But I have never known a gravity like this. Whatever we were, it defied every rule I lived by.
It kills me that he is walking away as if it were nothing. As if we didn't light the world on fire. As if the heat we generated didn't leave us both branded. I am standing right here, still burning, still wanting him.
And he is already gone.
I look down at my phone and see a message from Tatum.
Tatum:I’m outside. Visitor’s lot. I’ve got a bat, just in case you want to bust this fucker’s windows out.
I bite back a snicker, shaking my head.
Me:Tatum, stop it. There will be no vandalism on my behalf. It’s all pretty amicable.
It’s not amicable. It’s not even civil.
It’s torture in open-toe heels.
I glance up and realize everyone at the table is staring at me—my lawyer, his, Chelsea…and Luca.
There’s a smile tugging at the corner of my mouth from Tatum’s text, but before I can wipe it away—
“Glad you’re able to find some joy in all of this,” Luca says flatly.
And the smile dies.
“Luca, I—”
He lifts a hand. Not gently. Not kindly. Just dismissive.
Pompous ass face.
He’s got the posture of a man who’s above it all. Cold like some stiff, British bastard who’s decided I’m nothing more than a regret with entirely too much paperwork.
Amicable indeed.
As the mediation wraps, I turn to Luca one last time.
He doesn’t meet my eyes.
He hasn't—not really—since the day he decided this was all too much. The pressure of it all. Me, him, Croix. He couldn’t bring himself to choose, so he chose neither of us instead. He hasn’t looked at me the same since. It's like something deep inside him simply shut off the moment we finally found our way back to each other.
His nurse moves to help him from his chair, but he jerks his arm away, “I’ve got it, Nancy,” he snaps, reaching for his crutches.
Still stubborn as hell.
I’d heard the whispers—from the press, from mutual friends, even from Tatum—that Luca became “difficult” the moment we lost touch in Vegas. Nearly costing him his career. Apparently, he spent months trying to track me down, and the romantic in me swooned at the thought. Yet, he was still the one who made the final call to end our marriage.
But I still love him, so I keep tabs on him. Which is how I found out he started to spiral the second the decision was made to end our marriage. His mood soured, his behavior turned erratic, and I’m told he’s completely shut down emotionally. He’s even refusing to cooperate with anyone regarding his injury. I can’t, for the life of me, figure it out. If ending this is breaking him apart, then why is he doing it at all?
I watch as he limps toward the door, the pain in his leg obvious even through the sharp, angry way he moves. His MCL is still healing, but he refuses to let anyone help. He won't allow himself to look weak.
I open my mouth to tell him he’s using the crutches wrong, that he’s putting too much pressure on the injured side, but I stop myself.
He’s not mine to protect anymore.
So I let him walk away.
Crutches under his arms. Pride on his back.
