Theo's pov
I deleted the post.
Or rather—I deleted her post. Nicol's. The moment I got access to the account again, I pulled it down like it was a mistake I could erase with one tap.
The likes didn't vanish. The comments were still cached. The headlines had already run with it.
But I couldn't bear to leave it up. Not when I knew Val might've seen it. Not when I imagined her staring at it in bed, her lip tucked between her teeth, trying to figure out if I had already moved on.
I hadn't.
I hadn't even moved an inch.
I was still stuck in the memory of her voice, her laugh, the way she'd roll her eyes at me and say "Dodge, you're ridiculous," like it was an inside joke only we understood.
I missed her.
God, I missed her so much it physically ached.
But I couldn't talk to her.
Not after everything.
Not while I was still part of this.
---
Later that night, I logged onto the secure call for the inheritance negotiation. I had to pretend like I belonged here. Pretend like the words "shares," "succession," and "global rights" didn't make me want to scream.
There were six people in the Zoom call. All older than me. All dressed like they owned the world.
One of them—Mr. Czevik, from Moscow's legal board—smiled too much. "Ah, young Mr. Dodge. I heard you had quite the photo go viral. We're impressed."
I didn't even blink. "It's deleted."
"Still did its job," he chuckled.
Another one leaned in, steepling her fingers. "Theo, we're moving forward with the trust transition. But the board would prefer if your... personal image stayed consistent with the company's vision."
"What's the vision?" I asked, flatly.
"Clean. Successful. Stable. A young heir who understands commitment and tradition. Nicol represents that to the public."
I wanted to say Val represents commitment. She works harder than all of you combined. She doesn't wear diamonds or smile for attention. She skates until her knees bleed and still gets up.
She's everything I wish I was.
But I didn't say any of that.
I smiled—tightly. "Understood."
It was the lie they wanted.
---
After the call ended, I stayed alone in the suite. Just me, the silence, and the message I couldn't send.
I typed:
> "I miss you."
Deleted.
Typed again:
> "I didn't mean for that photo to go up. It wasn't me."
Deleted.
> "Are you okay? Are you hurt? Are you skating too hard again?"
Deleted.
My thumb hovered over the screen like it weighed a hundred pounds. Every version of the message sounded wrong. Too desperate. Too weak. Too late.
So I did what I always do.
I said nothing.
---
The phone buzzed.
I almost ignored it until I saw the notification:
@val_entina_°.° liked your photo.
My breath caught.
It was an old one. One from months ago. I was in a hoodie, leaning against the rink wall, hair a mess, laughing at something off-camera. Maybe Avinav was being an idiot that day. I couldn't remember.
But she'd liked it.
She'd looked me up.
My chest cracked open like glass under pressure. I sat there staring at the screen, rereading the notification like it was a text message straight from her lips.
It wasn't much. Just a tap. Just a second of her finger hovering over me.
But it was something.
It meant she thought about me.
It meant maybe, just maybe, I wasn't the only one haunted.
I wanted to message her right then and there. I even opened our chat.
Her last message to me was a joke. Something flirty. Something about how I always lost bets but still made them. The tone of it sliced me.
I typed:
> "Why'd you like that photo?"
Deleted.
> "Are you thinking about me?"
Deleted.
> "I miss you too."
Deleted.
I locked my phone.
Threw it face-down on the nightstand.
And whispered into the dark, like an idiot talking to ghosts,
"I'm sorry, Val. I just… don't know how to fix it."
And the worst part?
She'd probably never even hear it.