Space

My resolve is faltering. Seeing him like this—a complete mess, on his knees, his eyes red and filled with desperation—hits me harder than I expected.

In my anger, I've had time to reflect, and an uncomfortable truth settles in my chest. These red flag tendencies? They've been there from the beginning. And maybe, just maybe, I gave him the right to think his behavior was okay. I coaxed him into finding me when we first met, brushed off the fact that he managed to get into my apartment without asking, even overlooked how he discovered my burner social media account.

But back then, my brain was clouded by omega hormones and sheer lust, and I didn't stop to think about the implications. I didn't set boundaries. I didn't draw lines. That doesn't make what he did forgivable, but… it makes it more complicated.

And now, here he is, fully aware of his mistakes, saying he'll do anything to fix them. He's begging, pleading, raw in a way I've never seen him before.

The truth is, I don't want to let him go. The material things—this penthouse, the gifts—mean nothing in the grand scheme of things. It's the way he makes me feel that's harder to walk away from. The way his eyes light up when he looks at me, like I'm the most important thing in the world. Like I hung the damn stars.

And right now, the thought of me leaving has utterly destroyed him. His shoulders tremble, his breath coming in uneven gasps, and I realize how deeply I've wedged myself into his life.

I sigh heavily, the weight of the moment pressing down on me as I slowly pull my hands away from his. His eyes widen, the hope in them flickering dangerously, and for a second, he looks completely lost.

"Give me some time to think about this," I say softly, my voice steadier than I feel.

His face falls, and the devastation that washes over him is almost comical. I nearly chuckle, but I bite it back. His emotions are so raw, so genuine, and it's oddly endearing despite everything.

Zander doesn't argue, doesn't beg further. He just nods, his head dipping slightly as if the weight of the world rests on his shoulders.

"Take all the time you need," he says, his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper.

I stand, brushing off my pants as I glance down at him one last time. He looks small, vulnerable, completely unlike the confident, powerful Alpha I've come to know. For a moment, I hesitate, my heart twisting, but I push it aside.

I need clarity, space. And so does he.

*

I check into a nearby hotel, the anonymity of the space offering a small sense of comfort. The weight of everything—Zander's desperation, my own conflicting feelings—sits heavily on my chest. I'm emotionally drained, the events of the day replaying in an exhausting loop.

Maksim, ever stoic, had driven me here without a word, his presence a quiet reminder that Zander still knows where I am. I should feel suffocated by the thought, but instead, it's oddly reassuring. Even in this mess, Zander hasn't tried to control my decision.

The hotel room is quiet, sterile but cozy enough, and I barely have the energy to take in my surroundings. I toss my bag onto the chair by the window and kick off my shoes before collapsing onto the bed.

The cool sheets feel like a balm against my skin, and the moment my head hits the pillow, the exhaustion takes over. My thoughts blur, and the tension in my body begins to ebb.

I need space. Time to think.

That's the last coherent thought I manage before sleep claims me, pulling me under into a heavy, dreamless slumber.