I almost laugh. Bitter, hollow.
“Really? I know what I saw that night, Dorian.”
But still… there was that whisper in my chest—the part of me that wanted to believe he couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
“I needed you, so much,” I say quietly. “I needed to hear your voice. To see your face. To believe I’d survive what was happening.”
He steps closer, cautious. Like he’s afraid he’ll push me further away.
“I called you—a video call,” I continue, my voice quieter now, as I stare at the dark through the large windows facing the lake. “Six weeks and two days after I landed.”
His eyes widen. “But I never—”
“You didn’t answer,” I say flatly, pointing at his phone. “She did. Lying in bed beside you.”
I finally look at him. Direct. Unflinching.
“She told me you’d gone back to her. That I was a mistake.”
A beat passes. And then I see it—the shift. His face hardens, recognition flashing like lightning, followed by something darker. Rage.
He drags a hand through his hair, rough, almost violent. A broken sound escapes his throat as he paces once, twice, then halts, fists tight at his sides.
“It’s not true, Della. She had no damn right to lie to you like that. Not even to touch my phone. Nothing happened.”
He drags in a breath, but it shudders out like it burns.
“That night… I was already a wreck. She showed me pictures—of you and that man. Smiling. Close. She said you’d moved on. That I’d been nothing more than a summer game for you. And God, I believed her. For one second, I believed her. And it felt like something split me open from the inside.”
His jaw locks, fury carving deep lines into his face.
“I drowned it in whiskey. I drank until I couldn’t feel, until I didn’t care if I woke up the next morning. And then… I don’t remember how I ended up in bed. But I swear to you, Della—” His fists clench harder, knuckles white. His eyes blaze. “I never touched her. I never would. I couldn’t. Not when every part of me was still yours.”
Fury flickers in his eyes—at her, at himself, at everything he let happen.
I stare. Cold dread begins to spread in my chest with the thought of the pictures he just mentioned.
“What pictures? What man?”
Without a word, he walks to his bag and pulls out a worn yellow envelope.
“I tried calling you the day you were supposed to land,” he says, quieter now. “Again, and again. It rang once or twice, then nothing. I waited. I kept calling. Nothing at all. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t work.”
His voice tightens.
“I had no way to reach you. No address, no emergency contact. God, how stupid of me to let you leave like that.”
He pauses, the guilt sharp in his voice.
“And then one day, Leah came to my office. Said she could help. That her father might have a way of finding out what happened to you.”
He holds out the envelope.
“And two days later, she gave me these. These damn photos. Every time I thought about going after you, every time I almost picked up the phone—I looked at them. Reminded myself you’d chosen someone else. That you never called. That you didn’t want me. At least, that’s what I believed then.…”
I take it slowly. My fingers tremble as I open it.
Inside—glossy lies. Me, laughing. Holding hands with a man I’ve never seen. Kissing. Smiling. I flip through them with a sickening sense of disorientation.
