Past Regrets

Her smile became tighter, more forced. "I'll see…" she replied, giving a noncommittal answer.

Chef Smith seemed hopeful, nodding enthusiastically. "I'd like you to take your mother's place, Ms. Evans."

Jerica gave a weak nod in return. As Chef Smith walked away, she felt Harold's gaze on her, studying her reaction. She glanced at him and caught the way his expression softened.

"You don't have to avoid everything, you know," he said gently, his voice softer now. "Not everything about your old life has to disappear."

Jerica sighed, her eyes lingering on the polished marble floors beneath her feet. "I'm not avoiding it… I just—" she paused, searching for the right words. "I feel like I don't belong there anymore."

"Maybe you don't have to belong," Harold replied, his tone thoughtful. "But that doesn't mean you have to keep running from it."

The truth in his words stung more than she wanted to admit. Jerica felt the weight of her past pressing against her, memories of who she used to be and what she had left behind. But she also felt the distance she had created for a reason—one she wasn't ready to confront tonight.

For now, all she could offer was a smile, one that trembled at the edges, never quite reaching her eyes. "We'll see," Jerica murmured, her voice softer this time, as if she was making a silent vow to herself rather than anyone else.

Harold was waiting for the valet, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flickering with the weight of unspoken words. As soon as Jerica moved to leave, he stepped forward, blocking her path. "I'll drop you."

"I'll take a cab," she countered, glancing at her phone. It started raining just then. Seeing how long it would take for one to arrive, she sighed, relenting. "Fine. Thank you."

The ride home was steeped in silence, but not the comfortable kind. There was a tension that sat between them, thick and unyielding. Jerica kept her gaze trained on the passing streetlights, mind racing with suspicion. Harold hadn't been entirely honest, she knew that much. His presence here, his sudden return—it felt too deliberate, too coincidental. His insistence on meeting her husband had set off alarm bells in her head, and now, it all started to make sense.

She wet her lips, staring out the window, her fingers fidgeting in her lap. She didn't want him to know where she lived. Harold knew too much already.

"Which way?" Harold's voice broke through the silence, hesitant.

Jerica didn't answer, not at first. She waited, watching him from the corner of her eye. To her dismay, he took the correct turns without needing directions. Just as she suspected—he had done his research. He knew more than he should.

"Jerica?" he asked again, his brow furrowing in confusion.

Her heart clenched. He must know about her husband, must know the circles Jared moved in, the high-profile cases, the dangerous secrets buried beneath the law.

Was Harold here to spy on them? Was this all a ploy?

She wasn't naïve enough to think the Braddock family wouldn't pull strings behind the scenes, and her protective instinct kicked in, her face hardening. Even if her marriage was crumbling, Jared was still… everything.

When Harold finally parked a block away from her apartment, she felt the weight of his gaze settle on her. "Jerica, are you okay?" he asked, placing his hand on hers.

His touch burned. She pulled away immediately, as if stung by fire. "Why are you really here, Harold?" Her voice was sharp, cutting through the pretense.

"What?" His confusion deepened, but soon enough, hurt twisted his features. "Do you think I'm here to hurt you? Do you really think I'd come all this way just to disturb your life?" His voice wavered, raw, vulnerable.

Jerica opened her mouth to accuse him, to throw all of her suspicions at his feet, but before she could speak, Harold leaned forward, slumping against the steering wheel, his hands gripping it as if to steady himself. "I came here to see you," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "My life… it's falling apart. I thought maybe if I saw you, if you were happy… it'd give me hope. But now…"

He trailed off, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders shaking slightly. "We used to have each other," he choked, his voice breaking. "What did I do wrong, Jerica? It wasn't my fault your family died…"

The words struck like a blow, and Jerica felt the lump rise in her throat, threatening to choke her. Her chest tightened as memories flooded back—the grief, the pain, the loneliness. Harold looked at her, his eyes glassy with unshed tears, his voice trembling as he continued, "Why did you leave me?"

Jerica could barely breathe, her mind swirling with the past. "We were supposed to be there for each other, always," he said, voice rising. "I pulled strings to be with you at Stanford, but you left me alone there… Why, Jerica? Why did you leave me?"

Her breath hitched, and she looked away, the weight of her unspoken truth pressing down on her. Harold didn't know. He never knew why she had to walk away. It was time he did.

"Harold," she started, her voice barely above a whisper. "After my family… everything changed. I didn't tell you then because I—" But the words caught in her throat, unable to push past the wall of pain she'd built for so many years.

Jerica met his gaze, and in that fleeting moment, she didn't see the confident man she had once loved. Instead, she saw someone as lost and broken as she had been all those years ago. The weight of his vulnerability pressed on her, and for the first time in a long while, she felt the old ache of the past resurfacing.

"Harold… think about it," she began, her voice soft but steady. "Without my parents, I'm just another girl. Sure, I inherited money, but your family didn't care about money. They wanted connections—connections I lost the day my parents died."

His expression shifted, the furrow between his brows slowly releasing as the realization sank in. "Did my mother… say something to you?" His voice was cautious, as if he already knew the answer but needed to hear it aloud.

Jerica sighed deeply, the truth a heavy burden she had carried for far too long. "It doesn't matter anymore. Let's leave the past in the past, Harold. It's been years. We've grown, we've made our choices. Whether those choices were good or bad… we have to live with them." She reached for the seatbelt, unbuckling it with a quiet click, signaling her intention to leave.

But before she could step out, Harold's arm shot across her, blocking her path. "Wait," he pleaded, his voice thick with emotion.

Jerica froze, her hand resting on the door handle, unwilling to look back at him but unable to move forward. His touch lingered on the seat beside her, fingers tense, trembling.