Page 51 of Unleashed
My laugh comes out choked, watery, but it’s real. “You’re bossy.”
“Damn right.” She shoots me a grin, tossing her hair back. “If Isaia’s gonna lurk around and not take care of you,” my breath hitches at his name, but she keeps rolling, “then you’re stuck with me. And I take my best friend duties very seriously. Cooking, cuddling, and keeping you alive with sarcasm.”
I curl deeper into the couch, hugging a pillow to my stomach. For the first time in weeks, the apartment feels less hollow, less like a temporary stopgap, more like…home.
Molly brings over two bowls, one piled high for me, one modest for herself. She plunks mine in my lap, then grabs the remote. “Okay,” she says, clicking the TV on. “Do you want murder documentaries that’ll remind you men are trash, or do you want dating shows where menprovethey’re trash?”
I laugh again, fuller this time. “God, Molly…”
Her grin widens, triumphant. “That’s what I like to hear. Eat your pasta, Beaumont. You’re growing a badass in there, and I’ll be damned if I let you do it on an empty stomach.”
We eat. We watch people on TV cry over roses and rejection. She cracks jokes that make me snort noodles through my nose. And for a little while, the ache of Isaia’s absence quiets. Not gone—never gone—but muffled by the fierce, stubborn love of the onlyfriend I never thought I’d have and now can’t imagine surviving without.
At some point, the warmth of the pasta and the rhythm of Molly’s chatter blur together, lulling me under. My head tips against the arm of the couch, the glow of the TV washing everything in flickers of red and blue.
When I wake, my phone’s vibrating on the glass coffee table. Hope spikes—and dies when I see it’s Anthony. I swipe decline, the room falling quiet again, the wrong man’s name still burning my retinas.
Not a single day has gone by that he hasn’t called. Part of me expected him to appear on Molly’s doorstep, but he hasn’t, and I’m thankful for it. Maybe he knows I don’t have the mental capacity right now for face-to-face confrontation, but I’m not naive enough to think he doesn’t have a clue where I am or what I’ve been doing. In fact, I’m sure he has a report about my doctor’s appointment in his hand right now.
The apartment is dim, the vanilla candle guttering low on the coffee table. The TV’s switched off, and a plush blanket’s been draped over me. I don’t need to guess who tucked me in. Molly. Always Molly. She’s everything I didn’t know I needed—steady when I’m falling, fire when I’m too weak to spark my own flame. If the last three weeks living with her have taught me anything, it’s that I was stupid to ever think I didn’t need a friend like her. Everyone needs a Molly in their lives.
I stare at the ceiling, the quiet pressing down, Isaia’s name a drumbeat in my chest. It’s been weeks, yet it feels like an eternity of going back and forth inside my own head. Weeks of wondering why he hasn’t called. Wondering if we’re over. But after today, he made it clear we’re not.
I close my eyes, and it plays back, frame by frame, until my body is trembling again, aching, desperate for him. The memory of his breath against my neck is still seared into my skin. The low rasp of his voice, the way his hand curved over my belly, the promise in every touch—it’s all still there. The desire, passion, the vows and love we’ve both been unable to fight or shut off, so we succumbed to it. On that island, we surrendered to it completely—no walls, no guilt, no second thoughts—and I found a freedom in loving him that I'd never known was possible.
Heat floods low in my belly just thinking about it. The island, the elevator, all the times he showed me how beautiful we could be in the darkness. My thighs press together. God, if he’d touched me one more time in that elevator—just once more—I would have come all over his palm. My body and soul would have shattered for him, like it always does. LikeIalways do.
And maybe that’s the point. He still wants me. He has to. Otherwise, why would he have come? Why would he have touched me like that, claimed me like that, if he didn’t?
He knows I’m pregnant. He knew where I was, which means he’s been following me, watching me, just like he did when all this began. And if that proves anything, it’s that he still wants me. He still loves me. There’s no reason for me to have that doubt anymore. So why am I hiding? Why am I waiting for him to come crashing back into my life when maybe this time it’s supposed to be me who reaches for him?
My hand drifts to my stomach, thumb circling slowly over the swell where our baby grows. I have to stop waiting. Stop hiding. Stop pretending that my silence will protect me when all it’s doing is killing me.
I need him.
My fingers fumble for my phone, clumsy as if I’m holding a live grenade. The glass is cold against my palm, but my pulse is fire, hammering too loud, too fast.
Each name I scroll past feels like a hurdle, until his blazes up at me like a wound.Isaia.The sight of it alone makes my throat lock, my eyes sting.
My thumb hovers. Trembles. All I have to do is press. One second. One choice. And then maybe this ache—this hunger—won’t be mine to carry alone anymore.
I squeeze my eyes shut, drag in a breath that feels too thin. And before I can lose my nerve?—
I presscall.
One ring. Two. Three.
My pulse is frantic, wild, and I picture him—phone in hand, my name glowing across his screen. I see him staring at it, see his thumb hovering. Choosing. Deciding.
“Come on,” I whisper into the empty room, my voice cracking. “Please, Isaia…pick up.”
The fourth ring feels like a noose tightening. By the fifth, I’m certain my heart will split in two.
And then?—
Voicemail. The generic one. A soulless machine. I’m not given the grace of his voice, not even the cruel comfort of hearing him speak words meant for no one. Just a tone, flat and final, and all my strength drains away, the phone slipping from my fingers.
He didn’t answer.
