chapter 4

"I just… I just saw her as a little sister," Joshua Harvey said, voice breaking as if the excuse could still save him. He looked completely drained, stripped of all his defenses.

"Little sister?" I repeated, my tone sharp enough to cut through the air. "Would you really leave your fiancée to fend for herself in a burning building for your little sister?"

He flinched, eyes squeezing shut, the words hitting him like blows. The silence that followed was thick and stifling — the kind of silence that made the air feel heavier, harder to breathe.

That was when I heard the sound of tires crunching over gravel. A sleek black car stopped at the gate, and a tall man stepped out. Patrick Newman, my business partner.

Patrick owned one of the most respected art galleries in Havenreach. He'd been selling my ceramics through his gallery for the past year, and together, we'd built a quiet rhythm — a professional partnership that, in its own way, felt steady and safe.

He paused when he saw us in the yard. His eyes flicked from me to Joshua, then back to me. Without missing a beat, he walked over and rested a hand on my shoulder, his tone light but edged with curiosity. "Natasha," he said, his voice calm and measured, "who's this?"

"Just someone who doesn't matter," I replied coolly, not breaking eye contact with Joshua.

The words hit him like a physical strike. His whole body went rigid; he stared at Patrick's hand on my shoulder as if the sight alone might undo him. His voice came out raw. "Who is he?" he demanded, jealousy dripping from every syllable.

Before I could speak, Patrick's mouth curved into an easy, confident smile. He stepped subtly in front of me, positioning himself between us. "I'm Patrick Newman," he said evenly. "Natasha's boyfriend. Is there a reason you're looking for my girlfriend?"

The color drained from Joshua's face. He swayed slightly, as if the ground had shifted beneath him. "Boyfriend?" he repeated, disbelieving. "No… no, that's not true. Natasha, tell him! We haven't broken up — we're just fighting, that's all."

Watching him unravel like that, I felt… nothing. No pity, no anger — just a strange, hollow calm. If anything, the scene felt almost surreal, like watching a stranger reenact a memory that used to belong to me.

"Joshua," I said, stepping out from behind Patrick. My voice was quiet but steady. "We were over the moment you chose to protect Carley. That was it for us." I paused, my gaze locking with his. "And one more thing — don't come looking for me again. I don't want you in my life. Not even a little bit."

His lips parted, but no words came out.

I turned away from him, already walking toward the house. "Patrick," I said over my shoulder, "come inside. I want you to see the new batch of cups I just finished. Tell me if any of them catch your eye."

"Of course," Patrick said smoothly. He gave Joshua a polite, almost dismissive nod, then followed me into the yard, his arm draping gently around my shoulders.

I didn't look back. I didn't have to. I could feel Joshua's gaze burning into my back, a mix of anguish and disbelief that clung to me until I closed the door.

Inside, the silence was heavy, broken only by the faint hum of the kiln. Patrick's arm slipped away as soon as the latch clicked shut. "Sorry," he said quietly, "for jumping in like that."

"It's fine," I said, turning to him. "Really. Thank you."

He nodded, his eyes softening. "That was him, wasn't it?"

I hesitated, then nodded once. I'd told Patrick bits and pieces about my past, but never the full story. He didn't press. He just sighed, thoughtful, and said, "If you ever need anything — anything at all — you can call me."

I felt a small warmth flicker in my chest, unexpected but real. "Thanks, Patrick."

For the next few days, Joshua didn't appear. The quiet felt almost foreign — like a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. I started to believe he'd finally given up.

But I was wrong.

He only changed tactics.

The letters began arriving a week later. One every day. Heavy cream-colored envelopes sealed in black wax, his handwriting precise and familiar. Inside each one, the same thing: regret. Long, rambling recollections of the past — our first meeting in college, the night he proposed, the years we spent building the studio together. Each letter soaked in nostalgia and guilt, as if he could write his way back into my life.

I didn't read them twice. I tossed them into the fireplace one by one, watching the paper curl and blacken, the ink bleeding into flame. When the last corner burned away, I felt lighter.

I thought that would be the end of it.

But I underestimated how stubborn Joshua Harvey could be.