Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 180

Chapter 180

Aiden

I remained seated in my office for what felt like an eternity, as if I were imprinting every detail into my mind, savoring the moment before it all slipped away. The weight of the situation pressed down on me with crushing force. If we managed to survive this ordeal, nothing would ever be the same again. Our lives would become a precarious balancing act, walking on fragile eggshells—assuming we were even allowed to continue moving forward. And if William already had his claws sunk into him, what kind of toll had Noah silently paid behind the scenes?

The mere thought of losing everything—my job, my hard-earned reputation, my future—was daunting enough. But the possibility of losing him, my Noah, especially now when my feelings for him had finally become undeniable, struck me deeper than any drink ever could. It staggered me in a way that no amount of alcohol could numb.

“Aiden? You okay?” Daniels’s voice cut through the haze from the doorway. I blinked up at him, disoriented, unsure how long he had been standing there watching me.

I forced a nod, though it felt like a lie. “I… need to step out for a bit.”

What happened after that was a blur. I don’t remember leaving the building or the drive home. What remained vivid in my memory was the crushing silence I sank into once I was alone—the relentless pounding in my skull echoing the chaos in my mind. I sat frozen, staring blankly into nothingness, letting the wreckage of my decisions play on repeat like a cruel, unending film.

Time slipped by, slow and heavy. I stayed hunched in that chair, the empty office closing in around me like a cage, until finally, my hand moved on its own accord to grab a pen and a fresh sheet of paper. It was the only rational thing left to do.

Because there was still one last chance to save him.

To hell with me. I was already done for—maybe I had been finished a long time ago, clinging to a reputation built on intimidation and fear, known as “Mr. A,” the untouchable hardass who could bend anyone to his will. All those years of glory, the trophies, the power, the swagger—it was all meaningless now. None of it mattered if I couldn’t keep him safe.

So I began to write.

If someone had to fall, it would be me. I would confess everything—admit that I coerced him, manipulated him, abused my position. Misuse of power, inappropriate contact, even assault. The words felt like poison under my pen, but I forced them out in ink. There were plenty of predators in this world, everyone knew that. Men like me who saw a young athlete and twisted him into prey. They would believe it. They’d believe the lie because it was easier than accepting the truth—that what we had was real.

My confession would become his shield. His career, his reputation, his family—everything he still had left—I could protect it all, even if it meant destroying myself.

Because if someone was going down, it wasn’t going to be Noah.

After that, the next clear memory I had was of my hand twisting the cork off a bottle and pouring a glass, then another. When the burn hit the back of my throat, the only image I could see was Noah’s face at my door, every Friday night like clockwork, staring at me as if I were a stranger, while a half-empty bottle dangled loosely from my fingers.

“You didn’t push me into anything,” I interrupted, crouching down to meet his gaze. My hands ached to reach out, to comfort him, to promise that everything would be okay, but I held myself back. “If anything, I was the one pushing you.”

He let out a short, bitter laugh. “Pushed me past my own sanity.” He lifted the bottle and took another slow sip. “I’m mad.”

“You and me both—the crazy pair,” I murmured, attempting a smile that didn’t quite reach my eyes. I reached out and pried the bottle from his fingers, raising it to my lips. The liquor burned fiercely as it slid down my throat and settled like a stone in my stomach. I swallowed hard before setting the bottle on the coffee table, well out of his reach.

A thick, uneven silence settled between us. I had come here to explain everything—to tell him what I had done to protect us, to protect him, to lay out what had to happen next. But one look at him told me it was pointless. He was in no state to hear it, and even if I forced the words out, he wouldn’t remember them.

What frightened me most wasn’t the alcohol. It was the way he looked in this moment—stripped of control, nothing like the man I’d known. So utterly defeated it felt like the ground was crumbling beneath both of us.

He caught me watching and gave a crooked, hollow smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve spent almost ten years trying to stitch myself back together,” he murmured. “Learning to hold everything in, to look polished, disciplined, respectable… I thought if I built that version of myself, it would drown out the shame and mute the guilt from who I used to be and the damage I caused to an innocent boy. But it didn’t. It just wrapped the ugliness in a nicer package. And then I went and did it again. I gave in to temptation and played with fire, Noah. I knew what was at risk, and yet, like years ago, I ruined not only my life but yours.”

The silence that followed was heavier than his confession. Because for the first time, I couldn’t tell if he was warning me or quietly saying goodbye.