Page 78 of Push My Buttons
"I've been waiting for you to run to me," a voice whispers, so close to my ear that I feel warm breath against my skin. “Lilliana…”
Ice floods my veins. That name. My real name. Not Wren—Lilliana. The world tilts violently, memories crashing into me like a tidal wave. Hands around my throat. Wavy brown hair. A voice saying I'm his, that I'll never leave him.
My vision tunnels, darkness creeping in from the edges. I can't see the face in front of me, just a blur of features as my consciousness starts to slip away. The hands on my shoulders release me and I feel myself falling, my legs giving out beneath me.
I vaguely hear Maya scream. “WREN!”
The last thing I feel is the sharp crack of my head against concrete, and then nothing but blessed darkness.
Chapter 29
Theo
Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.
I’m staring at the spreadsheet on my monitor, but it might as well be a blank screen. The columns and rows blur into one endless grid of pointless numbers. Each time I think I’m focusing, my mind careens back to her face—those hurt eyes, the moment she realized we’d lied. The betrayal etched on her features more devastating than any words.
Three hours since Wren walked out. Three hours of nothing. I’ve sent her four texts—each more pathetic than the last—and not a single reply. I check my phone again. Nothing. My thumb hovers over the screen, trembling with dread and self-loathing.
Across the office, Jace sits frozen in his swivel chair, his own screen displaying lines of code he hasn't touched all morning. His fingers tap that familiar pattern against the surface of his desk—three quick taps, two slow, three quick again. His leg bounces, a physical manifestation of the anxiety I know is consuming him too.
His eyes remain fixed on his screen, though I can tell he's not actually seeing it. He's retreated into that hyper-focused state he gets when he's processing something difficult—expression unnaturally still, body rigid except for those rhythmic movements. I know that look—he's running scenarios, calculating probabilities, trying to find the optimal solution to a problem that might not have one. He’s as trapped in this nightmare as I am.
"She's at work," I say, my words hollow in my attempt to reassure myself. "She's safe. She just needs space."
Safe? What the hell do I know?
I turn back to my screen, trying to force myself to focus on the quarterly marketing report that Matthews has been hounding me about. But all I can think about is Wren's face when she signed those words:"Is that why you never said it? Why neither of you ever said you loved me?"
Why the fuck didn't I say it? I've felt it for weeks—months, if I'm being honest with myself. From the first time she rolled her eyes at one of my ridiculous coffee orders. From the moment I saw her hands flying through signs with such grace and power. From that night at the studio when she trusted us with her body, then with her secrets.
I love her. I fucking love her, and I never told her because I was afraid—afraid of scaring her away, afraid of rushing her, afraid of my own feelings. Now she thinks it was all just some game, some hero complex bullshit.
"I should have told her," I say aloud, not really caring who hears me. "Why the fuck did I wait?"
I can't sit here anymore. Can't pretend to work while my mind replays this morning on an endless loop. I need to see her, need to make sure she's okay, need to apologize properly.
Standing so abruptly my chair rolls back and hits the wall, I make my way toward the door, briefly stopping by Jace’s desk on the way. "I'm going to the café," I announce.
Jace looks up, alarmed. "She asked for space, Theo."
"I know, but..." I run a hand through my hair. "I need coffee, and she makes coffee. They can't refuse to serve me. I just want to see that she's okay. Nothing more."
Jace hesitates, clearly torn between respecting Wren's request and his own desire to check on her. "Maybe you should wait a little longer," he suggests, though I can tell his heart isn't in it.
"I've waited too long already," I mutter, pulling my jacket on. "For too many things."
I'm halfway to the elevator when it opens, revealing Matthews in all his Armani-suited glory. His hair is perfectly styled, his expression the practiced blend of condescension and impatience that makes me want to punch him in the throat.
"Dawson," he says, blocking my exit. "Those reports. Where are they?"
"Working on them," I reply, trying to step around him and watching the elevator close behind him. "They'll be done by end of day."
He doesn't budge. "That's what you said yesterday. And the day before." His eyes narrow. "The board meeting is Monday. I need those numbers to finalize my presentation."
"You'll have them," I say through gritted teeth. "Now if you'll excuse me—"
"Where are you going? It's barely noon."
