The words feel like a check to the ribs.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “But we can make that work. People do long-distance all the time. We’ll figure it out. You fly, I fly, we—”
She shakes her head once. No emotion in it at all. “No. We won’t.”
I stare at her. “What do you mean, we won’t? Kat—”
“This was always temporary,” she says, and I swear I feel the ground tilt under my feet. “You know that. We talked about it from the beginning. This was about my visa. About helping me stay long enough to dance. About you blocking off my father’s ability to force me into marriage and getting my grandmother’s blessing. We did that. It worked.”
“Yeah. It worked,” I say, my voice rough. “And somewhere in there I fell in love with you, so forgive me if I’m not thrilled about sticking to the original exit strategy.”
Her throat works like she’s swallowing something sharp. “Scottie…”
“You can’t just throw ‘temporary’ at me like it cancels everything,” I push. “We share a bed. We share a life. I know you, Kat. I know how you take your tea before shows. I know the sound you make when you’re stretching your hips, and your joints pop. I know the face you make when you’re trying not to laugh at one of Hunter’s idiot jokes. Don’t stand here and act like this is some transactional thing we can just… clock out of.”
Her gaze flickers again, but she clamps down on it fast.
“This is my career,” she says softly. “My life. This is what my mother wanted for me, what I’ve worked for since I was three. I can’t pass this up to play house in Seattle. I’m sorry that sounds harsh, but it’s the truth.”
I feel the words like a slap.
“Play house,” I repeat. “Really.”
She flinches almost. “You know that’s not what I meant. I’d never ask you to give up a trade to the NHL team of your dreams.”
“That’s because I’d never give you the chance to ask me to give it up. I’d either take you with me, or I would give it up for you,” I say. My voice is getting tighter, harsher, and I’m trying like hell to rein it in because the last thing I want is to hurt her. “So what? You got the call from New York, decided you’re done, and that’s it? You just… turn this off and go back?”
“Maybe your mother was right,” she says, voice going even quieter. “About Anika. Maybe she was a better choice for you, anyway.”
The fuck?
“Don’t,” I bite out. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?” she asks, eyes cool.
“Don’t push me at someone else because you’re trying to make yourself feel better about leaving,” I say. “Don’t stand here and pretend I’m some… plug-and-play husband who can just swapbrides because you don’t want me anymore. Because I don’t fit your plans anymore.”
For the first time, her eyes drop.
Just a second. Just one heartbeat where the mask cracks and I see her—my Kat—with all of her fear and pain and love right there, naked and raw.
Then it’s gone. The shutters slam back down.
“This isn’t about not wanting you,” she says. “It’s about reality. My reality. I was never meant to stay here forever. I miss New York. I miss Irina. I belong on that stage, in that company.”
“Yeah?” I ask, my voice low. “Then do something for me.”
Her brows draw together. “What?”
“Tell me you can see me happy with someone else,” I say. “Look me in the eye and tell me you’d be okay with it. Tell me it won’t hurt you to see me with anyone but you. Tell me that, and maybe I’ll believe you don’t love me.”
Her lips part. For a long, brutal second, she just looks at me.
Her fingers twitch at her side.
Then she nods. Slow. Like every millimeter costs her. “You should… move on,” she says. “Just like we always planned to, after this was over.”
Something inside me snaps.
