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Pale skin with a smattering of freckles across her nose.
She looks so much like me.
And it’s the names Sybil + Ethan written in a feminine cursive scrawl across the bottom.
This is a photograph that Sybil gave to Ethan, one that he kept even though they broke up. One that he kept in his nightstand and brought with him on his summer vacation. He clearly hasn’t forgotten her. He’s not over her.
It all makes total and horrifying sense. This is why Conrad King hired me, why Malory warned me to stay away from the brothers, why Camilla said Ethan would especially be trouble if I pushed his buttons, and why those girls on the Fourth of July were talking about me and Sybil as if we had something to do with each other. “I don’t see it” one had said and the other had argued that it was obvious.
And it is obvious.
I look so much like Ethan’s ex that I could be mistaken for her little sister. Except for the height and the eye color, she’s practically my doppelgänger. And he used me for it.
The shower turns off. I throw the photograph to the back of the nightstand as if the thing burned me, close the drawer, and dart from the bedroom.
It’s not until I’m in my own room with the door locked and my own shower running that I allow myself to cry. I lean against the tiled wall and let the sobs rock through me.
He took my virginity.
He claimed me as his own.
But it was never me that he wanted, it was his ex. She was the one who broke his heart, the one who got away, the one that his father wanted to help make him feel better about. And what better way than to provide a second-best lookalike for him to fuck. He probably just wanted me to get her out of his system. When he was inside me, did he imagine he was inside her? When we kissed, was it her lips he tasted?
Because I can’t deny the truth—she’s his Juliet.
My stomach roils and I vomit what little I have in my hollow stomach right there into the shower drain.
It’s disgusting but it’s nothing to how disgusting I feel inside right now.
And livid.
And stupid.
And . . . and . . . and . . .
There’s nothing I can do about it.
It’s over. By this afternoon I’ll be in Boston and I never have to see Ethan King ever again. This is partly my fault. I knew he wasn’t emotionally available and yet I spread my legs for him anyway. How can someone that makes my body feel so damn good also make my heart feel this painfully broken?
Picking myself off the tile floor, I finish my shower and get ready for Boston, taking my sweet-ass time in the process.
Because I don’t want to see him.
Ethan doesn’t have to know that I know the truth now.
I don’t want to fight. I don’t want to confront him. And I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry. As far as he’s concerned, I’m just as unaffected by him as he is by me. This entire experience was transactional—nothing to do with the heart. And I’m ready to move on with my life.
Good riddance to the entire King family.
I head downstairs for lunch feeling like a new woman. I make one sandwich for myself and nothing for him. Not sorry. He can make his own damn sandwich.
He waltzes in from outside and eyes me curiously as I finish up my meal. I don’t say a word. I just take my plate over to the sink and wash it.
“Are you okay? You’re acting weird.”
I turn on him with a fake megawatt smile. “I’m great, just a little nervous for my new life in Boston.”
And that’s not a lie.
