Page 16 of Under His Protection

I swallow; my throat is tight as I look at him. His body is slumped over the white marble floor, his hands clenched into fists. I keep walking, his cries fading behind me, the sound of the massive oak door closing behind me like a death knell.

As the massive oak doors close behind me I can hear his cries fading into the distance. He’s begging for forgiveness, but I can’t give it to him. The pieces of my life are shattered, and his words can’t mend them.

My phone buzzes, a jarring reminder of the world outside. It’s a text from Cole: “I’m so sorry if my apology was a bust. I meant it.”

“Whatever,” I think, wiping the tears from my cheeks. “All men are the same. Liars.”

Chapter 7

The Spiral

The fluorescent lights of Spectrum Design Studio hum a familiar, almost hypnotic rhythm like a white noise machine, but it does little to drown out the static in my head.

A few weeks have passed since I walked away from Alexander, a few weeks of pretending everything is okay, of hiding behind the bright, vibrant world of color and design. But the facade is cracking.

The world has become a distorted picture, colors bleeding into each other, sounds morphing into a blurry mess. I try to focus on the sleek lines of the new campaign, but my mind is a tangled mess of wires, half-finished sketches that refuse to compile.

The breakup was brutal, a supernova that ripped a gaping hole in my life. My evenings are spent curled up on the couch, a prisoner in my own apartment, watching the city lights flicker outside, feeling like I’m watching a film that’s already ended but can’t seem to stop playing. My heart’s a broken record, skipping between anger, hurt, and betrayal.

The grief for my parents is renewed with the discovery, and the pain of a raw, throbbing wound that never seems to heal is near constant. But it’s the truth about Alexander that is tearing me apart - the man I love, the man who shattered my world, the man who was supposed to be my safe harbor. It’s like a poisoned arrow lodged in my chest, twisting deeper with every breath.

I push it all away, focusing on the rhythm of the design world and pretending normalcy still exists. But it’s like a ghost in the machine, a glitch in the code that can’t be ignored.

“Ava,” Cole’s voice breaks through my thoughts as he gestures to me in the conference room.

“I’m coming. Let me just get the drawings,” I say, flattening my button-up shirt as I stand up from my chair.

It’s strange how I find myself spending more and more time with Cole. He’s become a constant presence in the fluorescent-lit world of Spectrum Designs. It’s —different from the chaos I went through just a few weeks ago, but the rhythm of the design world, the shared passion for creating, seems to soothe the raw edges of my grief. He doesn’t talk much except about work-related things, which means I can bear his presence.

The memory of his assault is still there, a chilling reminder in the back of my mind, but time has a way of dulling sharp edges. The truth about Alexander has given me a new perspective and a new understanding of the world’s complexities. Plus, there’s something about Cole, an uncanny ability to read a room and understand the unspoken needs of a design, that makes working with him oddly comforting when we’re out meeting clients.

“Okay, so what do we think about this new campaign? Too much?” Cole says, his brow furrowed, his gaze fixed on the sleek, modern watch design on the screen. The imagery is supposed to be cutting edge, a mix of metallics and minimalist design that’s supposed to scream luxury, but it just feels—flat.

I step closer, leaning over his shoulder, a subtle shift in my posture that he seems to notice. “It’s good, Cole,” I say, “but maybe a little too polished. We need to inject some grit and some edge. This watch is supposed to be for the rebels, the mavericks, the people who don’t follow the rules.”

He nods, his expression thoughtful as he straightens his tie. “Yeah, you’re right. I tend to get images a little too—polished and too clean. Maybe we can add some of that—” he trails off, his voice low. His hand hovers over the screen, a single finger tracing the outline of the watch. He has a slight tremor in his hand as if he’s struggling to capture a fleeting thought.

A shadow falls across the room, interrupting our conversation. I glance up to see Isaac standing in the doorway, his youthful face framed by a halo of golden hair. The usual bright glint in his eyes is gone, replaced by a weariness that seems to weigh him down. A touch of blond stubble clings to his jaw, giving him a rugged look I haven’t seen before.

“Issac? What’s going on?” My pulse rises involuntarily.

“Ava, I need to talk to you.” His voice is low, almost apologetic not like his usual self. He steps into the room, his gaze meeting mine, a hint of a plea in his kind, dark eyes.

“It’s about Alexander?” I sigh, my tone clipped, the bitterness of the breakup still clinging to me.

“Yes,” he says, his gaze dropping momentarily before he meets my eyes. “He’s— not doing well.” His words are a confession, a silent admission of a truth we both know too well.

“I’m aware,” I say, my tone sharp, a defensive wall around my emotions. “We’re not together anymore, Isaac. It’s not my problem.” The words are harsh, but they feel necessary, a way to protect myself from the hurt.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But he needs you. Even as a friend.”

I scoff, the bitterness of the breakup still fresh. “I don’t think so. It’s time for him to take responsibility for his actions.”

“I understand,” he says, his voice low, but there’s a hint of something else in his gaze, a flicker of—something. It’s a look that makes me pause as if he’s trying to convey something he can’t put into words.

“He’s going through a lot. And he’s trying to change.”

Isaac stands there, his eyes filled with sadness. He knows Alexander better than anyone and has witnessed his rise and fall. He knows his past. He grew up a boy in the shadow, taught by Mendel to protect and secure Alexander Bourne, even if it meant paying with his life.

---