Page 292 of Rush

“Madison,” I respond slowly, deliberately calm despite the storm building inside. “I’m not here to argue. Whatever Alex is doing, you need to take it up with him—I’m not his keeper.”

She steps closer, eyes blazing, accusation heavy in the air. “Are you giving him a reason to reach out?”

Atlanta flashes through my mind—Alex’s claim over me, the lingering heat his touch. I bite the inside of my cheek, forcing the memories away. But guilt clings stubbornly to my skin.

“No,” I whisper, voice unsteady.

“Liar.” Her accusation cuts sharply through the space between us. “I’ve seen his call logs, Elena. I catch him staring at your photos, watching your performances. He’s obsessed. And I know you’re a homewrecking little slut who’s feeding into it.”

My breath catches, my chest tightening at Madison’s revelation—maybe it wasn’t truly over for him. What if there was a reason he ended things with us?

My spine prickles at the thought. But hope is a dangerous liar. It could all be in my head—a pathetic attempt to turn fleeting fragments into something meaningful. Because no matter how fiercely I cling to the threads of possibility, Madison will always be in his life. A thorn between us.

My resolve cracks. “Madison,” I finally manage, exhaustion seeping through each word, “he ended things. He chose you. So, whatever this is, save it for someone who gives a fuck.”

A lie, of course. A fragile shield masking the truth—I still care deeply. Far more than I can admit, even to myself.

She steps back, eyes icy as she delivers her final blow. “Stay away from him, Elena,” she warns. “If you know what’s good for you.”

The threat lingers, sharp and clear, as she turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, hollow and aching in the shadow of everything I’ve lost.

My apartment is too quiet.My mind less so, thoughts of Broderick, Alex, and Madison’s ominous warning swirling around like a storm.

I drop my keys in the bowl by the door and kick off my boots, shrugging out of my coat which feels like a lead weight on my already burdened shoulders.

I place some of Philippa’s purchases on the dining room table.

Philippa follows in behind, balancing a pale blue shopping bag on her arm and eyeing me like I might combust.

She waits until I sink into the couch before she sits across from me.

“Okay, what’s going on?” Philippa asks.

I keep my eyes on the floor. “Nothing.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You—jumping at the chance to shop for baby stuff—and then spending the whole time mute? Carole thinks you’re sick. I know better. So talk.”

I shrug, picking a piece of lint off my sweater. “I’m just tired.”

“Elena,” she says. “You were distracted. No witty comebacks, no petulant remarks, you barely even rolled your eyes when Carole started talking about monogrammed linens.”

I don’t answer.

She gets up and sits next to me, taking my hand.

That’s what breaks me. Her touch sends me right over the edge, and the tears that’ve been dammed since the not-date start to spill, hot and silent.

“Did something happen with Broderick?”

I nod. Just once.

The shame, the ache—not for me, but for the look on his face—that pain still haunts me.

“What happened?” she asks gently, reaching for a tissue from the coffee table and handing it to me.

“He asked me to be his girlfriend,” I manage.

She waits, quiet, urging me on.