Page 89 of Terms of Exposure
No, no, no.
I moved faster now—kitchen, living room, study—calling her name like it might summon her from thin air. Every room came back empty. Every space echoed with absence.
I pulled up her number on my phone, fingers clumsy against the screen.
Straight to voicemail.
"You've reached Emma Sinclair. Leave a message."
Her voice.
Professional. Polished. The version of herself she showed the world.
Not the version that laughed at my terrible jokes. Not the version that sighed my name in the dark. Not the version I'd held in my arms a hundred times, feeling her heartbeat sync with mine until I couldn't tell where I ended and she began.
"Emma. It's me." I forced my voice steady. "I know you need space. I know I have no right to ask anything of you right now. But please—just let me know you're safe. That's all."
I hung up.
Called again.
No answer.
"Emma, I'm not—" My voice cracked. I swallowed hard. "I'm not trying to pressure you. I just need to know you're okay. One text. That's all I'm asking. One word. Anything."
I hung up.
Stared at the screen.
Typed a message. Deleted it. Typed another.
I'm sorry.
Sent.
The little bubble sat there, mocking me. No read receipt. No typing indicator. Only silence stretching into forever.
I called again.
No answer.
"I know you're angry. You have every right to be." I was pacing again, unable to stop, unable to breathe. "But shutting me out completely—Emma, I can't—" I stopped. Pressed the heel of my hand against my eye. "I can't do this without knowing if there's still anusto fight for. Please." My voice splintered. "Please."
The word hung in the air after I ended the call.
Damien Holt didn't beg.
Damien Holt controlled rooms. Commanded boardrooms. Made grown men flinch with a single look.
Damien Holt was currently standing in his living room, phone in hand, begging a voicemail to bring back the only person who'd ever made him feel like more than the sum of his worst impulses.
Is there still an us?
For the first time in my life, I had no answer.
I tried Candace. Maybe Emma had gone to her—curled up on the couch, processing, needing her best friend instead of the man who'd broken her trust.
She didn't answer either.
