“There’s no we,” he interrupts, his tone cutting but not cruel. “Not right now. There can’t be a we when you haven’t had closure from him. Technically, you’re still engaged to the man.”
“Closure?” I snap, my voice rising as panic claws its way up my throat. “I don’t need closure. I. Need. You. I. Need. Us.”
He shakes his head, a bitter smile tugging at his lips, like he’s already made peace with the words that are breaking me. “Yousaid it yourself once. Back when I was trying to convince you to give me a chance. Don’t you remember?”
And I do. God, I do.
I hate him for remembering it, for throwing those words back in my face like an ax aimed straight for my heart. “You said you couldn’t move forward with someone new until you’d fully let go of what was holding you back,” he says, his voice quieter now, but no less devastating. “You told me that, Pia. That you couldn’t be all in unless you knew there was nothing left to haunt you. And from what you’re telling me there’s a lot still haunting you—you need to let the pain out. You should’ve shared that pain with me before. I want to be your partner, your everything, just like you’re mine.”
I press my hands to my temples, as if I can physically hold myself together while everything inside me cracks wide open. “That was different,” I whisper. “That was then. I was a different person.”
“Were you?” he asks softly, and the question hangs in the air between us, heavier than anything else he’s said.
I glare at him, hating him in this moment—not because he’s wrong, but because he’s right. I did say that. And now, here we are, and I’m the one holding on to something that feels like a ghost.
“I’m not giving up on you,” he continues, his voice gentler now, but no less firm. “But I can’t be in this, Pia. Not like this. Not when you’re splitting yourself in half between me and him. Not when you’re still not willing to trust me with all of you. It’s not fair to either of us.”
His words cut deeper than I thought possible, and I shake my head, tears slipping down my cheeks before I can stop them. “Don’t do this,” I plead, my voice breaking. “Please, Haydn. Don’t leave me.”
“I’m not leaving,” he says, hand lifting to brush a tear from my face. “I’ll still be here. For you, for whatever you need. But I can’t be your partner, your lover, or your anything while you figure out how to save a man you once loved. You deserve to figure this out without me clouding your judgment. And I deserve to know that when you’re with me,you’re really with me.”
A choked sob escapes me, raw and uncontrollable, as my chest tightens with everything I want to say but can’t. My throat burns, my hands trembling at my sides. “Fuck you,” I whisper, my voice breaking, trembling with the force of it. “Fuck you for doing this, for being so goddamn noble that I can’t even hate you for it.”
He lets out a soft, bitter laugh devoid of warmth. His hand lingers against my cheek, his thumb brushing over my skin with a tenderness that only twists the knife deeper. “I love you, Pia,” he murmurs, his voice low but steady, his eyes shining with something that looks far too much like heartbreak. “That’s why I have to let you do this. That’s why I have to let you go. For now.”
His words cut through me, and the air between us feels impossibly thin, fragile.
“I just hope that at the end of all this, you come back to me,” he continues, his voice faltering, his gaze never leaving mine. “And if you don’t . . . I just hope you’re happy. Even if it’s with him.”
And just like that, the ground beneath me gives way, and I’m falling.
This is the fault in forever. Forever is never truly ours to keep, just a momentary promise that vanishes when you start to believe in it.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ophelia
Byron Langdon might bethe cold, calculating bastard who convinced my boyfriend to end things with me, but I’ll give him credit for one thing—he made sure that everything was in place for us to leave Greenwich immediately after the worst breakup of my life. No waiting, no dragging out the inevitable.
Keane and I were placed on one jet—a private medical flight outfitted with all the support he’d need for the nearly six-hour journey back to Portland. Haydn? He took the same jet that had brought us here. Quiet, efficient, detached, like this was just another thing to cross off his endless list of responsibilities.
But he didn’t leave without making sure I was taken care of. That’s Haydn for you. Even when he’s breaking your heart, he does it with this maddening, infuriating sense of responsibility. He stayed until the last possible moment, making sure the plane was secure, that Keane’s medical equipment was checked, that the flight attendants knew everything I might need for the trip.
It’s ridiculous, really, the way he can make you feel like you’re still the center of his world even as he’s walking away from you.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Haydn
Four stepsto the kitchen to check the fridge, four taps on the edge of the counter. Four fingers brushing over the thermostat to make sure it’s set to the right temperature. Four clicks of the hallway light, on and off, until it feels just right. It’s irrational, I know, but it’s how things stay in order. Four keeps everything balanced.
I head upstairs, skipping the third step out of habit—it creaks, and I’ve always hated how it throws off the silence. At the top, I tap the railing lightly with my fingertips, twice on the left side and twice on the right, a little ritual I’ve kept from game days.
When I finally reach the primary bedroom, I stop at the open door. The soft glow of the bedside lamp casts a warm halo over Ophelia, curled up in the bed—our bed. Just as I’d asked her to. I wouldn’t kick her out; I could never do that. She loves the bed—or maybe it’s the idea of us sharing it. Either way, it doesn’t matter anymore.
Not when I’m standing here, wondering what happens next.
What if she chooses him? Or worse—what if she leaves me? Should I leave her the house? The thought feels absurd, almost laughable, but it digs into me like a thorn I can’t pull out.
