Her jaw tightens. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You think you know me better than I know myself. You think beneath this exterior is still that girl from your memories, just waiting for the right man to bring her back to life.” She shakes her head. “That’s not how it works, Aaron. That girl is dead and buried. She’s not coming back.”
I’ve spent years crafting stories where love conquers all, where people find their way back to each other despite all odds. But standing here in Minji’s bedroom, I’m confronted with a reality my books don’t prepare readers for—sometimes, people change too fundamentally to find their way back.
“I should go.” I locate my shoes by the bedroom door.
“That would be best.”
I pause at the doorway, turning back to look at her. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re selling yourself short.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “And I think you’re confusing reality with fiction. That’s the difference between us, Aaron. You write stories where love transforms people. I deal with the aftermath when it doesn’t.”
I want to argue, to make her see what I see, that beneath all her armor is a woman capable of profound feeling. But the set of her shoulders, the look in her eyes, tells me it would be futile.
“I’ll see you at the office.”
“I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I remind her.
“Right. Monday, then.”
I want to cross the room, to shake her, to make her admit there was something real between us. Instead, I nod and move toward the door.
“Aaron,” she calls just as my hand touches the knob.
I turn, hope flickering despite everything. “Yes?”
Her expression softens for a moment, so briefly I almost think I imagined it. “Tonight was… I enjoyed it. I just don’t want you to misunderstand what it meant. I don’t want you to get your hopes up.”
“I get it,” I say, though I don’t. Not really. “You’ve made yourself very clear.”
The elevator ride down to the lobby feels eternal. I lean against the wall, closing my eyes against the harsh lighting that suddenly seems to be drilling into my skull. How did I misread things so badly? The way she responded to me, the way she called my name, the way she looked at me when she came… none of it felt like ‘just sex.’
Outside, the night air hits me like a splash of cold water. The city continues around me—taxis honking, late-night partiers laughing, street vendors closing up shop—completely indifferent to my inner turmoil. My phone buzzes with a notification that my car is approaching.
I spot Axel’s name on my screen too—three missed calls and a text asking where I disappeared to. I should respond, but I can’t summon the energy to explain that I left his launch party to chase after a woman who just used me for sex and then kickedme out. Maybe Minji is right, maybe I’ve been living in a fantasy world of my own creation for too long.
CHAPTER 15
MINJI
I did the right thing.
I’ve been telling myself that all weekend whenever I thought about Aaron. Going to sleep last night was impossible. Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his hands on my body, his mouth against my skin. I tossed and turned until dawn, my sheets still carrying his scent.
I spent forty-five minutes this morning in the shower, letting scalding water wash over me, hoping it could cleanse away the memory of his touch. It didn’t work, nothing is working. I’ve tried drowning myself in case files all weekend, but every time I pause, his words echo in my head.
“I think you’re lying to yourself.”
Am I?
I pull my phone out of my purse for the tenth time this hour, scrolling to his name in my contacts. My thumb hovers over the screen before I toss it back inside with a frustrated groan. What would I even say? “Hey, I kicked you out after the best sex of my life, but maybe I was hasty?”
God, I sound pathetic.
The truth is, I’m scared. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud, but there it is. I’m terrified of what Aaron represents—hope, vulnerability, the possibility of something real. And the possibility of devastating pain when it inevitably falls apart.
Because it would fall apart. It always does.
