Chapter 114 You Didn't Show Up It was a regular Tuesday in the office—or as “regular” as a place like Goldberg & Associates could ever be. Phones shrilled like toddlers throwing tantrums, coffee fumes clung to the air like a curse, and the endless shuffle of files sounded less like productivity and more like an off-key orchestra of my pure misery. If someone bottled this chaos and sold it, it’d be labeled Corporate Hell No. 5. And as if the universe thought we didn’t already hate ourselves enough, my boss—Mr. Goldberg himself—had apparently woken up with a vendetta against humanity. He’d been on a yelling spree since nine a.m., tearing through staff like he was auditioning for the role of Satan’s secretary. Well…everyone except me. I know, I know—suspicious. Normally, I would’ve been his favorite punching bag. Not because I was bad at my job, far from it—I was diligent, organized, borderline obsessive about my deadlines, but because that’s just office hierarchy. Someone always gets sacrificed. Today, though, it wasn’t me. And that was the problem.See, Goldberg and Roman go way back. Best pals. Drinking buddies. Golf buddies. Whatever grown men who think cigars and whiskey solve everything call themselves. So, ever since I got engaged to Roman, Goldberg has been treating me with kid gloves. I could probably set fire to a whole filing cabinet and he’d just pat my head and say, “Accidents happen, Savannah. No big deal.” Which is great for me, but terrible for office gossip because everyone had been throwing me looks all day. Not subtle ones either. I’m talking full-on The Office camera stares. Whispers trailing me like a bad stench. I could practically hear what they were thinking: Why hasn’t Goldberg yelled at her? Why does she get a free pass? Are they…you know… having an affair? Ugh. As if. The idea of Goldberg in any setting that wasn’t this office was brain-meltingly bizarre. The man had three kids, a wife, and a life I had no interest in imagining. He wasn’t unattractive in a stereotypical “dad who golfs” way, he's actually very handsome, but picturing him in any…intimate context? No thank you. My imagination had limits, and that was one boundary I wasn’t crossing.I was mid-eye roll at myself when— “Savannah!” The shout made me jolt so hard I knocked my coffee over, hot liquid spreading across my desk in a brown, hot puddle. “Shit!” I hissed, grabbing napkins, my heart hammering. I turned toward the culprit. Alfred. Our receptionist. The man had lungs like a stadium announcer. “Someone’s here to see you,” he called again, way too cheerful for someone who’d just cost me a keyboard. “Thanks, Alfred,” I muttered through clenched teeth, tossing my ruined cup into the trash and blotting at the mess. My murderous thoughts toward him were the only thing keeping me from crying over my wasted caffeine. I followed him out, resigned. I already knew who it was. Roman. After yesterday’s fiasco with Penny at his office—God, just remembering it made my skin crawl—I wouldn’t put it past him to show up unannounced. Probably to smooth things over. Maybe to charm me into forgiving him by sheer force of charisma. He knew how furious I was about Penny, and Roman was nothing if not strategic when it came to damage control. I slept at his place last night, just to show him that I was pissed at him. I'm certain he's here to show how sorry he is. But my certainty started cracking the moment Alfred led me toward reception. Roman wouldn’t wait there. That wasn’t his style. He’d be at my desk, lounging in my chair like he owned the place, or upstairs in Goldberg’s office. The reception was too…public. Too beneath him. And then I saw the familiar brown hair. My breath caught. “Dean?” The name slipped out before I could stop it. His head snapped up instantly, eyes locking on me. I froze. My legs forgot how to move, like the floor had turned to glue. “Savannah,” he breathed, rushing toward me. I stumbled back three steps. He didn’t notice—or maybe he did and chose to ignore it—because the next thing I knew, he had his arms wrapped around me. Tight. Desperate. Longing. My whole body stiffened. The hug was unwanted, suffocating, a cage of arms I didn’t ask for. “Savannah,” he murmured again, voice cracked around the edges. “I waited for you at your place yesterday. You didn’t show up. I had to come here after waiting.” His words tumbled out, too fast, too practiced. I shoved at his chest, gentle but firm, widening the space between us. My heart pounded. The way he looked at the distance I created—like it was proof he’d lost me forever—twisted something inside me that I didn’t want to name. “Why would you come to my house, Dean?” My voice was sharp, cutting through the air. “What are you even doing here?” He tugged at his hair, rough movements betraying how frayed he was. God. He looked awful. Dark bags sagged under his eyes like weights. His hair was unkempt, his shirt wrinkled. A beard clung to his jaw—unkempt, more desperation than style. He was always neat, polished. This version of him felt wrong. “Chloe’s still missing,” he said finally. The words dropped between us like a stone. Heavy. Of course. Chloe. Again. “And?” I forced out, my arms crossing in defiance. His eyes burned. “The police are involved now. They found her car abandoned by the roadside. Her belongings too. There was blood, Savannah. Chloe's blood. They found one of her shoes but…that’s it. She’s still missing. And all eyes are on me now. Everyone thinks I did it.” The world tilted. Literally. My vision swam and the reception desk blurred. I swayed, dizzy, before I could stop it. “Sav!” Dean’s voice cracked as he caught me, an arm snapping around my waist, steadying me. His body was warm against mine, too close, too familiar. “Be careful,” he whispered. I clutched his collar like it was a lifeline. My voice was a rasp. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” “We tried,” he said, pained. “We all tried to reach you, but you blocked me. You wouldn’t answer Lizzie either. None of us could get through.” Regret stabbed through me. My stomach churned instantly. I collapsed onto a chair in reception, my legs unable to hold me.“Oh my God,” I whispered, vision blurring. Dean sat beside me, shoulders sagging, looking older than he ever had. “I’ve been questioned five times now. Three since her car was found. They’re circling me, Sav. I feel like I’m drowning.” I bent forward, stomach twisting violently. The next second, bile burned up my throat, and I vomited into the trash can beside me. “No. No. No.” The chant spilled out, broken and desperate. “Not Chloe. Please, God. Not her.” Dean didn’t move to touch me this time. He just sat there, slumped, like a man worn thin. “What about dad?” I asked. “What about mom? How are they taking it?” “Your mom isn’t taking it well,” he said, voice rough. “She collapsed when she heard about the car. She’s been in the hospital since.” I snapped my gaze to him, horror clawing up my chest. “Oh God. How is she? Dean, how’s my mom?” He hesitated. His jaw clenched. His eyes flickered down, then up. “Dean—” I grabbed his hand, squeezing hard, nails digging into his skin. “Don’t you dare keep anything from me. Tell me. What’s going on with my mom?” His lips trembled. His eyes were red, glistening. When he finally spoke, it was a whisper, but it hit like a scream. “Your mom has cancer, Savannah. She hid it from everyone.”