Chapter Three
I didn't cry in his office.
Didn't flinch when he threw those words back at me—Rough night?—like he didn't know he was twisting a knife.
I didn't lose it in the lobby, either. Not when the receptionist smiled like I'd just landed the opportunity of a lifetime. Not when the city air hit me like a slap.
But now—now that I'm home, the door locked, the heels off, the mask gone…
I can't breathe.
My chest is tight, my throat clamped shut, my lungs hollowing out like they've forgotten how to work.
I sink to the floor, my back pressed to the cold side of the kitchen counter, and I try—really try—to be okay.
But I'm not.
My hands are shaking. My head feels like it's underwater. I don't want to have a panic attack but then. Its too much to handle
Everything is too much.
The job.
The betrayal.
Him.
I squeeze my eyes shut, and all I see is Darren's stupid face. Her hands on his skin.
Mr. Pierce's voice in my ear—smooth, unreadable, already under my skin.
You're hired.
I grab my phone like it's a lifeline, scroll past the names I don't trust anymore, and hit the only one that matters.
Isaiah.
It rings.
And rings.
Please pick up.
More ringing.
Then—
"Yo."
"Isaiah," I whisper, and just like that, the dam breaks.
He doesn't even hesitate. "Jade? What's wrong? Where are you?"
"I—I'm home. I—" My voice hitches. "I think I'm having a panic attack."
"Okay. Okay. Breathe. Slow, J. Just listen to my voice."
I press the phone closer, like maybe I can crawl inside the sound of him.
"Can you tell me what happened?" he asks, voice low, even. Steady in the storm.
"I had the interview today," I choke out. "I got the job."
"That's good, isn't it?"
"It should be," I whisper. "But I slept with the partner. Last night. Before I knew who he was."
A long pause.
"…Jesus."
"Yeah."
"Jade—"
"I know."
More silence. Then a sigh. "Okay. Breathe first, panic later."
I let out something between a laugh and a sob.
"You sound like Mom," I say.
"Mom would've already shown up at your door with soup and legal threats."
I smile through the tears, forehead against the cabinet.
"Thank you," I whisper.
"You always call me when it's really bad," he says. "I'm just glad I can still pick up."
I laugh softly, brushing away a tear with the back of my hand. "You always say that like it's a surprise."
He exhales, that soft, brotherly sound that says I'm worried but pretending I'm not.
"You know," he says, "you don't have to keep surviving everything on your own."
"I'm not."
"You almost did."
"I didn't," I say. "I called you."
"Damn right you did." A pause. "And I'd fly across the city in my boxers if I had to."
I let out a watery snort. "Please don't. We've suffered enough."
He chuckles. "Fair."
For a moment, there's just breathing on the line. Quiet. Familiar. Safe.
"Do you think Mom and Dad would be proud of us?" I ask, voice low.
He's quiet for a beat.
Then: "They'd be proud of you."
"You too."
"No," he says. "I'm just the guy who makes sure the ship doesn't sink. You're the one who keeps fighting even after it already has."
Tears come again—softer this time. Not panic. Just grief. And love.
"I don't know if I can do this, Zay."
"You can," he says gently. "And you will. But you don't have to do it alone."
I nod, even though he can't see me. "Thank you."
"Always. You want me to stay on the line while you fall asleep?"
I hesitate.
"Yeah," I whisper.
So he does.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself be the little sister again—the scared, heartbroken girl who didn't have to pretend she was fine, because someone still remembered what I looked like before the world asked me to be stronger than I ever wanted to be. Isaiah was a blessing from God, The one who I was most scared of loosing. Its been just the two of us after Mom and dad died, and since then he has showed up for me in ways I can never imagine. Truly, there is no love like a brothers own.