Chapter 11: When Reality Check in

There's a kind of joy that isn't joy at all. It's hope dressed up and powdered, wearing lipstick, dancing quietly in your chest. It fools your senses, makes you believe the clouds have shifted, the sun's now looking in your direction.

I went home that night with his words playing over and over in my head like a record I couldn't turn off.

I like you enough to be my woman.

But what does enough mean?

Maybe love doesn't come with a full stop. Maybe it just lingers like perfume that clings to someone else's shirt.

Mary was the first to find out. I didn't even hide it.

Luna! You said what? You're now his woman? It's like your head is spinning or did you hit it somewhere? Her eyes were wide, mouth slightly open like she was watching her own friend walk into fire barefoot.

Ben just shook his head slowly, as though he was watching a train crash unfold in real time. "You've officially entered the danger zone."

But still, I smiled.

Because a part of me believed I had won. I was no longer invisible to Dawn Bill. And that had to count for something. Right? What used to be a daydream was now a headline in my own life.

But the days that followed said otherwise.

No messages. No late night calls. No casual check ins. Just silence. And not the kind that feels like peace. This silence was sharp-edged, humming with quiet rejection.

I tried to dismiss it. He's busy. He's always here and there. That's who he is, I told myself. But that didn't stop the questions from rising.

Did I misunderstand him? Was it pity? Did he mean woman in the sense of maybe someday, or just for the moment?

At school, I poured myself into the only thing I still had control over my work. Final projects. Thesis prep. Mentorship sessions. I became obsessed with getting everything right. My writing turned bolder, sharper, fiercer. Even the lecturers noticed.

There's something different about her now, one of them murmured to another after reading my latest essay. She's not just writing—she's bleeding on the page.

But at night, the bleeding wasn't on paper.

It was inside my chest. Slow. Quiet. Constant.

How do you miss someone who was never fully yours?

One afternoon, I visited Franklin Park again. But not to wait. Not to dream. Just to breathe. I sat by the fountain, listening to the sound of water over stone, and scribbled something in my diary.

Maybe being brave isn't about who you chase.

It's about knowing when to walk away.

I meant it. I really did. But life, being the drama director it is, doesn't like quiet exits. It prefers scenes.

Maybe we are poetry without rhythm two lines written in different verses.

That night, I didn't cry. I didn't spiral. But something shifted. I didn't want to be someone's question mark anymore. I didn't want to be a mystery tucked into the edge of his schedule. I wanted to be my own clarity.

The next morning, my phone buzzed. A message simple, direct from his assistant.

Private meeting. Mr. Bill has requested your presence. 8 PM. Invitation only.

I read it three times. Then a fourth. My heart found its rhythm again, foolish as that may sound. I thought maybe I was wrong, maybe I hadn't been discarded before the plane even took off. Maybe we were just flying low.

I felt alive again. Smiling at nothing. Replaying old conversations. Fixing my hair for no reason. Imagining what I'd wear, what I'd say. It was silly, but I let myself feel it. I needed to.

By 8 PM, I was ready. I assumed a car would pick me up, probably someone from his staff. I didn't expect him.

But there he was.

Waiting in the driver's seat of a sleek black car, engine running, eyes on the road even as I approached.

I climbed in quietly. Hi, I said, careful and unsure.

He gave a brief nod, said nothing.

The ride was silent. Not the warm, thoughtful kind. This silence had weight. I looked at him from the corner of my eye, searching for signsmaybe he was tired, maybe he was overworked. Maybe there was a reason he wasn't speaking.

But even when I tried to start a conversation, he only offered nods or one word answers. It was like talking to someone who'd already left the room.

My voice eventually gave up. I stared out the window and let the city blur past us.

There's nothing louder than a man's silence when he's already made up his mind.

We pulled up to a building I didn't recognize. It wasn't an office or a hotel. It looked like a private residence tall, hidden behind high gates, minimalist in style. The kind of place rich people use when they don't want to be seen.

Inside, it was quiet and cold. Black furniture. Gold trimming. Marble floors that reflected too much light. There were two glasses of untouched wine on the table, already poured.

Have a sit, he said.

I obeyed without hesitation.

He didn't sit across from me. He stood. Arms crossed. Watching.

You think I don't notice things, he said.

My heart tensed. What things?

You wrote about change in your last essay.

I blinked, caught off guard. It wasn't direct. I changed names. It wasn't even—

But I knew. And anyone else paying attention would too. His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. The disappointment laced in it was sharp enough.

He stepped forward, eyes locked on mine.

That's the thing with women like you. You don't scream. You bleed on paper.

I swallowed, unsure of what to say. My throat tightened.

Do you feel seen now, Luna? he asked, voice calm, but distant.

I looked up at him, and in that moment, everything became clear.

He hadn't called me here for romance. Not to make up for the silence. He called me here to remind me of my place. To let me know that power didn't shift just because he once liked the way I laughed.

Maybe I had become inconvenient. Maybe I was just a brief thrill, the kind you erase once it starts becoming a story of its own.

I stood. Thank you for the ride.

That was all I said.

No tears, no begging, no demands.

Some silences don't deserve to be filled.

I walked out of the building with the sound of my shoes echoing on his polished floors.

And this time, I didn't look back.

It wasn't heartbreak. It wasn't anger.

Just a quiet, heavy knowing.

And maybe… that's what reality really feels like when it finally checks in.