The car engine was off, but Axton did not move. He sat there in silence, letting the city breathe around him while his own chest felt like it was tightening.
The street outside his place was infuriatingly calm. It was dimly lit, illuminated by the weak, flickering orange glow of an old streetlamp. The world was acting as if nothing had even happened. People walked by, and their faint, careless laughter felt way too bright, too far away, and definitely too normal for the insane mess still churning inside him.
He ran a hand through his hair and exhaled slowly, trying to force calm into the chaos inside him. His fingers tapped the steering wheel, a restless rhythm he could not stop. Every time he blinked, he saw her face, pale, eyes wide, and her trembling hands on the counter.
Her voice just wouldn't quit.
"Look, it didn't mean anything. I just panicked. Please, Axton, you have to believe me."
He squeezed his eyes shut so tightly he thought he might see stars.
Man, he wanted that relief. He wanted to grab those weak excuses and tape them back together into something he could actually believe. God, he really, truly did.
But the impulse to forgive kept crashing. Every time he tried to focus on her pale, pleading face, the image snapped back to the one that mattered: Sebastian standing right there in Elin's bakery. He was too relaxed, too confident and too damn smug. And Elin? She was standing inches from him, pale and shaking, looking absolutely busted.
Axton pressed a hand over his face, dragging it down until it rested against his jaw. He exhaled sharply, letting a harsh, frustrated sound escape. It was bitter, almost a laugh, but there was no humour in it.
This was a total fail. He shouldn't be this mad, this out of control. He'd built his whole life on logic years ago. He swore he'd never let messy feelings ruin things. He was supposed to size up the situation, analyse, and fix it. Not lose it.
Elin, though, wasn't a spreadsheet. She was the one huge exception. She was all warmth and laughter, that stubborn fire he loved. She was the one thing that could make him completely lose his head without even trying. And tonight, she'd blown his whole system apart.
He dropped his hands and pushed back from the wheel. The air inside the car felt like a thick blanket. He hit the window button, letting it drop halfway. The cool, sharp night air rushed in, but it didn't help the internal temperature one bit.
His phone buzzed on the passenger seat. He glanced at it. Elin. His heart stuttered for a moment, hope rising, then plummeting.
He didn't move. Just stayed fixed on the headrest. The buzzing stopped. A second of dead silence. Then, it buzzed again, needy and persistent.
A new message preview flashed up. I'm sorry. Please call me.
He exhaled through his nose, a bitter sound. He muttered her name under his breath, tasting the word like ash. "Sorry," he said, voice hollow.
The word tasted flat and fake. He reached for the phone, thumb hovering over the notification, imagining what he might say. He almost tapped it. Almost gave in to the pull. Then, his hand dropped again, and the phone hit the seat face down with a final, heavy thud.
He pressed his head back, staring up at the roof fabric. He hadn't realized how completely drained he was until now. Not work tired, but tired from the constant hustle. Tired from lying to himself that the late nights were fine, that Elin understood his ambition, that she'd just wait it out. He kept saying, once things slow down, I'll fix us.
Maybe she did try. Maybe she waited, for real. But waiting for too long breaks things anyway. It just snaps.
And worst of all, he hadn't expected Elin to kiss Sebastian.
He dragged a hand down his stubbled chin, the tight ache in his chest spiking again. "Man, Elin..." His voice was barely a whisper. "Why him? Of all people, why Sebastian?"
Sebastian was his opposite and his professional headache. The guy was competent, sure, but he was also effortlessly charming, the type who smiled at everyone like he already owned the conversation. Axton had seen that oily smile earlier—polished up and aimed right at her. And that look made his insides twist with a possessiveness he didn't know he had.
He wanted to punch something hard. It wasn't just anger; it was the gut shot feeling of helplessness. He'd spent years building walls, keeping his professional world separate. Now, he realized the cold truth: no matter how high he built his fortress, she had let someone slip right through the cracks and invade his sanctuary. He hated how much that thought completely gutted him.
The thought burned through him like acid. He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth hurt, letting out a sharp, quiet growl.
The phone buzzed one last time, a final, desperate plea.
Please. Just talk to me.
His thumb hovered over it again. He could feel his pulse hammering in his temples. He wanted to answer. He wanted to tell her everything, to scream, to cry, to demand she explain. But he couldn't. He didn't trust himself not to say something he would regret.
He started typing a message, stopped, deleted it, and typed something else. Something cold and measured.
I need time.
He looked at those three words, his final move, for a long moment. Then he hit send. It marked "Delivered" just seconds later.
He let the phone fall back onto the seat and stared out the windshield, blinking back tears he refused to shed.
The weight of absolutely everything settled in like a lead anchor.
Axton sat there until the cold air finally got to him, chilling his skin. He waited until the crushing ache in his chest finally cooled into something quieter—not gone, just buried deep enough so he could breathe again.
When he finally got out of the car, the night felt too quiet.
He hit the heavy glass lobby door, the noise echoing way too loudly in the polished marble space. He took the stairs, his legs feeling heavy, like every step was weighted with a concrete block. This whole building was always so sterile, but tonight, it felt colder and emptier than a forgotten warehouse.
He unlocked his apartment door, and the click of the deadbolt was sharp, like a starting pistol. He slipped inside. Dark, silent, and painfully hollow, just like his broken heart.
He leaned his forehead against the closed door, the cool wood a shock against his skin.
He hated himself for missing her. The pure, crushing absence of her was way worse than the boiling rage he'd felt minutes ago. Rage was at least warm. This was just a deep, freezing ache that went right to his bones.
He didn't want to be right anymore and at that point he didn't care if she hurt him.
He wanted to chuck his phone across the room, run to her bakery, pound on her door, and just tell her he was sorry for being so busy, for being so absent, for turning into such a damn robot.
He even wanted to forgive her.
The thought screamed, suddenly and brutally clear, echoing in the space behind his eyes. It was the most vulnerable, honest thing he'd thought all night, and it completely fractured the last piece of his control. The truth was, yeah, his heart was broken, but his life only truly made sense when she was in it.
He just couldn't stand the idea of Sebastian winning.
Axton couldn't stand the truth of why Sebastian had managed to get there in the first place.
He pushed off the door, stumbling into the kitchen.
No lights.
The weak orange glow from the streetlamp outside threw long stripes across the cold tile floor. He went straight to the cabinet, pulled down a glass, and filled it with tap water. His hand didn't shake; his movements were precise.
Even though he felt like he was drowning inside, the robot part of Axton was still running the basic functions. He was in control of this simple action. He had to be in control of something.
The faint, digital glow of the clock on the nightstand was a relentless, quiet accusation: 3:17 a.m.
Axton lay on his back, eyes wide and fixed on the smooth, unblemished white of the ceiling.
He had closed them countless times, chased the black edge of sleep until his eyelids felt raw, but his mind was a high-speed treadmill that refused to slow. Every time he felt the faintest pull toward unconsciousness, a single, sharp memory would pierce the calm, pulling him back to the surface like a jolt of ice water.
He turned over with a restless sigh, the sheets twisting into a heavy, uncomfortable rope around his legs. The pillow was a landscape of heat and dented foam. With a grunt of pure frustration, he sat up, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clamped over his eyes. The motion did nothing to ease the pressure in his chest.
He pushed himself off the bed, his feet silent on the cold hardwood. He crossed the room, a phantom pulling him to the window overlooking the city. He pressed his forehead against the cool glass, letting the chill soak into his skin.
He'd always held onto the easy, confident fiction: that he wasn't the jealous type. That their foundation was strong. That he trusted her completely. He'd been so certain that no matter what Sebastian attempted, Elin would never allow him close enough to truly matter.
But he had been wrong.
And the deepest, most searing sting wasn't the image of the kiss itself; it was the sickening realization that his own certainty had been a form of blindness. He had been so consumed by the relentless cycle of work, the deals, the global deadlines, that he hadn't seen the quiet desperation setting in. He hadn't seen how lonely she must have been, waiting for him to finally prioritize her over the chase.
The window offered a faint, exhausted reflection of himself. He barely recognized the man staring back: the knot of tension anchoring his shoulders, the deep, shadowing exhaustion around his eyes.
He walked into the living room, flipping the light switch. The sudden, harsh brightness felt like a physical shock, but it was infinitely preferable to the suffocating silence of the dark.
His open laptop sat on the coffee table, a glowing portal to a stack of unread work emails. He slumped onto the couch, trying to force his mind onto the familiar, sterile territory of finance and strategy. The words blurred, becoming meaningless shapes. He couldn't anchor a single thought, because every pathway his brain attempted led instantly back to her.
Elin's vibrant, easy laugh, ringing out in her small apartment.
Her hands, dusted white with flour, caught mid-motion as she prepared bread in her bakery.
The guarded, sweet way she would lean against the counter, pretending to study her invoices, while her eyes followed him when he visits her in the bakery.
A muscle in his jaw jumped again. He pushed the laptop away, the clatter on the glass table startlingly loud in the dead quiet.
His phone buzzed. The sudden vibration on the wood of the coffee table made him flinch.
A message preview appeared on the dark screen: Are you awake?
He didn't need to see the name to know. He could almost hear the hesitation in the question, the small, scared uncertainty in her voice.
He swallowed a lump that felt like dry earth, his thumb hovering, a quarter-inch from the screen. For a fleeting, desperate moment, he was going to reply.
Axton sighed, then he threw his phone on the couch.
His chest tightened, his breath catching painfully. He leaned his head back against the cool leather of the couch, dragging both hands through his hair, the whispered plea meant only for himself:
"Sleep. Just sleep."
His mind, a relentless, churning machine, refused to obey.
***
The next morning, Axton sat at his desk, staring at the spreadsheet on his laptop like it had betrayed him personally. The office was alive with the usual hum of activity, phones ringing, footsteps echoing on polished floors, but none of it reached him.
He could still see her clearly in his mind. Elin, trembling, wide-eyed, her hand instinctively pressed to her chest as if trying to anchor herself. Her voice, raw and pleading, kept looping in his head.
He exhaled slowly, a low, frustrated sound, and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He should feel anger, resentment, something sharp to distract him from the aching twist in his chest. But all he felt was guilt, helplessness, and jealousy that made the pit of his stomach twist tighter than he expected.
He hated this weakness. He was Axton, the man who compartmentalized everything, whose emotional equilibrium was as steady as a concrete pillar. Yet, one glimpse of her vulnerable face—the wide, frightened eyes, the tremor in her hands—had shattered his composure.
Now, he was a wreck, tethered to his phone, which sat like a silent, accusing black box on the mahogany surface. The lack of a message from her was both a relief as he desperately needed the space he'd demanded and a slow-burning torture.
Was she okay? Had she given up on him already?
A shadow fell across his desk. Vivian leaned there, arms crossed, a faint smirk teasing the corners of her lips.
"You look awful," she said lightly, though the spark in her eyes suggested amusement. "Rough night, or just your usual charming self?"
"Neither," Axton ground out, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead as if to physically push the intrusive thoughts away. He maintained a fixed stare at the spreadsheet, a fortress of numbers he hoped she wouldn't breach. He wasn't about to hand Vivian, his executive, sharp-witted observer, a roadmap to his current emotional disaster.
Not after what she did.
Vivian didn't move. She leaned in, her elbow resting casually on the edge of his desk,
"Come on, Axton. You've been...distracted for days. Something happened last week. I saw you leave in a rush, practically flew out of here. And now you're here, radiating 'I've lost my mind and my heart at the same time.'"
He clamped his jaw shut, the muscle twitching near his ear. He forced the air from his lungs slowly. "Just tired. Busy week. Nothing more to discuss."
Her smirk didn't fade; it deepened into a knowing, almost predatory smile. "Uh huh. You've got that classic 'didn't sleep a wink because I replayed the entire catastrophic conversation in my head while staring at the ceiling' look. And don't bother with the stoic act. I see the tiny crack in the armour. It's fascinating."
Axton gripped his pen so tightly the plastic casing began to creak. "It's nothing. Just work stress." His voice was low, a deliberate monotone meant to signal the end of the conversation.
Vivian's eyes narrowed, her gaze sharp and playfully accusatory. "Work, you say? That's rich. When you're dealing with work, you usually look like you're five seconds from acquiring a small nation, not like you just watched your romantic future get shredded in a blender."
He refused to take the bait. He retreated behind the screen, letting his gaze wash over the columns again. But the numbers didn't register. His mind was in a loop: Elin's tear-streaked face, the cold indifference in his own voice when he'd walked away, and Sebastian's presence—casual, possessive, a silent reminder of the complicated history Axton knew nothing about. The jealousy, a venomous, unfamiliar heat, scorched his insides.
"You don't understand," Axton muttered, his voice barely a rasp.
"I understand enough," Vivian countered, pulling back slightly, giving him a fraction of the space he craved, yet refusing to fully retreat. Her smirk softened just a touch, teasing but perceptive. "I know what it's like to care too much. It's inconvenient and messy. It makes you....weak."
She paused, letting that sink in. Axton watched her, his own thoughts a confused storm of anger and acknowledgment. She wasn't wrong. Elin was the ultimate someone he couldn't control.
Vivian leaned in again, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial murmur that somehow carried more weight than a shout. "And I also know when someone else is sneaking into your life, making you question every perfectly calibrated decision you've ever made. Especially when that someone has a direct connection to your primary rival."
The word "rival" landed with a cold, solid finality, hitting the core of his unspoken fear. She wasn't just talking about Sebastian as a professional competitor; she was linking him directly to Elin. Axton's eyes narrowed, his gaze locking onto Vivian's.
"What are you implying?" he demanded, his voice suddenly hard, stripped of its previous fatigue.
The thought of Elin being anything less than genuine, of being somehow tethered to Sebastian in a way that compromised her intentions, twisted the knot of anxiety into a genuine ache.