A SECOND CHANCE AT FOREVER Chapter 44: CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

RYAN.

I needed to find her. She could be hurt. Trampled. Lost in the chaos. Unconscious.

A sharp, piercing hum settled behind my eyes, growing louder with every passing second. God, why was it so damn hot in here?

Sweat slicked my palms as I scanned the crowd, searching desperately for the familiar cascade of red hair and that black satin dress that had been etched into my mind all night.

Come on, freckles... where are you?

Blurs of color rushed past me—black dresses, navy suits, flashes of jewelry and panic-stricken faces. Someone collided with me, nearly sending me off balance, but as I turned to push them away, I froze.

Hazel eyes.

Those familiar hazel eyes locked onto mine, wide with adrenaline and something else—relief, recognition.

The breath I hadn’t realized I was holding escaped in a rush. She’s okay.

Then, the moment shattered as another frantic guest shoved past us, pulling us back into the fray.

I grabbed her wrist without thinking, my grip firm but careful. She didn’t resist as I navigated us through the panicked crowd and toward the exit. The sharp wail of sirens cut through the night air, and the flash of red and blue lights painted the street outside. The police had arrived.

Too late.

We slipped into a waiting cab before anyone could stop us. I gave the driver the penthouse’s address, my voice low and steady despite the turmoil clawing at my insides.

Ashley sat beside me, eerily quiet. Her hands clenched tightly in her lap, knuckles pale, and her eyes stared straight ahead, unfocused. She was shell-shocked, her usual sharp wit and fire dimmed by the evening’s violent turn. I couldn’t blame her.

Charles Whittaker. Just like that—collapsed mid-dinner with no warning. At Ryan’s party, of all places.

Fuck, Ryan. He was going to have a PR nightmare on his hands. I should’ve stayed to help him handle it. But instinct had kicked in, and my instinct was Ashley.

It had always been Ashley.

The city blurred past us, neon lights and shadowed streets weaving together like a fever dream. I forced my gaze away from her, trying to gather my thoughts, but my mind kept circling back to the scene—the clatter of silverware, the gasps, the lifeless weight of Charles slumped over his plate.

When the cab finally pulled up to my building, I paid the driver without a second thought and guided Ashley inside. She moved mechanically, her breath shallow and uneven. The last time she had been here with me was after her mother died.

The memory tightened something in my chest.

We stepped into the elevator, and I pressed the button for the top floor. The soft hum of the elevator filled the silence, broken only by the shaky exhale that escaped her lips.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Someone died. He was sitting right across from me. He…he just…”

Her breathing grew quicker, more ragged. Panic. She was spiraling.

“Hey, hey.” I turned to her, gently placing my hands on her shoulders. “Look at me.”

Her eyes flicked to mine, glassy with unshed tears.

The elevator’s soft ding pulled us from the weight of our thoughts, and I led her into the penthouse. The familiar scent of leather, aged whiskey, and faint traces of cedar wrapped around me like armor, grounding me when everything else felt untethered. I kicked off my shoes, the silence between us stretching thin, and poured a glass of water in the dimly lit kitchen before pressing it into her hands.

She sank onto the couch, the deep charcoal cushions swallowing her slight frame. Her fingers trembled around the glass like it was the only fragile tether holding her to the moment. “I keep seeing it,” she whispered, eyes glassy and unfocused. “His face. The way he just…collapsed.”

I settled beside her, close enough to feel the weight of her unease but far enough to give her the space she needed. “It’s not something you forget easily,” I admitted, voice low. “But you’re safe now.”

A bitter, hollow laugh escaped her lips. “Safe? Someone died two feet away from me tonight.”

I ran a hand through my hair, the tension coiling tighter with every passing second. “I know. And I’m sorry you had to see that. But you’re here now. With me. That has to count for something.”

Her gaze flicked up, locking with mine. Hazel eyes—wary, vulnerable, and brimming with emotions I couldn’t decipher. Gratitude, maybe. Confusion. And something else. But there was also a wall—a carefully built barricade that I didn’t know how to break through.

“Can I confess something?” Her voice was barely more than a breath, fragile and uncertain. “When the chaos started and everyone was running, you were the first person I looked for. I didn’t want to…but I did.”

My pulse thundered in my ears, a quiet, relentless rhythm that suddenly felt too loud.

“Good,” I whispered. “Because I was looking for you too.”

Unspoken words crackled in the air between us, fragile and electric, waiting for a spark. She tore her gaze away first, and a bittersweet relief twisted through me. Maybe it was better this way. I couldn’t risk pushing her away again.

“You should get some rest,” I said softly. “It’s been… a lot.”

She didn’t argue. That’s how I knew she was exhausted—emotionally, mentally, physically. Ashley never let me tell her what to do without a fight. But tonight, she just nodded, the movement barely perceptible.

I stood and moved to the linen closet, pulling out a soft throw blanket.

“Here,” I murmured, draping the blanket around her shoulders. My fingers brushed her collarbone, and a shiver ran through her—not from the cold, but from something else. Something I felt too.

Her eyes flickered up to meet mine again, and for a split second, the wall between us cracked. But before I could say anything, she pulled the blanket tighter around herself, retreating back into silence.

“Come on,” I said gently, offering my hand. “You need sleep.”

She hesitated for a heartbeat, then placed her hand in mine. Her touch was cool, but it sent a spark through me that I quickly shoved down. Now wasn’t the time.

I led her down the hallway to my room. Yes… my room.

The room was dark, moonlight pooling through the sheer curtains, casting faint silver patterns on the bedspread. I pulled back the covers for her, and she sat down, finally releasing her grip on the glass.

For a moment, neither of us moved. She stared down at her hands, fingers trembling slightly, and I felt an ache in my chest that I couldn’t ignore. I wanted to reach for her, to pull her close and tell her everything would be okay, even if I wasn’t sure it would be.

“ If it wasn't an allergy, do you think they’ll find out who did it?” she asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.

I crouched beside the bed, close enough to see the faint tear tracks on her cheeks. “They’ll find out,” I promised softly. “But that’s not your burden to carry tonight.”

Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say more, but no words came. Instead, she blinked back the tears threatening to spill over. My fingers twitched at my side, wanting so badly to brush them away, but I held back.

Instead, I folded the blanket over her, careful and deliberate, as if this small act could shield her from the chaos outside these walls. She didn’t pull away. If anything, she leaned into the warmth, a quiet surrender that nearly broke me.

“Thanks,” she whispered, voice barely audible. “For… everything.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” I replied.

She gave me a small, tired smile—the kind that didn’t reach her eyes. I wanted to say more, to ask her what she was thinking, to tell her what I was feeling. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Instead, I tucked the blanket around her, smoothing the edge with a hand that lingered just a little too long. She closed her eyes, and I stood there for a moment, watching her, my heart pounding harder than it should have been.

“Sleep well,” I whispered, more to myself than to her.

I turned off the light, the soft click echoing in the quiet, and slipped out the door, leaving it open just a crack.

As I walked back to the living room, the weight of the night settled over me again. Charles Whittaker was dead.

Charles Whittaker’s death wasn’t going to be swept under the rug easily. There would be investigations, questions, and suspicions. And knowing the kind of company Charles kept, I had a sinking feeling that this wasn’t just a tragic accident.

But Ashley was here. And nothing—absolutely nothing—felt simple anymore.

I sank onto the couch, running my hands over my face. No matter how much I tried to keep my distance, to keep her safe from me, I always ended up right back here—tangled in her orbit, drawn to her like gravity.

And I wasn’t sure how much longer I could fight it.