Page 135 of Make Them Cry
Marla nods quickly. “For everything. For believing that crap about you and spreading rumors. We thought—well, we were wrong. Really wrong.”
Justin rubs the back of his neck. “Turns out thegolden boywasn’t so golden after all.”
At first, I don’t know what to say. There’s a thousand responses on the tip of my tongue—sarcastic, scathing, biting.
But instead, I just say, “Thank you.”
Because I’ve already lived in that hurt. And today isn’t about clinging to it.
It’s about letting it go.
They nod and walk away, looking relieved. A few other coworkers stop by with similar sentiments throughout the morning—some more genuine than others. But none of them matter as much as the man who approaches my desk just before lunch.
Andrew.
His shoulders are slumped. His badge is no longer clipped to his belt. There’s no corporate armor left—just regret.
“River,” he starts. “Can I… talk to you for a sec?”
I glance up, surprised. “Sure.”
“I’m fired. I’m here just tying up loose ends.” He hesitates. “I, uh, just wanted to say I’m sorry. For not believing you. For not protecting you when I should’ve. I got caught up in politics and perception and—hell, I knew something felt off, but I ignored it. I was weak.”
His voice cracks. Just slightly.
“I can’t fix what I did,” he says. “But I can tell you I’ve recommended you for my position. The team would be lucky to have you leading them.”
My heart twists.
I should feel validated.
But I don’t.
Because I already know what I’m going to say.
“Thank you,” I say. “But I’m going to have to pass.”
His brow furrows. “Why?”
“Because if I take that job, I’ll be reporting directly to the board. And one of their conditions is no dating within senior leadership.” I smile softly. “And I’m not giving up Gage.”
Andrew’s eyes widen. “You’re together?”
I nod. “Really together.”
He exhales, almost like he’s jealous. But also… relieved. “Then I hope you’re happy, River. Truly. You deserve that much.”
I watch him walk away. And for the first time since starting at NovaPlay, I don’t feel like the quiet outsider. I feel likeme.
Strong. Clear. Seen.
Later that evening,we’re at my apartment. Gage’s chopping vegetables in the kitchen, bare feet on the tile, sleeves rolled to his elbows. There’s music playing low on the speakers—some mellow indie band he’s trying to get me into.
I sneak up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist.
He leans back into me instantly.
“How was work?” he asks.
