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‘And that’s what you want?’
I stare at her for several long seconds, pulling myself back mentally. ‘I have accepted what is required of me,’ I correct. ‘And nothing is going to change that.’
She is so pale.
‘I feel like we were clear about this from the start,’ I say softly, and tears sparkle on her lashes.
‘Hasn’t anything changed for you since then?’
My gut churns hard. I shake my head. It can’t. I can’t do this. ‘No.’
* * *
No. The word is emphatic. I look at him, my heart no longer in my chest. I have no idea what happened to it. Maybe it withered and died completely?
He doesn’t love me. He doesn’t want me—or at least, only for another week. I think about that, and wonder if I can shelve my own feelings, purely to squeeze every moment out of this that we possibly can. But there’s no way.
I can’t do it.
I move away from him, towards my ball gown that is discarded in the lounge, where he removed it last night. It’s beautiful, but all I can think of is that it’s what I wore on our last night together.
My throat feels as though it’s been scraped with sandpaper.
‘Imogen, listen to me.’ His voice is gravelled. I don’t stop what I’m doing. In fact, I move faster, pulling the dress up over my hips, discarding his shirt with my back to him. It’s ridiculous to want to shield my nakedness, given what we’ve shared, and yet I do.
‘I care about you, okay?’ His voice is so deep, so rough. ‘If things had been different, maybe this could have worked out, but I’m not the guy you want me to be. I don’t even believe in love, I don’t believe in happy endings. I believe in this.’
When I look around, he’s gesturing from his chest, towards me.
‘I believe in the power of a resounding physical chemistry, and I believe in respect and civility. I believe in fun.’
‘You have turned partying into an art form all so you can avoid feeling any kind of emotional connection with someone. You’re living with your head in the sand and you don’t even realise it.’
‘And what exactly are you doing, Imogen? You haven’t had sex or even dated a guy in four years and you tell me I’m the one who has my head in the sand?’
‘I put my life on hold to run Chance,’ I fire back, anger sharp in my mind. ‘I don’t have much of a social life but that’s because I want to make the world better. You spend all your time having frivolous, meaningless affairs because you’re shit scared of feeling anything for anyone. All because you loved someone once and she didn’t want to marry you.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ he curses, his eyes sharp with fierce determination and frustration. ‘This is spectacularly unreasonable.’
I suck in an indignant breath.
‘Do you think you have any right to lecture me? You’re the one who’s moved the goalposts. You’re shitty at me because I don’t love you, when love wasn’t even on the cards. Ever.’
I drop my head forward a second, his words like ice cubes, but ones I need to feel.
‘I never expected you to love me. I’m just telling you why I can’t spend another week with you.’
He holds my gaze even as I feel regret shift inside him.
‘I told you to forget I suggested that. I’m sorry.’
I stiffen my spine, fixing him with my best Imogen Carmichael expression. I am the founder of The Billionaires’ Club, founder of Chance, and I will not let him see how badly this is hurting me. Even as tears fill my throat, my eyes, my soul, I stare him down.
‘So this is really what you want?’
A muscle jerks in his jaw and I sense his indecision, but I also sense his stubborn determination and I know what his answer will be, even before he says it. ‘It has to be.’
‘Don’t. That’s a cop-out.’
