“I am still in love with you,” he says quietly.
The words used to be everything I wanted. Now they just make my skin crawl.
“No,” I say. “You are in love with the version of me who stood next to you, smiled for photos, and pretended not to notice when you were texting other women at midnight.”
His gaze flickers downward, just for a heartbeat.
Got you.
“Belle,”
“DO NOT call me that.” My voice snaps sharp enough that the guy at the counter looks over. I do not care. “You lost the right to nickname me when you started sleeping with your backup singer.”
“She kissed me,” he says automatically.
“There was a bed involved,” I answer. “Pretty sure that part wasn’t an accident.”
He presses his lips together.
For a second, I see it, the real him, under the PR veneer. Petty. Defensive. Embarrassed I won’t play along.
“The song was an apology,” he says. “My way of trying to fix things.”
“No,” I say. “It was your way of keeping me attached to your brand. You could have apologized in private. Instead you wrote a chart-climbing banger about how you’re the poor tortured man who lost his fiancée, and then let the world fill in the blanks.”
He leans forward, palms up. “People want us back together. You’ve seen the comments.”
I choke out a laugh. “You mean the people who never met us and think our lives are one long music video? Sure. They’re thrilled. My favorite is the one that said ‘true love is real, Mark and Belle proved it.’ That one was fun to read, considering I found your texts.”
“Annabelle…”
“Let’s be clear,” I say. “We are not getting back together. We are not on a break. There is no second chance, no epic reunion, no hidden meaning in anything I’m doing. I am done.”
His expression falls in stages. Confusion. Hurt. Then something colder.
“So that’s it?” he says. “You throw away our history for… what? A rebound?”
My chest tightens. Bryce’s face flashes in my mind. His soft eyes. His magic fingers. The first time I saw him on the ice, a blur of power and precision and a little reckless joy.
He is not a rebound.
“You don’t get to talk about him,” I say.
He studies me, something calculating sparking beneath the hurt. “You’re really choosing him. That's pretty fast.”
“It's none of your business.” The words feel like steel in my mouth.
His gaze drops to my hands on the table. My fingers are tearing at a napkin. Tense. Cold.
He reaches across the table and grabs my hand.
From outside, I’m sure it looks tender. Like a plea. A man reaching for the love of his life.
Inside, it feels like a trap.
“Mark,” I warn.
He squeezes, leaning in, voice low and earnest. “I can’t accept that. People make mistakes. We can come back from this. We were supposed to get married. I fucked up and I'm so, so sorry. I fired her and I was just a jerk who got cold feet. It was stupid and I learned the hard way. We don’t just throw our love away.”
