EMMA

It was snowing.

Of course, it was. Because if life had taught me anything, it was that the biggest moments always came with a storm.

Fine, silent flakes dusted the streets like powdered glass, blanketing the city in a hush that made everything feel suspended in time. From the window, I watched them fall, dissolving against the glass before they could settle.

A part of me wanted to reach out—just press my palm to the cold pane and feel something, anything, that wasn't the weight curling in my chest.

The snow was beautiful. Soft, delicate, pure. I had always loved it—those quiet mornings when the world turned still and white and full of make-believe.

But today, it felt cruel, mocking even.

It could delay our escape. Eric had said the airstrip in New Jersey was clear, but who knew how long that would last? One shift in the forecast, one flick of bad luck, and everything could collapse.

We didn't have the luxury of time. Not anymore.

Eric arranged for a chartered plane that was supposed to take us to Madeira—a discreet, beautiful Portuguese island nestled in the Atlantic, where wealthy tourists came and went without raising questions. It was the kind of place where no one asked where you were from, just whether you wanted the view with or without breakfast.

We planned to stay there for a while under new identities, long enough to catch our breath and figure out our next long-term move. Something quieter, safer, with no extradition treaty and no curious eyes. And somewhere far from Europe, in case the FBI got desperate enough to push Interpol into issuing a red notice.

Maybe Cape Verde, maybe Indonesia. Somewhere warm... forgettable. The kind of place you went to when you wanted to stop existing, without actually dying.

I sighed, arms wrapped tightly around myself as I stared out at the snow-softened skyline. The city blurred, as if the world itself had started to dissolve.

I closed my eyes. And in an instant, I was back in Jake's apartment—trapped inside a dream that had felt too real.

That nightmare. It had been snowing in that one, too.

I opened my eyes again and shook the thoughts away. Now wasn't the time.

There was no room for dreams or dread or the sting sitting heavy in my throat. Only time to pack what little I could carry—and write the damn letter.

The one I had been putting off. The one I didn't know how to start. The one that would break him—and me. But I owed him that much. At the very least, the truth... even if it came too late.

I pushed myself away from the window and turned to look at Eric. He was zipping up his jacket and tugging on his gloves with that same quiet energy he had carried all day—focused, efficient, unshakable. It was how he had always been under pressure. He took care of the details, kept the wheels turning, because someone had to. Because I couldn't. Not this time.

But now, with the hour creeping closer and no room left for second thoughts, even he looked heavier.

"Our guy at the hangar just called," he said. "Everything's on schedule. They're not expecting the snow to get heavier. We take off at 3:40 a.m., wheels up before first light."

I nodded, even though the words barely registered.

He stepped closer, holding out the passports we had reviewed so many times they felt more real than our own. Angela and Damien Freeman. Siblings with no digital footprint, no criminal record, no ties to anything that could come back to haunt us.

Eric had been meticulous, as always. New identities, burner phones, clean cash. A scaffold of lies built with care—enough to hold up under scrutiny, enough to let us slip into the cracks of the world and vanish.

Still, I couldn't let go of the name.

"Freeman," I said quietly, the word dry and bitter on my tongue. "Do you think that means something?"

Eric looked at me. "It means we're getting out. It means we're starting fresh."

But I didn't answer because nothing about this felt like freedom.

It felt like running.

It felt like exile.

It felt like punishment wrapped in a passport.

He stepped closer, his voice softer. "I know this isn't what you wanted. And I know it's not fair. But you're doing what you have to do. For us... and maybe, in some way, for him too."

My throat ached. I swallowed hard, the guilt crawling up my spine like a second skin. "I got us here. Even him."

"And what you're doing now is trying to fix it," he said. "Don't lose sight of that."

I nodded again, barely.

Eric lingered in the doorway, watching me like he used to when we were kids, when I scraped my knee or told a lie I couldn't carry well. That look that always said, I know you better than you think.

"You gonna be okay for a few hours?"

I forced a smile, one that probably looked as fragile as it felt. "I've got a letter to finish."

That made him pause. Then he exhaled, stepping forward to brush a kiss against my temple, the gesture gentle and wordless and so painfully familiar.

"I'll call when I get there."

He took the passports from my hand, slipping them into his coat pocket. He looked around the penthouse one last time. The place we had pretended, for a while, was a life.

Then he met my eyes. "This place feels less like home already."

I didn't reply. I couldn't.

He turned and left, the soft click of the door closing behind him echoing like a gunshot in the silence that followed.

I paced the living room with bare feet, the cold seeping up through the wooden floor and settling deep in my bones. The clock on the wall ticked louder than it ever had before—each second a blunt, rhythmic punch to the ribs.

Time was running out.

I lowered myself onto the edge of the couch, knees drawn close, and reached for the small stack of stationery I had bought weeks ago, foolishly thinking I would be ready when the time came.

The pen in my hand felt heavier than it should have—unfamiliar despite being one of my favorites. It was Jake's, actually.

I had stolen it once, half as a joke, after he ranted about how the best pens always vanished from the office. He had been genuinely annoyed when they started disappearing from his apartment, too. He never realized I was the thief.

I had carried it in my purse ever since. A small, stupid secret that somehow felt like a tether.

I had even used it to sign my resignation papers from the museum. The irony hadn't escaped me.

My fingers found the necklace at my collarbone, the familiar shape of the charm warm against my skin. It was another thing that reminded me of Jake—almost too much.

A north star. Something to follow when you were lost.

I remembered the moment he had given it to me with such clarity that it almost hurt. The softness in his eyes, the way his thumb brushed against my shoulder as he clasped it around my neck. I could count on one hand the number of times I had taken it off since then.

Maybe, deep down, I believed it guided me to him. Maybe I still wanted to believe that.

But tonight, it just felt like another lie. I didn't deserve a guiding light, and I certainly didn't deserve anything that still connected me to him.

Not after everything I had done. Not when I was the one leading him into the dark.

The thought struck deep, but I forced it down. I couldn't afford to unravel now.

I curled my fingers tighter around the pen, grounding myself in its weight.

There was still the letter. And there was not much time left before Eric called.

I stared at the blank page.

Jake,

I wrote at the top, then stopped.

What could I possibly say? That I loved him? That I never meant to hurt him? That I had spent the last few months wrapped in a lie so intoxicating I was willing to burn everything down just to pretend it was real?

And how do you tell someone such a truth like that without breaking them?

How do you say I love you and I lied to you in the same breath and expect them to hear anything but the betrayal?

How do you say goodbye to the only person who ever made you feel alive without it sounding like a knife twisting in both your chests?

A sob cracked out of me—sharp, sudden, and violent—but I forced myself to try again.

I need you to know the truth...

No. That sounded like the beginning of an excuse, and I didn't deserve one.

I ripped the page in half, the tear slicing through the silence like a scream, and grabbed another.

I conned you.

My chest tightened.

From the start.

The words stared back at me like a verdict. I waited for them to sink in, for the shame to settle in my bones like a proper punishment. But it didn't... because it wasn't the whole truth.

If it had all been a con, I wouldn't be sitting here. I wouldn't be shaking. I wouldn't feel like my ribs were crushing my lungs every time I pictured his face when he found out.

The truth was, I conned myself more than anyone. I tricked myself into believing it could last. That love could somehow rewrite the parts of me written in smoke and ash.

But I did love him. God, I loved him.

And if I had the chance to go back, I would lie all over again. I would walk through the same fire, let it consume me, if it meant I got to love him one more time.

And that was the worst part, because I knew it was never fair to him.

I pressed my palms to my eyes until I saw stars. Maybe I should've let him catch me that night on the roof. Maybe that would've been easier. A clean break, justice served. There would've been no lies, no unforgiven love twisting itself into knots inside my chest. Just a thief caught in the act.

Instead, I went to that coffee shop. I walked straight into his world with a smile and a lie and carved out a place that was never mine to claim. And now I had the audacity to sit here and mourn it, as if it hadn't all been built on sand from the start.

Now, all I had were a thousand memories I could never keep and one letter to explain everything I couldn't bring myself to say out loud.

I grabbed another sheet, my grip on the pen so tight my knuckles ached. My hand was trembling.

You were the only real thing I had, Jake.

I stopped. My eyes burned, the words swimming on the page.

And I ruined it.

The pen slipped from my fingers, and I couldn't hold back anymore. My breath caught, hitched, then broke. A sob clawed its way up, thick and sharp and unrelenting.

I covered my mouth with both hands, as if that could somehow hold in the grief tearing through me. But it didn't.

I cried like I had never before. Messy, silent tears spilled too fast to stop, soaking the half-written page and bleeding the ink until the words blurred into nothing.

And I let it happen. For the first time in so long, I let myself break. Because there was no stopping it anymore. This was the end.

No matter what I wrote, no matter how carefully I tried to stitch the words together, I would still be gone in a few hours. And Jake would read this when I was already in the sky—a ghost with a new name, vanishing into a life that wasn't mine.

And he would hate me... maybe forever. But he deserved the truth. Even if it shattered what we had. Even if it destroyed what was left of me.

I wiped my face with shaking hands and pulled a fresh sheet from the stack.

And this time... the words came. Not easily, not cleanly, but they came. Because that was the only thing I had left to give him.

By the time I finished, the ink had bled slightly where a tear had smudged a word. I didn't fix it. I let it stay, raw and unpolished—because that was what this was. A truth stripped down to the bone.

I folded the paper once, then twice, and slid it into the envelope. I wrote his name on the front.

Jake.

Just that.

I stared at it for a long time, then pressed it to my chest, holding it like it was the last real thing I had. Because in a way, it was.

The snow outside had thickened, turning the city into a quiet, white blur.

And just as I started to stand, my eyes still wet and my hands still trembling, there was a knock at the door.

Three short raps.

I froze.

It couldn't be Eric. He wouldn't knock, and he had a key.

I moved slowly, dread blooming in the pit of my stomach, thick and cold and unmistakable. Each step toward the door felt like it dragged chains behind it.

When I opened it, the hallway light spilled over his face.

Jake.

His green eyes met mine, unreadable, frozen, distant. He was looking at me as if I were a stranger, like he didn't recognize the person standing in front of him. And maybe he didn't.

I couldn't breathe.

He didn't say anything.

He didn't have to.

Because somewhere in that silence, in the weight of his gaze, in the hollowness I saw just beneath it—I knew.

He knew.

And the world—my carefully balanced, quietly crumbling world—shattered in an instant, splintering into a million sharp, merciless pieces...