Page 97 of Every Shattered Note

---

The lawyer snaps her fingers to bring me back.“Dexter?Are you listening?”

No.

I blink.

“Yes.”

She pushes a document toward me.“The phrasing here is crucial.We’re not admitting guilt, but we’re not denying knowledge.It’s a fine balance.”

I stare at the paper.The black-and-white print swims in front of me.It might as well be in another language.

“I can’t do this right now,” I mutter.

“You don’t have a choice,” she replies flatly.

“I’m not fucking ready,” I snap, louder now.Everyone freezes.

Eddie looks up.PR agents exchange glances.No one says anything.

And in the silence, something fractures in me.

This isn’t just press.This isn’t just headlines and talking points and spin.This is my life.My blood.My fucking father.And a woman I can’t stop wanting, even though I shouldn’t have let myself touch her at all.

I push back from the table and walk out.

No one follows.

The hallway is too bright, too sterile.A janitor’s cart squeaks somewhere down the corridor, wheels whining like a broken lullaby.I lean against the wall, palms to my face.

I miss her.

I miss the silence between us in bed, where everything felt honest.I miss the way she looked at me—like I wasn’t a Vaughn, or a headline, or a ticking time bomb—but a man worth saving.

I let that go.

I didn’t fight for it.

I don’t call her.

I can’t.

Instead, I pull the photo from my wallet.A polaroid I had in San Cristóbal with old film that barely worked.

Aly’s standing on the balcony at sunrise, mug in hand, hair twisted up like she didn’t care what the world thought of her.The light behind her softens everything—her eyes, her spine, her resolve.It’s blurry in places, imperfect.

Just like us.

She looked like freedom.Like a pause in a song.

And I left.

The elevator dings behind me.I don’t turn.

“You need to pull it together,” Eddie says, voice low but firm.

I laugh.It scrapes out of me, bitter and used-up.“Is that your professional advice?”

He barely blinks.“It’s personal.”

---