Beneath Her Ice

Will didn't expect anything in the mail that morning.

The last few days had been a blur of fallout, press releases, and carefully worded damage control. Lydia was slowly recovering her public image, thanks in no small part to Eliza. Jan kept cracking jokes to lighten the mood. But Will?

Will hadn't stopped thinking about Eliza's face — that one, fleeting moment when she said "No one came for me."

So when the envelope arrived, cream-colored and hand-addressed, he knew.Before he even opened it.He knew it was from her.

There was no logo, no expensive monogram. Just a single page. Her handwriting — precise, sharp, like it had been trained not to waver.

Will,

This is not a press statement.

This is not a strategic apology, or a PR move, or any of the other things I've learned to weaponize since I was seventeen.

This is just me. Writing to you.

I never intended for you to hear what I said at the gala. I wasn't talking about your work — I was talking about the world I know. Where people use charity to polish their own egos, where ideals are currency and sincerity is rare.

But then I met you.And I realized… maybe I was wrong. About some things. About you.

You made me uncomfortable, Will. Not because you challenged me, but because you saw through me.

And I hate being seen.

About Charlotte and Jan: There was never sabotage. I warned Charlotte that her board would crucify her if she went public with a queer relationship before her Series B funding cleared. I didn't tell her to leave Jan — she chose caution. I just… didn't stop her.

That's on me.

About your sister: I didn't have to help. But I wanted to. Because for once, something mattered that didn't benefit me.

I don't expect anything from you. Least of all forgiveness.

I just wanted you to know. Before silence becomes permanent.

— E.D.

He read the letter three times.

Then again, slower.

It wasn't flowery. It wasn't warm. But it was honest in a way that made his chest ache.

It sounded like her. Sharp edges. Quiet heart.

And somewhere between the lines, between the restraint and the rawness, he saw something he hadn't dared to hope for:

Regret.And maybe — just maybe — something like longing.

He folded the letter carefully and slid it into his jacket pocket. He didn't know where this would go. What it meant.

But he knew one thing:

She'd let her guard down first.

And he wouldn't throw that away.