Not in front of him.
Not in front of his friend.
“Because I screwed up, alright? I never meant for this to happen.”
His confession cracks with desperate and raw emotion, but I’m already halfway to the door. I whip around, jabbing a finger at his chest.
“Yeah, well, it did. And what a fool am I. Well played, Diego, well fucking played.”
I turn back and make for the door.
“Don’t go, please. Isabella.”
As I grab the doorknob and wrench it open, my vision blurs with unshed tears. I’m crying from humiliation, frustration, and something deeper. The blooming hope that this could work, given all the odds stacked against us.
“Let her go, man. She’s not worth it. Just take another class or whatever. Plenty of other chicks out there.”
His friend’s lazy drawl floats through the sharp, mocking tension behind me. I freeze for a heartbeat, the audacity of his words slicing through me like a blade. Slowly, I turn my head, my eyes locking on the smug bastard leaning casually against the counter like he doesn’t have any respect for women.
“You’re a real piece of work,” I say coldly, my voice trembling with scorching fury, before glaring at my ex-lover. “You are only as good as the company you keep, Mr. Kahale.”
“Shut the fuck up, Hollister. Just shut the fuck up!”
Diego whirls on him. His hands curl into fists, and his muscles ripple with restraint and venom coating his words. But I’m already out the door. Their voices fade when I slam it shut behind me. I race down the stairs, each step taking me farther from the bitter betrayal, from the hurt, from him.
Diego doesn’t follow.
The ride-share app pings, confirming a driver is two minutes away. I stand on the corner of the block. The chill of the evening air bites into my skin, numbing my arms as I hug myself tightly. My chest feels hollow, as if all the air has been sucked out and replaced with a suffocating ache.
I glance back at his penthouse apartment. Its illuminated windows stand tall and welcoming, contrasting the emotions swirling inside me. He doesn’t appear as I half expect him to do. I tell myself it’s for the best.
When the car pulls up, I climb in without looking at the driver. As the cityscape blurs past the window, I focus on the bright, flickering lights of passing buildings, but they do nothing to distract me from the sinking pit in my stomach.
I’ve been such a fool.
I replay the past week in my mind. Each memory cuts deeper than the last. How easily I let Diego in. His smooth words wrapped around me, effortless and reassuring. He spoke of understanding. Of always being there. Every moment we shared, every laugh, every touch, felt real.
They were real, my heart protests.
But how can I believe that now? I think about how he listened to me. Really listened when I shared my worries for my father and his health, the possibility of becoming a caregiver, and the loneliness of being an only child with no one to lean on.
He said he understood and shared his own personal stories. How his dreams were cut short by his accident and injury. How he’d held me in his arms, made love to me under the stars, and in a blanket of rain.
You’re mine, Izzy.
I believed him.
He was there for me when I wrecked. Too shaken and disoriented to think, he handled everything. Was even upset to see the bike destroyed, but relieved when he saw I was okay.
I got you.
He really did.
In more ways than one. But then there’s his friend. His smirk flashes in my mind. His condescending tone replays like a cruel echo.
He just needed the credit.
She’s not worth it.
