Page 75 of “Not” Engaged to the Grumpy Billionaire

She turns to me, her hand resting lightly on the doorframe. “Thank you for everything, Nate. For letting me stay here. For everything you’ve done. Please tell Max how much I love him and that … I don’t know. I just don’t know how to believe that I will never see that beautiful little boy again. I love him so dearly.”

“Liz…” Her name comes out as a plea, though I’m not sure what I’m asking for.

She shakes her head, cutting me off. “Don’t. This is what’s best. For everyone.”

My chest tightens, the words I should have said earlier clawing at my throat. But instead, I nod, forcing myself to step back as she opens the door.

“Take care of yourself,” she says softly before walking out, her suitcases rolling behind her.

I watch her go, the taxi waiting at the curb, the driver stepping out to help her with her bag. She doesn’t look back, and I tell myself that’s a good thing.

It’s for the best.

The house feels unbearably quiet without her.

I sit in the living room, staring at the empty couch where she used to sit, her laughter still echoing in my mind. Boomer lies at my feet, his head resting on his paws, looking just as dejected as I feel. Becky walks back and forth to the bedroom obviously pretending not to notice that Liz is not here.

I pick up my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find her name. My thumb hovers over the call button, but I hesitate. What would I even say?

Still, I hit the button, holding my breath as the phone rings.

And rings.

And rings.

When it finally goes to voicemail, I hang up without leaving a message.

The night drags on, each hour heavier than the last. I try to sleep, but every time I close my eyes, I see her - her smile, her laugh, the way she looked at me when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

By the time morning comes, I feel like a shell of myself, my chest aching with regret and something I can’t quite name.

***

I arrive at the office earlier than usual, hoping - no, expecting - to see her there. She might have left the house, but work is different. Work is constant. Work is… predictable.

But when I walk into her office, it’s empty. The desk is clear, her personal touches gone, like she was never there.

A sinking feeling settles in my stomach as I check my phone, scrolling through my emails until I find it.

Her resignation.

My eyes skim over the words, but they barely register. She’s gone. Really gone.

I sink into the chair behind my desk, my head in my hands. How did it come to this? How did I let it come to this?

I throw myself into work, burying myself in contracts and schedules and everything else that demands my attention. If I can just keep busy, maybe I can stop thinking about her.

But it doesn’t work.

Every time I glance at the clock, I wonder what she’s doing. Every time my phone buzzes, I hope it’s her.

It never is.

By the afternoon, my frustration reaches a boiling point. I slam my pen down on the desk, the sharp sound echoing in the empty room.

“This isn’t working,” I mutter, standing abruptly and pacing the length of the office.

I grab my phone, dialing her number again. This time, it goes straight to voicemail.

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