Page 48 of Don’t Forget Me

Lysandra had always been the type of person to bottle everything inside and only explode when she could no longer hold on. This had to be one of her explosions. She wouldn’t be confessing this to me if she didn’t have a firm grip on her emotions.

Which is how I realized she didn’t want to get married to Aldair. She didn’t love him. That uncertainty she had, was because she knew—deep down—that it would be a mistake to tie her life to his. The last thing I wanted for her was to go through a messy divorce and be left in a million pieces. I had to save her from an unhappy future with him.

And there was a part of me that felt relief. I didn’t want to make this situation about me, because it wasn’t. It was completely about her.

I had to focus on her. On her wellbeing. On stopping her from making one of the worst mistakes of her life, other than me.

My own heart betrayed me because I immediately started to imagine all the beautiful date nights that I could take her on. The intimate memories that we’d never forget, even when we were old.

I had to stop her, I had no other choice but to stop her from breaking her own heart. What could I say? What could I tell her so she would understand that she was about to make a grave mistake?

Ezra, you can’t make this about you.

I was selfish. I knew I was. I was selfish for her because I yearned for her. I was dying of thirst and she was the only one who could quench this desire. To hell with it.

“Don’t marry him.”

Her brown eyes widened, confusion hitting her like a freight train. Lysandra dropped the wine bottle, leaving the half-eaten bar next to it, and shot up to her feet.

“What?” Her tone was sharp.

I pushed myself to my feet and exasperated, “Don’t marry him.”

“How can you⁠—”

“You shouldn’t have to feel that way about someone you’re going to be spending the rest of your life with,” I argued.

“And you know so much about marriage?” She countered.

I stuttered.

“Last I remember, your father wasn’t the greatest husband to your mother. Not a great father to you either, for that matter. You really think you have authority to tell me what I should or shouldn’t be doing with my life? Let alone my sentimental life?” She yelled. I hoped her words were coming from her drunken state and not from her soul.

My father died soon after I left college at Blackthorn. His death made the flashbacks easier to deal with because I knew the hits and jabs would never come again. It still didn’t mean that Lysandra’s words didn’t hurt even more than what my father ever did to me.

Richard Van Dorren was incapable of love. That much I knew. But Lysandra was the one person I ever let myself truly care for.

I knew I shouldn’t have said anything. I should’ve stayed silent, but there was a part of me that desperately wanted her to see that I still loved her. That I wasn’t the same guy I was five years ago, that I had learned my lesson. That I was in love with her back then and I still was. Probably even more now than ever before. She didn’t have to be with someone who didn’t make her happy, someone who couldn’t fulfill her dreams.

“Lysandra—”

“No, no. You don’t get to defend yourself. Might I remind you that you’re the one who screwed us up.” She pointed a finger at me before motioning to the space between us.

I lowered my head with a sigh. I realized that today wouldn't be the day I could tell her my truth. That she was my lifeline. That she had been the only woman in my life. The eyes I searched for in every room that I ever entered. The warmth of her skin was the only one I felt the absence of in this cold world.

I corrected myself by saying, “This is about you. Forget him, this isn’t about him.”

Lysandra scoffed with a grin, pushing past me, her shoulder hitting mine. I followed after her through the hallways of my apartment, the party guests stepping aside for both of us as we marched through the loft. The clinking of glasses and the lively conversations instantly stopped when our footsteps echoed across the floorboards.

I could already hear their whispering and feel their piercing stares. But right now, they didn’t matter. What mattered was the girl in front of me, rushing away from me. Running from the truth.

“Lysandra,” I called after her. “Lysandra, wait.”

“No,” she barked.

The crowds parted like the Red Sea as Lysandra marched through them. I noticed Camille holding onto a glass of champagne. She set her blue gaze on Lysandra with a furrow of her brow.“What’s going on?” She asked.

“We’re leaving.” Lysandra grabbed her wrist, pulling her as she opened the door. Camille struggled to keep her footing as she left the champagne glass and snatched her purse from the table. Was she so impatient to escape my company that she had agreed with her best friend the time that they would be leaving?