He Chose Her Tears Over My Grief

Chapter 2

"The next steps?" Dr. Evans repeated, blinking at me in confusion. He shifted his weight, clearly thrown by my sudden, rigid composure. "Ms. Vance, you just received a massive shock. There is no rush. We have a grief counselor on staff who can—"

"I don't need a grief counselor, Doctor," I interrupted smoothly, my tone polite but devoid of any warmth. "I need to know the protocol. My father was a meticulous man. He hated leaving things unfinished. I would like to handle the paperwork immediately."

Dr. Evans stared at me for a long moment, searching my face for the hysterics he was so accustomed to dealing with. Finding none, he finally cleared his throat and nodded.

"Of course. I understand," he said quietly. "A nurse will take you down to the administrative office on the first floor. They will have you sign the preliminary death certificate and the release of remains. You'll need to contact a funeral home so we can arrange the transfer from our morgue."

"Thank you, Dr. Evans. I appreciate everything you tried to do."

I didn't wait for his response. I turned and walked toward the elevator bank, my heels clicking a steady, rhythmic march against the linoleum.

For the next two hours, I existed in a state of hyper-focused efficiency. It was as if my brain had partitioned the trauma into a sealed box, locking it away behind layers of thick, impenetrable ice.

Down in the basement administrative suite, the morgue clerk, a balding man named Mr. Davis, slid a thick stack of blue and yellow carbon-copy forms across his desk.

"Ms. Vance, we need to know which funeral home to contact," Mr. Davis said, his voice dropping into that hushed, apologetic tone everyone used around the bereaved. "We cannot hold the deceased here for more than forty-eight hours."

"Fairhaven Memorial on 4th Avenue," I replied immediately, pulling a sleek silver pen from my purse. "Do you need their direct line, or do you have it on file?"

"We have it on file," he said, watching me uncap the pen. "And we need your signature here, here, and at the bottom of the release form."

I signed my name three times. My signature was sharp, legible, and completely steady.

"Are you sure you don't want someone to come sit with you?" Mr. Davis asked gently, pulling the paperwork back. "A husband? A boyfriend?"

"I'm quite alright, Mr. Davis," I said, slipping the pen back into my bag. "If you'll excuse me, I need to make a phone call."

I stepped out into the quiet, dimly lit hallway of the hospital basement. The air down here was frigid, but it matched the temperature of my blood. I pulled out my phone and dialed Fairhaven Memorial.

The funeral director answered on the second ring.

"Fairhaven Memorial, this is David speaking."

"Hello, David. My name is Nora Vance. My father, Arthur Vance, just passed away at Seattle Grace Hospital. I need to arrange for his transport and begin discussing services."

"I am so very sorry for your loss, Ms. Vance," David replied, his professional sympathy bleeding through the speaker. "We can certainly dispatch a transport vehicle within the hour. Will you be coming in tomorrow to discuss the arrangements?"

"Yes. Nine a.m. sharp. He already owns a plot next to my mother at Cypress Hill. I want a closed casket, a simple mahogany finish, and a brief, non-denominational graveside service."

"You... you have a very clear vision, Ms. Vance. That makes things easier. We will see you at nine tomorrow."

"Thank you."

I hung up the phone. As the screen illuminated, a text message banner dropped down from the top of the display.

**Julian (11:42 PM):** *Hey, the tow truck took forever to get here. Chloe was an absolute mess, I had to sit in the car with her and talk her down for an hour before I could even change the tire. Just followed her home so she feels safe. You still at the hospital? Need a ride?*

I stared at the glaring white text on the screen.

*Need a ride?*

He didn't ask how the surgery went. He didn't ask how my father was. He just assumed I was still sitting dutifully in the waiting room, exactly where he had left me, waiting for him to finish playing knight-in-shining-armor to another woman.

My thumb hovered over the keyboard. A year ago—even a day ago—I would have typed out a long, desperate, angry paragraph. I would have screamed through the text, demanding to know how he could be so callous. I would have begged him to recognize my pain.

But the woman who begged Julian Thorne for basic human decency had died in that waiting room upstairs.

I tapped the screen once.

**Nora:** *No.*

I locked the phone and slid it into my pocket.

Thirty minutes later, my taxi pulled up to the curb of my childhood home. The rain had finally stopped, leaving the suburban Seattle street slick and glittering under the streetlamps.

I unlocked the front door and pushed it open. The house was pitch black and suffocatingly silent. I reached out and flipped the entryway light switch.

My father's coat was still hanging on the hook by the door. His muddy gardening shoes were kicked off near the mat. On the hall table, a half-drank mug of coffee sat next to the morning newspaper. It looked like he had just stepped out for a moment. It looked like a home waiting for its owner to return.

But he was never returning.

I took a slow breath, the scent of his favorite cedarwood aftershave hitting my senses. My chest gave a single, violent throb, but the ice quickly sealed over the crack. I couldn't break down. If I broke down now, I would never get back up.

I walked past the kitchen and headed straight for his home office.

My father was a retired architectural historian. He was the one who taught me how to read blueprints before I could read chapter books. He was the one who encouraged me to start Thorne & Vance with Julian, believing Julian’s business acumen and my creative brilliance would be an unstoppable force.

I flipped on the desk lamp, casting a warm, golden pool of light over his cluttered mahogany desk. Stacks of books, old schematics, and mail covered the surface. I needed to find his life insurance policy and his will.

I began methodically sorting through the files. Bills in one pile, personal correspondence in another.

As I shifted a heavy textbook on Gothic architecture, a thick, cream-colored envelope slid out from underneath it. The paper was premium, heavy cardstock.

My hands stopped moving.

I recognized the embossed gold seal in the upper left corner instantly. It was the crest of the London Architectural Academy.

I picked up the envelope. It had been opened. Inside was a letter dated exactly fourteen months ago. I slowly pulled the heavy paper free and unfolded it under the lamplight.

*Dear Ms. Vance,*

*It is with great pleasure that we formally offer you the prestigious Senior Fellowship at the London Architectural Academy. Your portfolio exhibits a rare, visionary talent that we believe...*

My eyes scanned down to the second paragraph.

*We acknowledge your request to defer this acceptance for one calendar year due to your commitments at Thorne & Vance. We have granted this deferment. However, please be advised that your final window to claim this fellowship closes on the 30th of this month.*

I stared at the date at the top of the letter, doing the rapid mental math. The 30th of this month was exactly twelve days from now.

I sank into my father’s heavy leather desk chair, the letter trembling slightly in my grip.

Fourteen months ago, I had been accepted into the most elite architectural fellowship in Europe. It had been my lifelong dream. When the acceptance letter arrived, I had run into Julian’s office at the firm, weeping with joy.

But Julian hadn't smiled. He had looked at the letter, then looked at me, and said, *"London? Nora, we're right in the middle of the Peterson merger. If you leave for a year, the firm will go under. I need you here. Mark just died, Chloe needs us, and the firm needs you. You can't just abandon us for a vanity project."*

So, I didn't. I shrank myself. I folded up my massive, sprawling dreams and shoved them into a tiny box so Julian wouldn't feel overwhelmed. I wrote to the Academy and begged for a deferment. I gave Thorne & Vance my blood, sweat, and late nights, ensuring Julian looked like a genius CEO while I did the heavy lifting behind the drafting table.

And tonight, when I needed him to hold my hand while the only parent I had left bled out on an operating table, he left me to go change Chloe Sterling’s flat tire.

I looked at the letter again.

My father had saved it. He had kept it hidden under a book on his desk, a silent testament to the brilliant daughter he believed in—the daughter I had stopped being the moment I let Julian dictate my worth.

The ice in my veins crystallized, sharp and brilliant.

I didn't need to yell at Julian. I didn't need to cry, or throw plates, or demand couples therapy. Julian would never understand my grief because Julian only understood things that affected him.

If I wanted to hurt him—if I wanted to truly survive this—I couldn't just walk away. I had to dismantle everything. I had to rip my foundation out from under his feet so quietly he wouldn't even realize the building was collapsing until the roof caved in on him.

I reached into my tote bag and pulled out my laptop. I set it down on my father’s desk, right next to the letter, and flipped it open.

The screen flared to life, illuminating the dark office.

I opened my email client and clicked "Compose."

In the "To" field, I typed the email address of the admissions director at the London Academy.

I didn't hesitate. I didn't second-guess. My fingers flew across the keys, the rhythmic clacking filling the empty, silent house.

*Dear Director Hastings,*

*Fourteen months ago, you graciously granted me a deferment for the Senior Fellowship. I am writing to inquire: Is the position still open? If so, I am prepared to relocate to London immediately.*

I read the two sentences over once. Then, I moved the cursor and clicked *Send*.