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I blink at him and put a bit of distance between us, scooting over.
“God, I can’t believe you.”
“The truth always hurts more than a thousand sweet lies we keep telling each other.”
“Why are you punishing me?” I say, wrapping my arms around myself. “Is it because your mommy stopped loving you? Or that she sees your father in you?”
“Aurora.”
He doesn’t scare me. I tap my lips, expunging the venom his words produced.
“Or is it that this is the only way you can keep things by wanting to control—to own—them?”
“Aurora.”
I raise my hands in sheer exasperation. We’re getting nowhere. “I know my name, Kieran.”
He storms out of bed, so I keep provoking him. “Maybe you think you can own and control the world, but you’ll never own me.”
He cocks his head, a self-deprecating smile on his mouth.
“You shouldn’t have poked the devil.”
“I’m not afraid of you.”
“You never were supposed to fear me,” he shouts and leaves. I lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling. I’m completely astounded by how quickly things broke apart between us. I thought we were past that. I guess I was wrong.
My phone rings. I tell Chiara we had a fight, and how mad I am at him.
“You woke up, thank God. I thought he had you wrapped around his fingers.”
Did I let myself be fooled? Was all this a plan to make me love him? Well, asshole, it worked.
Every hour he stays away rips my heart into shredded pieces lying all around the bedroom. I am not angry any longer. I am despondent.
When the door opens around midnight, at first I think I conjured him back, a ghost driving me crazy. Well, he did.
Kieran steps inside. I pick up the glass from the nightstand and throw it at him. It doesn’t hit him, it hits the wall. The water spills down and the shards clink on the floor, broken like my insides.
“Get out,” I scream, and he leans on the wall, wearing dejection over his custom-made suit. I expected him to be cocky: strutting in here, wanting to own me, possess me when all I wanted was for him to love me.
I pick up the glass pitcher as he approaches me.
“I’ll hurl this at your head if you don’t leave.”
He’s either brave or stupid. By the time I make up my mind, his chest presses against mine. He cups my face in his.
“You won.”
“What?” I ask, blinking, the groggy-sounding voice taking me by surprise.
“I love you.”
The pitcher slips from my hand, crashing onto the floor like my heart spilling into my stomach.
“I am on my knees, Aurora. On my fucking knees. A beggar.”
“Say that again.” He begins, but I shake my head. “The first part.”
