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Milo: What the hell is going on?

I stare at his message, my vision blurring as another notification appears.

He’s typing. Those three little dots blink on my screen, and I can practically hear his voice in my head, demanding to know what’s happened and why my father just slammed the door in his face.

I want to tell him. God, I want to tell him everything.

I want him to come upstairs, wrap his arms around me, and tell me we’re going to figure this out together. That Peyton can go fuck herself and that none of this changes anything between us.

But I know better now. So I type the only two words I can bring myself to write.

Me: I’m sorry.

My thumb hovers over the screen, every part of me screaming not to send the message. Not to push away the one person who actually brings light to my bleak existence. The one person who still makes me feel like there’s something worth looking forward to, even when the rest of my life is going to shit.

But then I glance across the street again.

At Peyton.

At the Reds standing behind her.

At the smug little smile that tells me she’s already planning what comes next if I don’t give her what she wants.

I can’t let that happen. Not again.

So I hit send.

Across the street, Milo lowers his gaze to his phone, and I watch him read my message.

Before he has a chance to respond, I block his number.

Then I let the curtain fall back into place and turn away from the window, pressing a hand over my mouth to muffle the sob that finally breaks free.

There. It’s done.

She’s won.

Chapter 27

Thursday

The last funeral I went to was my father’s. I never expected to attend another one after he died.

Certainly not one of the Reds’.

But here we are. At Sydney’s grand farewell.

Fuck my life.

“Do you see him?” I ask Sienna, twisting the strap of my handbag between my fingers.

“Not yet,” she replies, looking cool and collected beside me while my skin feels like it’s crawling off my bones.

“Maybe you’re wrong.”

“I’m not. He’ll show.”

“No, I mean, maybe you’re wrong about it being Mr. Collins.” I survey the sea of mourners, searching for someone who might stand out. “Maybe we’re missing something. Maybe it’s someone else entirely.”