I don't remember how I got home.
One minute I was standing in that restaurant, heart thundering, staring at Frank's stupid shocked face and Vivian's smug confusion…
And the next, I was outside, in my car, driving blindly with tears stabbing my vision like broken glass.
I don't remember traffic lights.
I don't remember the road.
I only remember Edward calling my name as I ran his voice rough, desperate, confused.
And I only remember ignoring him.
Because how do you face a man you've been sleeping with…
A man you've touched, kissed, moaned for, clawed at, begged for…
A man who's been inside you almost every damn night…
…and then find out he's the son of the man who destroyed your life?
My chest tightens just thinking about it.
By the time I get home, my hands shake so hard I nearly drop my keys. I slam the door behind me and press my back to it like I'm holding back a storm.
But the storm is already here.
It's inside me.
"No… no, no, no this cannot be happening."
My voice cracks, sounding like it's made of splinters.
I stumble to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with water, but my hands shake too violently. The water spills. The glass drops. Shatters.
Just like me.
I sink to the floor, chest heaving.
I don't cry quietly.
I cry the way heartbreak demands loud, trembling, ugly sobs that tear through the body and leave wounds behind.
I cry for the betrayal.
For the humiliation.
For the universe's twisted sense of humor.
But mostly…
Mostly I cry because discovering Edward's identity didn't make my feelings go away.
If anything, it made them sharper. Scarier.
What kind of sick joke is that?
I bury my face in my hands and force myself to breathe. But every inhale feels wrong. Every thought feels like a knife.
I slept with Frank's son.
I fall back against the cabinet and let that truth echo again and again until it physically hurts.
"Leah, breathe," I whisper to myself, but it does nothing.
Because my brain won't stop replaying everything.
Every kiss.
Every moan.
Every moment Edward held my face like I was something precious.
Every night he touched me like he couldn't get enough.
His hands.
His mouth.
His voice.
God.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to banish the memories but they come back fiercer, deeper, like my body refuses to forget him.
That's the worst part.
My heart didn't get the memo.
My body didn't get the memo.
My sanity definitely didn't get the memo.
I stand up, pacing like my bones are vibrating.
"Stop thinking about him," I mutter.
"Stop feeling anything."
"It's done."
"It has to be done."
I repeat the sentences like a prayer, but none of them stick.
My phone buzzes from where I tossed it on the couch.
My chest seizes.
I already know who it is.
Edward.
I shouldn't check.
I know I shouldn't.
But my treacherous fingers pick up the phone anyway.
EDWARD: Leah. Please talk to me.
My stomach twists.
Another message comes, almost immediately.
EDWARD: I didn't know. I swear. I had no idea who you were.
I swallow hard.
I should block him.
I should throw the phone across the room.
Instead…
I grip it like it's the only thing keeping me grounded.
EDWARD: I'm outside. Please open the door.
My breath stops.
Everything inside me goes still.
No.
No, he can't be here.
He shouldn't be here.
I drop the phone like it burns me.
Panic rushes through me so fast my knees nearly buckle.
This is too much.
Too complicated.
Too painful.
I wrap my arms around myself, backing away from the door like it might swing open on its own.
I don't want to see him.
I can't see him.
Because if I see him…
If I hear him…
If I feel him…
I might forgive him.
And forgiveness means falling deeper.
I can't survive that.
I back up and press a shaking hand over my mouth as the doorbell rings low, persistent, restrained, like he's trying not to scare me.
"Leah… please," he calls from behind the door, his voice muffled but unmistakably raw.
My heart slams against my ribs.
No.
No.
No.
I walk backward, step by unstable step, until I reach my bedroom door. I slip inside and shut it, then let my back slide down until I'm sitting on the floor, hugging my knees like a frightened child.
His voice comes again.
Softer this time.
"Just let me explain."
Explain what?
That the universe hates me?
That fate is an asshole?
That I slept with the son of the man who cheated on me, lied to me, used me, and left me for another woman?
I press my forehead to my knees, shaking my head violently.
"I can't do this," I whisper. "I can't."
The knocking stops.
Silence.
Then his voice breaks through quiet, but filled with something that makes my heart ache.
"I'll wait. I'm not leaving."
Why does that make me cry harder?
I bite back sobs, but they escape anyway.
Does he hear me?
God, I hope not.
Minutes pass maybe ten, maybe thirty, maybe an hour. Time has no meaning when your heart is in pieces.
Eventually the house becomes silent.
Too silent.
I wait.
Breathing slowly.
Listening.
Praying he left.
But part of me…
The pathetic, foolish part of me…
Hopes he's still there.
I finally gather the courage to crawl to the window. I stand on my toes and peek through the blinds.
He's sitting on the step outside, elbows on his knees, head bowed. He looks tired. Frustrated. Worried.
His phone is in his hand, but he isn't using it.
He's just… waiting.
My traitorous heart flutters.
Damn him.
Damn me.
Damn this whole twisted situation.
I slide down again and cover my face.
A war rages inside me logic versus emotion.
Pain versus desire.
Fear versus the memory of his hands gripping my waist like I was the only thing in the world he wanted.
Every cell in my body remembers him.
And I hate that.
I stay on the floor until my breathing steadies, but the sadness doesn't leave. It sits on my chest like weight.
Eventually, I force myself to stand. I go to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and try to look human again.
The mirror shows something else entirely.
My eyes are red, swollen, tired.
My lips tremble.
I look like a woman who lost something she never had the right to want.
My stomach twists in a knot.
This is going to break me.
And I can't let it.
"Enough," I whisper to my reflection, even though my voice sounds weak.
I grab my phone again, hands still shaking, and type with trembling fingers.
LEAH: Don't come back.
I don't give him time to respond.
I turn the phone off.
Place it face-down.
Walk away.
My heart squeezes once twice then cracks open like a wound that will take forever to close.