After gathering every ounce of courage she could muster, Nerissa pressed the call button on her phone. Her fingers trembled, her chest tightening with each ring.
"Isabelle… we need to talk," she said, her voice low but steady.
There was a pause on the other end, the kind that made her question if she should have called at all. Then Isabelle's voice came—sweet, calm, almost too calm.
"Alright," Isabelle replied. "I'll send you my address."
The message arrived moments later. Nerissa stared at it for a long second, her pulse quickening. She wasn't sure what she would say when they met. All she knew was that this conversation needed to happen—before things spiraled even further out of control.
The drive to Isabelle's place felt endless. By the time she arrived, her palms were damp, her breath shallow. She stood at the door, heart pounding against her ribs, and knocked.
The door wasn't locked.
She pushed it open slowly, stepping into the dimly lit apartment. Her gaze swept across the living room, then toward the partially open bedroom door.
That's when she froze.
Through the narrow opening, she caught sight of bare skin, tangled sheets… and George—her husband whom she just made love last night—lying naked on Isabelle's bed.
Her throat closed up. For a moment, the world went soundless, colorless.
George's eyes widened when he saw her. Isabelle, wrapped in nothing but a smug smile and a silk sheet, leaned lazily against the headboard.
Nerissa's heart shattered, piece by piece, right there on the threshold.
For a long moment, Nerissa simply stood there, rooted to the floor, the scene before her burning into her memory like an unshakable nightmare.
George's lips moved—her name perhaps—but she didn't hear it. She didn't want to hear it.
A bitter laugh escaped her before she could stop it. Not the kind that carried humor, but the kind born from a heart finally breaking under its own weight.
She straightened her shoulders, forcing the tremor in her voice to disappear.
"You win, Isabelle," she whispered, her eyes meeting the other woman's in a sharp, fleeting glare.
Then she turned to George, her gaze cold, unreadable.
"I hope she's worth everything."
No tears. No screaming. Just a hollow ache that spread through her chest like frost.
She stepped back, each footfall heavier than the last, until she was out the door.
The cool air outside hit her face, but it didn't chase away the numbness settling over her. She didn't run—running would mean she still had hope to cling to. Instead, she walked. Steady. Silent.
Every step was a quiet surrender.
Every breath, an admission that the war was over.
She had fought for him, for them, but now she understood—sometimes love wasn't lost in a sudden explosion of betrayal. Sometimes, it simply withered, and you had to let it go.
Nerissa didn't look back. She didn't need to.
Some battles aren't meant to be won.
And this time, she accepted her defeat.
By the time Nerissa reached the street, the weight of the world felt heavier on her shoulders. She walked without knowing where her feet were taking her, the city lights blurring into meaningless streaks against her glassy eyes.
She found herself in a small park, the kind people passed through without noticing. The night was cool, the air damp with the promise of rain. She sat on an empty bench, clutching her bag to her chest as if it could hold her together.
For a while, she just sat there. Silent. Still.
Then, like a crack in a dam, the first tear slid down her cheek. It startled her—she had promised herself she wouldn't cry, not for him, not for this. But the tears came anyway. Slow at first, then faster, until her breath trembled with the effort of holding them in.
She pressed a hand over her mouth to keep the sobs from spilling into the night, her shoulders shaking in the quiet. She didn't want strangers to hear her. She didn't want the world to know how badly she'd been broken.
The humiliation. The betrayal. The image of George—her husband—lying in another woman's bed. Isabelle's mocking smile. It all replayed in her mind, stabbing at her like a cruel refrain. " I thought we already agreed into something beautiful."
"Stupid… so stupid," she whispered to herself.
The rain began to fall, thin and cold, mingling with her tears. She let it soak her, not caring anymore. She had already lost the fight. What was the point of running for cover now?
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell chimed midnight. Nerissa closed her eyes and drew a shaky breath.
She would survive this. Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday.
And when that day came, she swore she would never let anyone have the power to break her like this again.
The rain fell harder now, drumming against the pavement in a relentless rhythm. Nerissa barely noticed. Her hands were cold, her hair plastered against her face, her cream dress clinging to her skin like a second, heavier layer of sorrow.
Headlights swept across the park, briefly illuminating her figure on the bench. A car slowed. Brakes squealed softly.
Through the curtain of rain, a familiar figure emerged.
"Nerissa?" The voice was sharp with worry.
She looked up slowly, blinking through wet lashes.
Drake.
He didn't wait for her to answer. In three quick strides, he was in front of her, crouching down to her level. The sight of her—so still, soaked to the bone, eyes red and vacant—made his chest tighten painfully.
"What the hell are you doing out here?" His voice broke between anger and concern. He reached out, his warm hands gripping her icy fingers. "You're freezing."
She wanted to speak, to tell him she was fine, but the words caught in her throat. Instead, her lips trembled, and the next thing she knew, she was leaning into him.
Drake didn't hesitate. He pulled her into his arms, shielding her as best he could from the downpour. She felt the steady beat of his heart against her cheek, a stark contrast to the chaos inside her own.
"Let's get you out of here," he murmured, guiding her toward his car.
Once inside, Drake cranked up the heater and grabbed a blanket from the back seat, wrapping it around her. He glanced at her, his jaw tightening when he noticed the faraway look in her eyes.
"Tell me what happened to you," he said softly but firmly.
Her gaze drifted to the window, watching the rain chase itself down the glass. "It doesn't matter," she whispered, voice hoarse. "It's over."
Drake's grip on the steering wheel tightened, but he didn't push. He simply reached over, taking her hand in his, holding it until her trembling eased.
"You're with me now," he said. "And I won't let you go through this alone."
For the first time that night, Nerissa let out a breath that didn't feel like it was tearing her apart. She closed her eyes, leaning her head against the seat.
Outside, the rain still poured.
Inside, she wasn't sure if she was safe yet—but at least, for now, she wasn't alone.
The city blurred past in streaks of neon and rain, the hum of the car's engine the only sound between them. Drake kept glancing her way, as if to reassure himself she was still there, still breathing, still safe.
When they reached his condo, he pulled into the underground parking and cut the engine. Without a word, he stepped out, came around to her side, and opened the door.
"Come on," he said softly.
The elevator ride was silent. She stood beside him, clutching the blanket around her shoulders. The warm scent of his cologne mixed with the faint smell of rain that clung to both of them.
Inside his condo, Drake guided her to the couch.
"Sit. I'll get you something dry."
She nodded faintly, watching him disappear into his bedroom. Her fingers gripped the edge of the blanket, her mind drifting back to that image—George, tangled in Isabelle's sheets. She swallowed hard, willing it away.
Drake returned with a soft sweatshirt and sweatpants. "They'll be a little big on you, but they're warm."
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice almost lost in the quiet.
He turned away, giving her privacy to change. When she emerged from the bathroom, dressed in his clothes, her hair damp and her skin flushed from the warm towel, Drake was already in the kitchen, pouring tea into two mugs.
He set one in front of her, then sat across from her. "Better?"
"A little," she whispered, wrapping her hands around the mug, letting the heat seep into her fingers.
For a while, neither spoke. The rain against the windows filled the silence.
Then Drake leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes locking on hers. "Nerissa… you don't have to tell me everything. But I need you to know something."
She looked at him, unsure. "What?"
"I'm not him," Drake said quietly. "I would never… do that to you."
Something in his voice—steady, deep, aching with sincerity—made her chest tighten. She wanted to tell him not to say things like that, not when her heart was still bleeding. But the truth was, a small part of her needed to hear it.
She lowered her gaze. "I don't know if I can trust anyone anymore."
"I know," he said simply. "But I'll wait. As long as it takes."
Her eyes flicked to his, searching for any trace of pity. But there was none—only a steady, unyielding warmth.
And for the first time since she'd walked away from that bedroom, Nerissa felt a faint flicker inside her… not hope exactly, but something dangerously close.
The first thing Nerissa noticed was the light.
Soft, pale rays streamed through the tall windows, spilling across the couch where she lay. The blanket draped over her was warm, faintly smelling of Drake. For a moment, she didn't remember where she was. Then last night came flooding back—the rain, the park bench, George, Isabelle… and Drake's arms around her.
She sat up slowly. Her clothes—his clothes—were loose and comfortable, the sweatshirt's sleeves falling past her hands. She looked around and spotted him in the kitchen, his broad back turned as he worked at the counter.
The sound of a coffee machine hummed, followed by the quiet clink of a spoon. He moved with a calm ease, barefoot, hair slightly mussed from sleep. It was… disarming.
"Morning," his voice came without him turning, as though he'd sensed her watching.
"Morning," she replied softly, clearing her throat.
Drake glanced over his shoulder, eyes sweeping over her. "You slept well?"
"Better than I thought I would," she admitted, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders.
He brought over a mug of coffee and set it in front of her. "It's hot. Careful."
Their fingers brushed when she took it. She pretended not to notice the way her skin seemed to tingle at the contact.
"Thanks," she murmured.
He sat across from her, watching her take the first sip. His gaze was steady, not probing, but present—like he was making sure she wouldn't disappear if he looked away.
"You were talking in your sleep," he said quietly.
Her eyes widened a little. "What did I say?"
"Just… his name. And you kept saying 'why.'" His voice was gentle, almost hesitant.
Her lips parted, but no words came. She stared into her coffee, the steam blurring her vision.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"You don't have to be," Drake said. "You're allowed to hurt, Nerissa. Just… don't do it alone."
Something about the way he said it made her chest ache. There was no judgment, no expectation—just a quiet promise that he meant every word.
She set her coffee down, suddenly afraid of the feelings stirring in her. Drake wasn't George. Drake was steady, grounded, safe. And that scared her more than the betrayal itself.
Because safety was dangerous too.
The quiet between them was fragile, almost comforting—until her phone buzzed on the coffee table.
She didn't think much of it at first… until she saw the name on the screen.
George.
Her fingers froze around her coffee mug. She didn't move. She didn't breathe.
The phone buzzed again. And again.
Drake's eyes followed her gaze, landing on the glowing name. His jaw tightened, but he didn't say a word. Instead, he leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully—waiting.
Nerissa's hand twitched toward the phone, but she stopped midway, curling her fingers into a fist instead.
"He just… won't stop," she murmured, more to herself than to him.
"You going to answer?" Drake asked, his tone calm but unreadable.
She hesitated. The rational part of her screamed no. But curiosity… curiosity was dangerous. Curiosity wanted to know what he could possibly say after everything.
The buzzing stopped. For a moment, she thought it was over—until a new notification lit the screen.
1 new voicemail.
She stared at it like it was a ticking bomb.
Drake stood, walked over, and crouched in front of her. "Nerissa…" His voice was low, steady. "You don't owe him anything."
Her eyes met his. There was no demand in his tone, no attempt to control her—just an unshakable steadiness, like he was bracing himself to catch her if she fell again.
But her fingers were already reaching for the phone. She unlocked it, pressed the voicemail, and lifted it to her ear.
George's voice spilled out, rough and desperate.
Nerissa… please. It's not what it looked like. I swear. Just—just come home. We can fix this.
Her stomach twisted. The man who shattered her was now pleading for her return.
She ended the voicemail and set the phone face down on the table, pressing the heel of her hand against her forehead.
Drake didn't touch her. He didn't crowd her. He just said, "If you want me to, I'll take you anywhere but back there."
Her throat tightened. "I… don't know what I want."
"That's okay," Drake replied softly. "Just don't choose what's going to break you all over again."
Her eyes burned with unshed tears. She didn't answer. But in that moment, she realized that sitting here with Drake, wrapped in the smell of coffee and rain, was the first time she'd felt even a flicker of safety since her world collapsed.
And maybe—just maybe—that was worth holding on to.