifted beneath her feet.
Or maybe—and this thought was worse, somehow, because it spoke to choices rather than circumstance—maybe he had simply decided that she wasn't worth the trouble. Maybe their date at the Louvre had been a mistake, a nostalgic attempt to recapture something that had died long ago. Maybe he had realized that the woman she had become was not the girl he had loved, and he had quietly, kindly, walked away.
Hallie pressed her palms against her eyes and tried to breathe.
She needed to know. Whatever the truth was, whatever pain it might bring, she needed to know.

Hallie: Hey. Haven't heard from you in a while. Hope everything's okay.
She sent the message on Tuesday morning, watched the screen for the double checkmarks that would indicate he had read it. Nothing. The message sat there, unread, unanswered, as the hours crawled past.
By Wednesday, she had made a decision.

The University of Paris sprawled across the Left Bank, a collection of historic buildings and modern additions that somehow managed to feel both timeless and alive. Hallie had never been here before—Seth had mentioned his classes in passing, but they had carefully, deliberately, avoided mapping their lives onto each other's territory. The coffee dates were neutral ground. This was something else entirely.
She left the studio early, ignoring the disapproving glances from the other interns. Let them think what they wanted. Let Madame Leclerc add it to the long list of her failings. None of it mattered compared to the cold knot of fear tightening in her chest.
The main building's grand staircase was crowded with students, streaming down the marble steps in a river of youth and ambition. Hallie positioned herself near the bottom, craning her neck to spot a familiar face among the crowd.
She waited. Minutes passed. The river thinned to a trickle, and still no Seth.
Then she saw him.
He was walking lazily down the steps, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his head tilted toward the woman beside him. She was pretty—there was no other word for it. A cute brunette with a warm smile and easy laugh, her hand brushing Seth's arm as she made some point Hallie couldn't hear. They moved together with the comfortable intimacy of people who had spent significant time in each other's company, their bodies angled toward each other, their conversation flowing without awkwardness or hesitation.
Hallie's heart clenched. Tears threatened to spill, hot and humiliating, burning behind her eyes.
She had been such a fool. While she had been sketching and sewing and building a future out of fabric and dreams, he had been moving on. Finding someone new. Someone without shadows. Someone who could give him the normal life she never could.
Right at that moment, Seth's gaze lifted and found hers.
His expression shifted through several emotions too quickly to track—surprise, then happiness, then confusion, and finally something that looked like terror. Pure, unmistakable, deer-in-headlights terror.
Hallie turned and bolted.

The boots were a mistake.
She had worn her favorite heels—the ones that made her feel powerful, invincible, like someone who belonged in the world of high fashion. They were not designed for running. Within seconds, her ankles were screaming, and within a minute, she had to stop before she fell and broke something.
Footsteps pounded behind her. Seth's voice called out, desperate and breathless.
"Hallie! Hallie, wait—please—"
She stopped, not because she wanted to, but because her body had reached its limit. She stood with her back to him, shoulders heaving, tears streaming down her face, and tried to remember how to breathe.
"Don't." Her voice cracked. "Don't come any closer."
"I won't. I won't." He stopped a few feet behind her, his breathing just as ragged as hers. "But please—please don't run from me. Let me explain."
"What is there to explain?" Hallie's laugh was hollow, bitter. "I saw you. You were happy. She was beautiful. You don't need to explain anything."
"That's where you're wrong." Seth's voice was soft, careful, like he was approaching a wounded animal. "That's where you're so, so wrong."
Hallie closed her eyes. The shadows inside her were frantic, wanting to protect her, wanting to strike out at whatever had caused her pain. She pushed them back down, forced them into silence, and turned to face him.
"Explain, then."

The café was just a few steps away, chosen at random, its yellow awning and wicker chairs so typically Parisian that Hallie almost laughed through her tears. Seth guided her inside, found a table in the corner, and ordered two coffees without asking what she wanted.
He knew. Of course he knew.
"The first week," he said, once the cups had arrived and the silence between them had grown unbearable, "I wanted to give you space."
Hallie stared at him. "Space."
"After the Louvre—after our date—I didn't want to crowd you." He wrapped his hands around his cup, not drinking, just holding. "You were busy with the collection. I didn't want to be a distraction. So I told myself I'd wait. Let you reach out when you were ready."
"I thought you had changed your mind." The words came out flat, empty. "About me. About us."
"No." Seth's voice was firm. "Never. I could never—" He stopped, took a breath, started again. "The second week, the school sent us on a retreat. A brainstorming thing. We were in a cabin in the woods, working on business plans, and the teachers—they confiscated our phones. Said we needed to focus, to disconnect, to be present with our teams."
Hallie's mind raced. It sounded plausible. It sounded exactly like the kind of thing overzealous educators might do.
"I only got my phone back an hour ago," Seth continued. "When the bus dropped us off at the school. The battery was dead—I'd forgotten to charge it before they took it—and I didn't have time to wait. I just—I wanted to get to you. To explain. And then I saw you there, at the bottom of the steps, and I knew—"
He pulled his phone from his pocket, held it out for her to see. The screen was black, unresponsive. Dead.
"I know it looks convenient," he said, his voice cracking. "I know it looks like an excuse. But I can show you my bag—I've got a week's worth of dirty clothes in there, and the schedule from the retreat, and the notes from our group sessions. I'll show you anything you want to see. Just—please—believe me."
Hallie looked at the dead phone. Looked at Seth's face—pale, exhausted, dark circles under his eyes that spoke to sleepless nights and too much work. Looked at the backpack slumped on the floor beside him, bulging with the evidence of a week away.
She thought about the last time he had disappeared, the silence that had stretched into years, the wound that had never fully healed. She thought about how easy it would be to let that fear swallow her whole, to push him away before he could hurt her again.
But Seth had never lied to her. He had kept things hidden—secrets about the Slayers, about his training, about the danger that surrounded him—but he had never lied. Not directly. Not about the things that mattered.
And he was here now. Exhausted and terrified and here.
"I believe you," she said quietly.
The relief that flooded his face was almost painful to witness.

They stayed at the café until the sun set, talking about nothing and everything. Seth told her about the retreat—the terrible food, the cramped cabin, the brilliant business plan his team had developed under pressure. Hallie told him about the collection—the struggles, the breakthroughs, the terrifying moment when everything had finally clicked.
Neither of them mentioned the brunette.
But as they walked home, hand in hand, through the golden Parisian evening, Hallie found the courage to ask.
"Who was she? The woman you were walking with?"
Seth glanced at her, something flickering in his eyes. "Clara. She's on my team for the project. We were partners for the retreat."
"Partners."
"Group partners. Nothing more." He stopped, turning to face her. "Hallie, I don't—I haven't—there's no one else. There's never been anyone else."
She wanted to believe him. And for the first time, she let herself.
"Okay," she said.
"Okay?"
"Okay." She squeezed his hand. "Now walk me home. I have an early start tomorrow."
Seth's smile was like daybreak.
They walked on, and the shadows hummed their quiet approval, and Hallie allowed herself to believe that maybe—just maybe—they could survive this after all.