I stand too, closing the distance between us. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m afraid of what it means.” She looks at me, conflicted.
“Why are you afraid?”
Her shoulders fall. “What if it meanseverything? Only for it to end?”
“We won’t let it. End.” I reach for her hand.
She squeezes my fingers. Then let’s go.
We stand there in silence for a moment longer until she crushes me. “No. We can’t. Not now. Notever.”
“Marcella…”
“It’s not right.” She smooths her skirt.
“I don’t agree, maybe…”
“No maybes. It’s wrong.” She steps away, flustered.
This pisses me off immensely. Not because I’m mad at her. I hate she feels like I’ll let her down. “Why doesn’t it feel wrong? For me, being with you feels inevitable.”
She whirls around. “No, being with you is aproblem.”
Then she’s marching toward the exit.
“Marcella.”
She doesn’t turn around. Instead, pushes through the door and I hear her heels clicking down the hallway toward the elevator.
I grab my phone and text her.
Me: Come back.
I wait. Every second feels like an hour. I’m convinced Marcella hasn’t seen my text or worse, she’s seen and ignored it.
Then I hear something.
Heels. Echoing down the hall. Getting closer.
The door swings open and she’s back—eyes wild, breath shallow, fire in every step.
She doesn’t speak. Neither do I. Her mouth finds mine and nothing else exists.
No courtroom. No hospital. No rules.
Only this.
The inevitability we’ve been circling finally breaks.
I know with gut-deep certainty—
Marcella wasalwaysmine.
nineteen
Marcella
