Chapter 9
Nora's POV
I spent the next hour staring at the ceiling, trying not to think about everything that had happened these past few days. The hospital sounds filtered through the closed door—distant beeping, the squeak of wheels on linoleum, muffled conversations in the hallway.
My phone buzzed.
I'd turned it back on at some point without fully registering the action, and now the screen lit up with a text from an unknown number.
Heard the situation isn't too bad. Rest well these next few days. —Sterling
I stared at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. Simple. Direct. Almost... warm, in a way that contrasted with that cold, efficient manner.
After a long moment, I typed back: Thank you. I appreciate your concern.
Polite. Professional. Exactly the kind of response you'd give to someone who'd just saved your life but remained fundamentally unknowable.
I hit send and waited.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
No reply.
I told myself I wasn't disappointed and shoved the phone under my pillow.
---
At eight p.m., my phone rang.
I grabbed it reflexively, saw Kyle's number on the screen, and hung up.
Three minutes later, it rang again.
I hung up.
The third time, I answered out of sheer frustration.
"Baby, I'm at the DSW Silverton office right now." Kyle's voice came through breathless and frantic. "Can we please just talk? Face to face?"
I closed my eyes, exhaustion pressing down on me like a physical weight. "Kyle, I don't want to see you. We're done. This is the last time I'm saying it—don't call me again."
"Nora, please—"
"No." My voice came out flat, emotionless. "I'm not coming back. I'm not listening to your excuses. I'm not playing this game. It's over."
"I drove all the way here!" His tone shifted toward anger. "You can't just—"
"Yes, I can." I sat up straighter, ignoring the pull of stitches in my arm. "I can, and I did. Respect my decision, Kyle. Move on."
"I know my mother said some things that were out of line, and I had a fight with her about it. And I told her I'm marrying you no matter what she says."
I pressed my palm against my forehead, trying to process the absurdity of his words. "Kyle, do your parents know you're in Silverton right now?"
A pause. "No."
"So you had a fight with them, stormed out, and decided to chase me across state lines without telling anyone where you were going." My voice came out flat. "Very mature."
"I told you I'd choose you!"
"And what happens when your mother calls you back?" I asked. "When she tells you the board is meeting to discuss your position in the company? When your father threatens to strip you of your inheritance? What happens then, Kyle?"
The pause lasted several seconds. Long enough for the last trace of warmth in my chest to drain away completely.
"Nora, it won't come to that!" His words tumbled out in a rush, urgent and desperate. "I'm their only child. They'll accept you eventually. My parents will give in—they have no choice! As long as I stand firm enough, there's no way they'll actually strip me of my inheritance. It's just a matter of time!"
There it was. The evasion I'd been waiting for. He was using vague promises about an "eventual compromise" to dodge the real question—whether he was willing to choose me right now, in this moment, over everything his family represented.
I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles going white. The answer was clear enough in what he wasn't saying. Kyle was still hedging his bets, still trying to have everything without sacrificing anything. His anxiety wasn't about losing me—it was about the discomfort of being trapped between two incompatible choices.
This conversation marked the complete collapse of my emotional defenses. Not because I was heartbroken, but because I was finally, brutally clear-eyed about what this relationship had never been.
I took a deep breath, my voice tired and flat. "I'm exhausted, Kyle. Stop talking."
"Nora, listen to me—" His speech quickened.
I'd had enough. I cut him off. "I don't have time to play games with you. And you're not worth wasting my time on. I've made up my mind. Don't call me again."
"How can you be so cold-blooded—" I heard him roar, his tone hurt and accusatory, but I was already pulling the phone away from my ear.
I hung up.
For a moment, I just sat there, the silent phone in my lap. Then I threw it onto the bedside table with more force than necessary. I struggled to sit up, ignoring the pull of stitches, my gaze drifting to the window where snow was beginning to stick to the glass.
My emotions refused to settle. My chest felt like someone had placed a stone on it, pressing down until I couldn't breathe properly.
Am I really that cold-blooded?
The question hung in the silence like an accusation. Memories flooded in whether I wanted them or not—how I'd made this "good man" chase me for two full years before I'd reluctantly agreed to try dating. Two years of refusals, two years of keeping my distance, two years of maintaining every possible barrier. Until his persistence finally wore me down.
And now I was the one being accused of being cold-blooded.
The self-doubt lasted only seconds before rationality crushed it. I could see it clearly now—Kyle's so-called "love" had always been built on the assumption that I would eventually give in, eventually compromise, eventually mold myself into whatever shape his life required.
I didn't cry. I just sat there quietly, staring at the thickening snow, feeling a loneliness and clarity I'd never experienced before.
Outside, night had fully fallen. The snow was coming down harder now, tiny flakes glittering in the amber halos of the parking lot lights. The streetlights flickered on one by one, casting yellow circles in the swirling white, painting the night in shades of isolation.
I found myself staring at those snowflakes, and my mind began to drift backward.
It was a night like this—the same snow, the same bone-deep cold—when I'd finally said yes to Kyle.