He laughs, bitter and sharp. “Why is this so hard for you to believe, princess? You had to know we were never going to work.”
Princessagain.
“It seems like we worked pretty well,” I say quietly.
“Fucking doesn’t translate into real life.” He’s looking at me the way you’d look at a child who doesn’t understand basic math. “I’m the boss of a family. I need someone who’s a better fit for the position of being with me.”
The words shouldn’t hurt. I’ve heard versions of them before from other men, but this is Vin.
Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe I imagined all of it, saw what I wanted to.
“Why?” I genuinely want to know what it is about me that is never enough. “I thought I was the total package. Isn’t that what you said?”
“I was trying to fuck you, princess.” His smile is cruel. “I’m sure I said a lot of things. You haven’t had men lie to fuck you? Maybe you haven’t. They probably didn’t have to.”
My hand moves before I can think, my palm slashing across his cheek. He grabs my wrist, fingers bruising.
“That’s for lying to me,” I say, my voice shaking.
He laughs again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. They are dead. “I don’t love you enough to lie to you, princess. Just take your parting gifts and get the fuck out of here.”
He yanks me closer, his other hand gripping my hip. I can smell a hint of whiskey on his breath.
“Unless,” his voice drops lower, “you want to talk about a chef with benefits situation. Where I fuck your ass while you cook for me.”
The tears finally spill over. I stare at him, this man I fell in love with, offering me scraps like I was nothing more than a convenient hole and a good meal.
I pull my wrist free from his grip and brush the tears away with the back of my hand, painting on a steady smile I don’t feel. Reaching up, I cup his cheek with my palm. His eyes widen in confusion as I trace my fingertips along his cheekbone, the arch of his eyebrow, the sharp line of his jaw. Memorizing the scratch of stubble, the warmth of his skin, the way his pulse at his throat jumps beneath my touch.
“What are you doing?” His tone wavers, uncertain.
I meet his eyes, open, honest. “I’m memorizing everything about this moment,” I say simply, “so the next time my heart tries to fool me and tell me I’m yours, I’ll remember all the reasons I’m not.”
The color drains from his face, his jaw working like he wants to speak but can’t find the words. For a second, he looks like he is going to be sick, then the mask slams back into place.
I drop my hand and step back. The humidity wraps around me, an extra layer of protection. Everything hurts.
“Keep your restaurant, Sophie.” His words are carefully controlled now. “You earned it.”
I turn and walk away before he can see me break completely.
Behind me, I hear the metal door screech open, voices with Irish accents drifting out along with Vin’s.
I keep walking.
My car is a block away and I make it into the driver’s seat, door shut, before the sobs overtake me. I cry and cry until I have nothing left, and then I wipe my face, take a deep breath and pull away from the curve, leaving Vin behind me forever.
51
Sophie: 1 Month Later
The new Arsenal represents a new life: fresh paint on the walls, unsealed hardwood floors, sawdust still in the air despite three rounds of professional cleaning. It’s completely different than the day I first walked in. The day I christened every surface with Vin. Thankfully, all those surfaces have been replaced.
Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook a tree-lined street in a much nicer neighborhood than I’m used to. The building is all exposed brick walls, marble countertops, and copper fixtures that cost more than my first car.
Everything Vin chose, everything he paid for.
I stand in the center of my new kitchen and try to feel something around the hollow ache threatening to consume me.
