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I came here looking for her because I saw the news before leaving the office. She had already left by the time the stories started circulating, and I assumed she panicked and ran—trying to avoid facing me, convinced I might blame her.

When she didn’t answer my messages, that assumption only solidified.

And I knew what would follow. Chaos around her. Questions. Pressure from every direction.

So I left and came straight here. I told Irina to go in my place in Asia. And I stayed in London.

For her.

For the first time in my life, I put a woman before the company.

After more than two hours, I figured enough time had passed for her to calm down a little, so I came to Theo’s to make it clear she didn’t need to hide or spiral.

I walked in just as Liam was switching through the news channels, and one headline in particular caught my attention.

Thalia out to dinner with John.

Dressed exactly as she is right now.

Today.

She went on a date. And judging by the photos, it went well. Considering that during those same hours I sent her two messages she didn’t even bother to answer, the conclusion is obvious.

I listened to all she said, caught between the instinct to react—to find her parents and tear them apart with my bare hands—and the control I’ve trained into myself for years.

So I waited.

I let her finish. I let her break down in Sierra’s arms. I let them all to step in, offering comfort the only way they know how.

With my eyes fixed on her, I catch the exact moment she turns toward the door and sees me.

She goes rigid in Sierra’s embrace. Her breath falters. Panic spreads through her entire body.

“Ethan…” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper, yet enough to make everyone turn.

No one speaks. No one moves. And I don’t take my eyes off her.

Slowly, she pulls away and rises from Sierra’s hold. Nick wraps his arms around his wife’s waist, drawing her close, resting his chin on her shoulder as he watches—like the others—silent, tense, waiting.

They all suspect what’s happening between us. They have for a while. And all my actions lately have only made it more obvious.

They want answers. But they won’t interfere. They never do.

Thalia stands there, frozen, panic written clearly across her face. She has no idea what to expect from me. No idea how I’ll react—especially now, the first time we’re in the same room with the others since I asked her to be exclusive.

And she has no idea what I think about the news.

I keep looking at her, unmoving, silent. I force every reaction down, lock it in place, but I don’t know how long that control will hold.

She takes two careful steps toward me, then stops, her hands closing around her waist as if she’s trying to keep herself together.

“Ethan, I…” she begins, her gaze dropping, her voice shaking.

And when my attention lands on her clothes again—the same outfit from the office, the same one from the photos with John—pressure builds beneath my ribs.

“I could’ve asked everyone to leave,” I say, my voice stripped of any emotion. “But what’s the point?”

The irony slips into my tone like a blade.