We stare at each other, and this is it. The defining moment where I choose between my past and my present.

Regret hangs in the air between us, and I want to do as he asks. I want to concede to his demands.

Anything to keep him here with me.

But I just can’t . . . and it’s killing me.

Eventually, he turns and leaves. The door clicks quietly as it closes behind him.

I sob out loud into the silence.

He’s gone.

The days are long . . . but the nights are endless.

Sleeping without him is a hell that I can’t endure.

So I don’t.

I pace . . . all night. Back and forth, back and forth . . . until my legs ache.

It’s been nine days since Tristan left me.

Nine days in sheer hell.

The house is silent, the laughter gone. The boys are barely speaking to me.

Not only have I broken my heart; I’ve broken the four others that I love the most.

My sons’ and Tristan’s.

I stare at my computer. I have no urge to be at work . . . to be at home . . . to breathe.

My phone buzzes across my desk, and the name Fletcher lights up the screen.

“Hey, buddy.” I smile. Hopefully he’s talking to me again.

“Tristan is leaving,” he whispers.

“What?”

“He’s going to Paris.”

“For how long?”

“He just transferred my internship to Jameson.”

I stand as my eyes widen. “What?”

“He said he’s not coming back, Mom. You really did it,” he whispers angrily.

I screw up my face in tears, so close to the edge of the cliff I can almost feel myself hitting the bottom. “I’m coming,” I stammer. “Keep him there; I’m coming.”

I grab my bag and run.

Marley stands up as I run past her. “What in the world?”

“I’m out for the day,” I call.

“Huh?” she calls after me. “But you have a meeting in an hour.”

“Cancel it,” I call as I run into the elevator. I hit the button with force. “Come on, come on.”

I can’t let him go.

He can’t go.

The doors slowly close, and I tap my foot nervously. “Hurry.”

I drag my hands through my hair as I begin to perspire . . . no . . . no . . . no, this can’t be happening.

The elevator slowly goes down, and the doors open. A heap of people are standing there waiting. “Sorry.” I slam the button to close the doors. “No time for you.”

The door closes as their faces fall. I get to the ground floor and sprint through the foyer and run out into the street with my arm in the air. “Taxi!” I call as a cab drives past.

Another man is waiting on the curb for a cab too.

“Oh my God,” I cry to him. “This is an emergency; my boyfriend is leaving me.”

He winces.

“Because I’m selfish,” I pant as I run up the street, arm stretched high. “Now he’s flying to Paris without saying goodbye.”

He rolls his eyes. “You are not getting my cab.”

“I don’t want your damn cab,” I bark. A cab pulls up, and I dive into the back of it like a maniac. “I’ve got my own. The Miles Media building, please,” I stammer.

“Hey!” the man calls as he watches me drive off. I give him a half wave.

“Bye.”

I crane my neck to look at the traffic jam ahead.

“Can you drive fast, please? This is an emergency.”

“Okay, lady.” He swerves and turns down a side street.

My phone rings, and the name Fletcher lights up the screen. “Hello,” I stammer.

“He’s gone, Mom.”

My face falls. “What?” I stare out the window. I don’t believe this. “Which airport is he going to?”

“Hang on.” He puts the phone down and asks someone, “Which airport?”

“JFK,” I hear a woman reply. “Terminal two.”

“JFK,” Fletcher snaps. “Terminal two.”

“Okay, I got it.” I hang up. “Change of plans!” I yell to the driver. “JFK Airport. Terminal two. Please hurry; this is a life-and-death situation.”

The driver does a sharp U-turn, and I hold on for dear life.

Thirty minutes later we arrive. I throw him the money and get out and run.

The check-in area is busy and bustling, and I look around frantically.

Where is he? Where . . . I turn a full 360-degree circle. Where is he?

I dial Fletcher’s number.

“Hello,” he snaps.

“Where is he? I can’t find him. I’m at the airport. Call him, and find out where he is,” I cry as I look around frantically.

“Okay. Sammia, call him and find out where he is.” He comes back to me. “Stay on the line, Mom.”

I hold the phone really close, and I hear Sammia talking to Tristan in the background.

“He’s still in the car,” Fletcher whispers. “He’s just pulling up now.”

I hang up and run out through the front doors, and I see the long black limo pulling in at the other end of the terminal. I kick off my shoes, pick them up, and run.

Tristan gets out slowly. He takes his luggage out of the trunk. Three suitcases.

He’s leaving me.

I run as fast as I can through the crowd, and as I approach him, he glances up and sees me and stops what he’s doing.

I throw up my arms in desperation. “What are you doing?” I cry.

He drops his head, his armor firmly in place. “Claire, don’t cause a scene.”

“Don’t cause a scene?” I cry. “You’re just going to leave us.”

He stares at me and clenches his jaw. Damn it, I’ve hurt him.

I rush to him and take him into my arms. “Tris,” I whisper. “I love you. I don’t want you to leave. I’m just stressed about losing the business, and I said awful things.”

He frowns. “Losing the business?”

I screw up my face in tears. “It’s gone.” I wipe the tears out of my eyes angrily. “I can’t hold it any longer.”

“What?” His expression abruptly changes. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I didn’t want you to know that I couldn’t do it,” I whisper. “I wanted you to be proud of me.”

He stares at me, shock on his face.

“And then you wanted to change everything and the house and the boys, and I was overwhelmed and . . .” I shake my head in despair. This is all coming out wrong. “If you have me, you already have the boys—you don’t need to adopt them.”

His back straightens. “It’s nonnegotiable, Claire.”

My face falls. “What?”

“If I marry you, I want to adopt the boys.”

“Why do you want to change things?” I stammer.

“Because . . . I want my own family.”

“But I love you.”

“It isn’t enough.”

My face falls.

Oh my God . . . this really is the end; my eyes fill with tears, and we stare at each other as everyone else in the airport disappears. I take a step back from him to try to protect myself from what he’s saying.

“I would give up having my own children, Claire, so that I don’t lose yours.”

A tear rolls down my cheek, and the lump in my throat nearly closes over.

“I love them. I want them as my sons. I want their surname to be Anderson-Miles.”

I shake my head, unable to push the word no past my lips. “You just want to take them,” I whisper. “You’ve already taken me over; you can’t take over my sons. They are not up for grabs. You want power. I know how you work, Tristan—you always have to be in charge.”

His face falls. “Is that what you think?”

I nod. What else could it be?

He drops his head; his face is solemn. “Goodbye, Claire.”

“Why?” I cry. “Why do you want this so much?”

He turns to me like the devil himself. “Because I deserve my own family, God damn it. And I love them, and if you can’t see that, I don’t even fucking know who you are.”

My heart drops.

He leans forward. “All this time . . . I thought you loved me,” he whispers through tears. He pauses as my eyes search his. “Guess not.”

“Tris,” I whisper.

He turns and marches through the doors and into the airport.

“Tristan,” I call.

He keeps walking.

“Tristan!” I cry.