His Beautiful Undoing

CHAPTER 5

For a moment after Damian walks out, I cannot move. The store returns to its quiet hum, customers browse shelves again, Harold pretends to straighten a display, but all of it feels distant. The bell on the door still echoes in my ears, long after it should have stopped. My hands tremble against the counter where I steady myself.

I tell myself to breathe, to focus, to pretend everything is normal. Then Harold steps toward me.

“Elena,” he says softly. His voice is thin. “Could you come to the back with me?”

Something in my chest twists. “Is everything okay?”

He takes a shallow breath, looks down, and shakes his head in a way that tells me everything is not okay at all. He walks to the office without another word.

I follow on unsteady legs.

Inside, the small office feels even smaller than usual. Papers clutter the desk, a half-empty cup of peppermint tea sits forgotten near the keyboard. The old computer hums softly. Normally this room brings a sense of comfort. Today it feels like a closing trap.

Harold lowers himself into his chair. He does not look at me.

“Sit,” he murmurs.

My heart picks up speed. I hesitate before sitting. “What is going on?”

He rubs his hands together. They are shaking. I have never seen Harold shake. “We need to talk,” he says quietly.

My throat tightens. “Harold, please tell me this is not about what just happened.”

He clicks open his email. A message fills the screen. Large corporate logo. Perfect formatting. No warmth.

“Thronton Global Legal Affairs Division,” I read aloud, barely above a whisper. My blood runs cold.

He turns the monitor so I can see it fully.

To the owner of Ridgeway Books,

It has come to our attention that your establishment currently employs Ms. Elena Hart.

Given the recent legal proceedings and new information currently under review, we advise caution. Continued association with Ms. Hart may place your business at reputational and financial risk. This email serves as a formal courtesy advisory.

No signature. No contact name. No explanation. A threat wrapped in polite language.

My breath snags. “This cannot be real.”

“It is real,” Harold says, wiping a shaking hand across his forehead. “The sender is verified. The domain is authentic.”

“Someone is doing this on purpose.”

“I think so too.” His voice breaks slightly. “And I think we both know who.”

Damian. The name pulses in my mind like a bruise pressed too hard.

“What did I do?” I whisper. “Why would he come after me like this?”

Harold exhales shakily. “Elena, I do not know the politics of rich families or legal teams. I do not understand why a man like him would care about a small bookstore employee. But I know what an email like this can do to a business like mine.”

My chest tightens painfully. “Harold, please. Do not tell me you are letting them scare you.”

He stands abruptly and paces behind the desk. “I am terrified, Elena. My wife has health issues. I have two grandkids whom I help support. This shop is barely surviving as it is. If someone drags us into the spotlight or paints us in the wrong light, we are finished.”

“I would never put you in danger.”

“I know that,” he says, his voice softening. “But intention does not matter here. Perception does.”

“I need this job,” I say, the words spilling out quickly. “Everything is falling apart. I am trying to rebuild. I am trying to start over. If I lose this, I have nothing left.”

He winces like my words hurt him. “I wish things were different.”

“You do not have to fire me,” I plead. “We can wait. Talk to someone. Look into it. This is intimidation, Harold. That is all. They want me isolated.”

He finally meets my eyes, and I see the decision already forming there. “I have to protect my business. My family. If something happens to the store, I cannot fix it.”

“But I did nothing wrong,” I whisper. “I told the truth.”

His gaze softens with sympathy but remains firm. “I believe you. But believing you does not change the reality of what this email means.”

Tears burn behind my eyes. I blink them away quickly. I will not cry here. Not in front of the one person who still looked at me with kindness even when the world twisted my story.

Harold opens a desk drawer and pulls out a small brown envelope. His hands tremble as he holds it out.

“I can offer you two weeks of severance,” he says. “It is not much. I am sorry.”

The envelope looks insignificant. Paper-thin. It holds the last of my stability, and even that is barely enough to survive for a few weeks.

I do not reach for it at first. “This is really happening?”

His voice cracks. “I am so sorry, Elena.”

Something inside me fractures.

I take the envelope with stiff fingers. The weight of it is almost nothing. It feels like a goodbye disguised as a business transaction.

Harold clears his throat. “You can gather your things. Take whatever time you need.”

I stand slowly, afraid my knees will buckle. “Thank you. For everything.”

He nods, unable to speak again, his guilt written in the slump of his shoulders.

I leave the office and walk back into the store. The shop looks exactly the same as it did an hour ago. Books line the shelves. Sunlight filters through the front windows. The bell above the door sways slightly from a breeze.

Yet it feels different now. Diminished. Like a chapter closing.

I kneel to gather my belongings from under the counter. My scarf. My notebook. A pen I always used to take inventory. My water bottle. Little pieces of a life I tried to rebuild.

When I stand, I see something that stops my breath.

Damian’s book still sits on the counter. Untouched. He never wanted it. He left it on purpose. A message. A reminder. Proof of how easily he can step into my world and unmake it.

I look at the book for a long moment before turning away.

The store feels smaller with each step I take toward the exit. Customers continue browsing, unaware that I am walking out for the last time. That someone has threatened the little sanctuary many of them love.

I push open the door, and the bell chimes faintly. Outside, the afternoon sun glints off something dark.

A sleek black car is parked across the street. It is not running. No lights are on. But the windows are impossibly dark.

I stop on the sidewalk. My heartbeat thuds loudly in my ears.

Someone is inside.

I cannot see them, but I feel them.

Watching.

Waiting.

My skin prickles as a cold shiver moves down my neck. I force myself to breathe. To keep walking. To pretend I am not being observed like prey.

I make it to the end of the block before my phone buzzes in my bag.

I jump at the sound.

My hands tremble as I pull it out. A new message from an unknown number waits on the screen.

I open it.

One job gone.

How many more pieces of your life do I need to remove before you understand what you have done?

A sharp breath catches in my throat. Another message arrives instantly.

You should have stayed quiet.

My knees weaken. I brace myself against a lamppost, swallowing hard. Someone is hunting me piece by piece. Someone who is not hiding anymore. Someone who wants me to know exactly what they can take.

The black car still sits across the street. I do not need to see the face behind the tinted glass to understand the warning written in silence.