⚠️ Trigger Warning: This chapter contains strong language and references to suicide, abandonment, and abortion. Reader discretion is advised.

Robbie’s POV

I stared down at the letter on my desk.

Tony stood in front of me, silent, composed—those firm, beautiful eyes locked on mine. He looked calm, but I could see the tension in the set of his jaw, the way his fingers curled slightly as if holding back.

People often called Tony weak because he was scared easily.

They didn’t know shit.

I was the coward.

I was the one who panicked at the thought of taking responsibility for the child we created together. I told myself it would destroy my future and ruin my image. I imagined my father losing his mind and my mother being devastated. And like the selfish, spineless bastard I was, I blamed him. I blamed Tony for "letting" it happen. For being the one who got pregnant. For being the fucking disaster that upended my carefully curated life.

Not once did I think about what it meant for him. A teenage Omega, carrying a child at seventeen. What kind of strength would that even take?

I rejected him. I walked away and left him to face it alone.

Most people would’ve broken. Another Omega might have aborted, or worse, taken their own life. Some would’ve begged for support, for money, for acceptance. Tony didn’t do any of that.

He gave birth.

He stood tall, faced a society that spat on people like him, and raised our child alone, shouldering judgment, hardship, and the weight of my betrayal.

Coward?

He was the definition of strength.

But none of that erases what I did. I crushed him. I left scars he’ll carry for life. I know I don’t deserve forgiveness.

Still... I can’t stop trying.

I looked back down at the resignation letter and said quietly, “I already rejected your resignation via email. Why the hell would you hand this in to HR?”

Tony's voice was sharp, certain. “Because I’m resigning.”

I dropped the letter in the trash. His eyes widened.

He glared at me, his voice rising. “What do you think you’re doing?!”

“Trashing your resignation,” I said calmly. “I told you, I’m not accepting it.”

His jaw clenched. “What do you want from me? I’ve told you again and again, I don’t want anything to do with you.”

Hearing that nearly broke me. I know he doesn’t want me. I know I hurt him in ways that can’t be fixed. But even now, even after everything, I still want him and no one else. 

After we broke up, I tried to move on. I tried to erase him with meaningless sex and empty relationships; men, women, whoever, but nothing worked. My body moved, but my heart never followed. It was all numb.

By my final year of college, I understood why.

It had always been him.

Once that truth hit me, I dropped everything and started looking for him. I didn’t care what my father thought. I didn’t care about the business or my reputation. I just wanted to make things right. But Tony had disappeared. No one knew where he’d gone; not the welfare center, not the church. He never returned home. It was like he vanished from the city.

For five years, I searched for him desperately. And then, by some miracle, I found him here, working in my resort.

How could I let him walk away now?

“I want you in my life,” I blurted, unable to stop myself.

Tony flinched, his gaze dropping to the floor. He muttered, “Stop pretending. How many more lies do you plan to feed me? Wasn’t it enough the first time you broke me?”

“I was seventeen, Tony,” I said, stepping closer. “I was scared. Yes, I approached you back then to escape my life. But before I knew it, I fell in love with you. That’s the truth, whether you believe it or not.”

His voice cracked as he shouted, “Then why the hell did you dump me?! You never gave me a reason to believe you!”

His fists clenched so tightly, his knuckles turned white. I saw blood glistening under his fingernails. I moved quickly toward him, but he backed away like I might strike him.

I gently caught his wrist and opened his fist. Three deep, bloody crescent marks carved into his palm.

Damn it.

Without saying anything, I pulled him toward the shelf where the first aid kit sat. He tried to resist, voice shaking, “What are you doing? Let me go.”

I ignored it and grabbed the kit. When I turned back, he looked pale, like he thought I’d hit him. My chest twisted in guilt.

“Tony... I’m not going to hurt you.”

It came out gritty, raw, not as soft as I intended. But something in him eased, just a little. His shoulders dropped.

I opened his hand again, slowly, and gently touched the torn skin. He winced.

“Sorry,” I murmured, then disinfected the wound, applied ointment, and wrapped it carefully. The silence between us felt heavy, dense.

When I finally looked up, his eyes were on me, narrowed and guarded with pain and disbelief.

I let go of his hand.

“You’re a chef,” I said quietly, putting the box away. “You need to take care of your hands. They’re your livelihood.