The bells over the diner door didn't sound like a death knell anymore, but they didn't sound like a celebration either. They just sounded like metal hitting metal.
It had been a week. My fingers were still wrapped in light bandages, the skin underneath angry and peeling from the frostbite, but I could hold a coffee pot. That was enough. I lived in Martha's spare room now, surrounded by floral wallpaper and the smell of lavender laundry detergent. It was safe. It was quiet. It was everything I thought I wanted, and it made me feel like I was screaming underwater.
I was wiping down the counter, the smell of grease and bleach grounding me, when the air in the room changed.
I didn't have to look up. I knew the scent. Citrus, expensive wool, and a cold, sharp loneliness that I recognized in my own bones.
Julian Vane sat at the far end of the counter. He wasn't wearing a suit. He was in a plain black sweater and a heavy coat, looking like a man who had forgotten how to sleep. He looked diminished, no longer the shark, just a man.
"The grill is off," I said, my voice sounding like gravel. I didn't look at him. I just kept scrubbing the same spot on the laminate.
"I'm not hungry, Alina," he said. His voice was steady, but there was a tremor underneath that he couldn't hide. "I'm leaving for London in an hour. The car is waiting outside."
I finally stopped scrubbing and looked at him. He looked at my bandaged hands, and I saw a flinch of pure, unadulterated agony cross his face.
"I came to tell you that the deed to the diner is in Martha's name now. No strings. No Associates. It's hers. And the penthouse... I've put it on the market. I won't be coming back to this town."
"Good," I spat, though the word felt hollow. "Go be a prick in a different time zone, Julian. Maybe the Brits will like your 'luminous' bullshit more than I did."
Julian let out a small, tired laugh. He leaned forward, his hands resting on the counter. He didn't reach for mine. He didn't try to bridge the gap. "You were right, you know. I am a monster. I thought that because I loved the fire in you, I had the right to own the hearth. I was wrong."
He stood up, looking around the diner, at the chipped mugs, the fading booths, the life he had tried to erase and then tried to buy. "I wanted to give you the world, Alina. But you already had one. I just couldn't see it."
He turned to the door, his hand on the handle.
In that moment, looking at his retreating back, a terrifying wave of clarity hit me. It hit me harder than the drug, harder than the cold of the blizzard.
I hated him. I hated what he'd done, I hated the way he'd taken me, and I hated the way he'd manipulated everything I loved. But as I watched him walk away, I realized that I didn't want him to go.
I felt a pull toward him, a dark, magnetic tether that had been forged in the madness of that penthouse. I realized that despite the "vicious girl" and the "shark," we were made of the same broken glass. He was the only person who had ever seen the truly foul parts of me and didn't try to fix them. He had just wanted to burn with me.
I loved him. Not in a "gentle" Silas way. Not in a way that was healthy or good or right. I loved him in a way that was as toxic as the wine he'd given me.
But I didn't say a word.
I stood behind that counter, my bandaged fingers gripping the edge so hard the scars throbbed. I let the silence hang between us, heavy and suffocating. If I told him to stay, I was choosing the monster who hurt me. If I let him go, I was choosing a life of salt and grease and "peace" that felt like a slow death.
"Goodbye, Alina," he whispered, without turning around.
"Go to hell, Julian," I said. It was the only way I knew how to say I loved him.
The bell chimed as he walked out. I watched through the window as the black town car pulled away, disappearing into the gray slush of the late winter afternoon.
I stood there for a long time, the diner empty, the salt shakers half-full, and the keys to my life finally in my own hands. I felt the weight of the silence. I felt the absence of him.
I picked up the rag and started scrubbing again.
One foot in front of the other, I told myself. That's how you survive.