A SECOND CHANCE AT FOREVER Chapter 110: CHAPTER HUNDRED & TEN

ASHLEY

“Have a nice day!” I beamed, handing over the customer’s neatly wrapped package with a smile that barely masked how exhausted I felt. The moment the door chimed behind her, I slumped against the counter with a sigh.

God, today had been nonstop.

Between a delayed shipment, a confused vendor, and a toddler knocking over an entire display of scent samples, I was running on fumes and sheer willpower.

I flipped the Closed sign on the door, twisted the lock, and let my body finally relax. Maybe a little sugar therapy would help. Ice cream. Yes. I deserved that.

I grabbed my bag and headed out, the chill of the evening brushing against my skin as I walked down the street. It was one of those crisp, New York evenings that smelled faintly of roasted peanuts and traffic fumes. Comforting, in a weird way.

Kyle hadn’t called.

Not since that day at the shelter.

Not a text.

Should I call him?

I chewed my bottom lip. Texting him would feel… weird. Like I was chasing something that wasn’t mine to chase. Again.

I shook the thought away as I reached the ice cream shop. “One scoop of cookie dough, please,” I said, forcing a small smile at the teen behind the counter.

“Thank you,” I murmured once I had it in hand, the cold already seeping through the paper cup.

I turned to leave when I noticed a small crowd gathered near a TV in the corner of the shop. The volume was turned up, the screen showing a live news broadcast.

“…Blackwood Enterprises’ latest donation has sparked debate online. Many are calling it a calculated PR stunt following the recent scandal that rocked the company just two weeks ago…”

I paused mid-step. My heart skipped

“…Blackwood Enterprise partners with local animal shelter in new PR initiative…”

“…a community-forward branding strategy that signals a new, more compassionate image for the  enterprise…”

I took a few steps closer. A banner ran across the bottom of the screen:

“Blackwood Enterprises: Rebranding with Heart?”

Someone beside me scoffed. “Smart move after the scandal. Use puppies to fix your reputation.”

Another voice chimed in, “It’s working. People love that stuff. He’s trending.”

My fingers curled tighter around the cup in my hand.

The TV switched to a business event—polished lights, a gleaming stage, rows of suited-up executives and photographers flashing bulbs. Then the camera zoomed in on him.

Kyle.

He stood near a mic, flanked by PR reps and assistants. A reporter’s voice rang out:

“Mr. Blackwood, what inspired the recent donation to the animal shelter?”

Kyle’s eyes flicked to the camera. For a split second, something unreadable crossed his face—hesitation? discomfort?

But then he cleared his throat and said, smoothly:

“This is my company,”he said. “Blackwood Enterprises was built from the ground up with one thing in mind: doing things differently. Responsibly. We’ve always believed that with great success comes greater responsibility. That if we have power, we don’t just use it—we give back with it.”

Thud.

It took a while before he continued.

“The donation made to the shelter aligns with our values. We are—and always have been—committed to supporting causes that benefit our community. That’s not new.”

I froze.

The words struck like a slap, sharp and cold, stealing the breath from my lungs. My hand went numb, and the ice cream slipped from my fingers, landing with a soft, pathetic splat on the pavement.

I didn’t even flinch.

The voices around me faded into static. The flickering light of the TV screen blurred, my vision tunneling.

I didn’t hear the rest of the segment. I didn’t wait to see how the reporters praised him, how the audience clapped, or how the news anchor gushed about “corporate compassion.” I just turned and walked.

I couldn’t stay there.

I couldn’t breathe.

Each step felt heavier than the last as I drifted down the street, aimless and hollow. The world around me moved, people passed by, cars honked, but I was somewhere else—lost in the crashing noise inside my own head.

It was never about me.

I blinked hard, trying to chase away the sting behind my eyes. But the ache settled deep in my chest, spreading like poison.

How did I not see this coming?

I told myself the donation was something real. Something personal. A gesture that showed he still knew me—that he still cared.

But that was the illusion.

And I fell for it.

Again.

I wrapped my arms around myself as I kept walking, not even sure where I was going. I just needed to move. To escape the weight of humiliation pressing down on me.

I was a fool.

For thinking something had changed. For thinking he had changed.

I let him back in.

I let myself believe that maybe—just maybe—this version of Kyle was different. The man who watched me with soft eyes at the shelter, who told me he wanted to support the things I cared about.

But I should have known.

 I wasn’t even sure where I was going. The street was blurry, the people shapeless, the world spinning just a little too fast for me to keep up. My feet moved on instinct, one in front of the other, because standing still felt like I’d collapse.

The back of my throat burned.

I blinked up at the sky, trying to stop the tears, but they were already coming—quietly, at first, slipping down my cheeks in silence. No sobbing. No gasps.

Just ache.

Raw, unrelenting ache.

I should’ve known.

How many times had I told myself Kyle was changing? That maybe he was trying? That maybe this—this quiet, thoughtful gesture—was proof that somewhere underneath all the damage and ego, there was still a piece of him that remembered how to care?

How could I be so naive?

I walked faster. Past the park. Past a row of closed shops. Past a woman walking her dog who didn’t even glance in my direction. I didn’t care where I ended up. I just needed to get away from that screen, that voice, that polished lie.

I turned into an alleyway, out of instinct or desperation—I didn’t know. It was quiet. Empty. Just the buzz of a streetlamp and the echo of my footsteps on wet concrete.

And then I stopped.

My knees buckled without warning.

I staggered to the side, slumping down against the brick wall and letting my body slide to the ground. The tears came faster now, hot and furious. I clutched my arms around my middle, like I could hold myself together somehow, like I could squeeze the pain out of my body.

But it wouldn’t leave.

It only deepened.

I was a fool. For thinking something had changed. For thinking he had changed.

For letting him back in.

I had opened the door, just a little. Just enough to let light in. Just enough to let him see the parts of me I still protected—the soft parts, the parts that still loved animals, that still got choked up when I saw kindness.

I had shown him those things.

And he used them.

Not maliciously, maybe. But that didn’t make it hurt less. In fact, it made it worse. Because it meant he knew. He knew how much it would mean to me. And still, he turned it into a headline.

A strategy.

A performance.

I bent forward, forehead pressed to my knees, my chest heaving as silent sobs overtook me. No one saw me. No one stopped. Just a girl crying in an alley, because the one person she let hope in for—just a little—used that hope as fuel for a corporate makeover.

What do you expect, Ashley?

From a man who once slept with another woman to save his company?

Of course he would use this.

Of course it wasn’t about me.

It was never about me.

And that truth cracked something inside me that I hadn’t realized was still fragile.

For a long time, I just sat there. In the dark. Shaking. Tears soaking into the sleeves of my sweater. Letting the grief run its course. Letting the memory of his smile twist itself into something cruel.

Because maybe love—if it ever existed—wasn’t enough for Kyle Blackwood.

And maybe I’d been the last one to accept that.

A breeze swept through the alley, cold against my damp skin. I didn’t bother wiping the tears anymore. What was the point? I just wanted the night to swallow me whole. Let me disappear into the shadows and never come back.

That’s when I heard it.

A voice. Distant, cautious... yet unmistakably familiar.

“Ashley?”

I blinked, barely lifting my head. The world swam in my vision, blurred by grief and tears.

There, standing just a few feet away, his brows furrowed in concern, was Ethan.