Jesus fucking Christ.
I've seen the photos. I know what she did in Vegas—every salon appointment, every boutique, every dollar she finally decided to spend from the accounts I've been filling for six months.
But the photos are bullshit.
Because she'sright hereand my chest just caved in.
The new platinum hair catches the light and I forget how to breathe. That face—those fucking cheekbones I used to tracewith my thumb, that mouth I've kissed until she couldn't think—now glossed and pink like she's someone else entirely.
Except she's not someone else.
She'smoreherself.
The woman I always knew was buried under all that fear and self-loathing walks toward me in a black sundress and strappy heels that make her legs look like a fantasy I don't deserve.
She's wearing sunglasses inside too, but they don't make her look like someone trying too hard not to be noticed, they make her look like someone youshouldlook at.
Here she comes… I brace for it. The moment she recognizes me. The blow up. The tantrum at my stalking. She's close enough to touch. I don't move. Can't move.
And… she walks right past.
Doesn't even glance my direction.
And why would she?
Why the hell would she give the tracksuit-wearing asshole lurking by the arrivals gate like a fucking stalker a single moment of her time.
Every man in this airport has stopped what he's doing to gape at her.
Like she's an A-list celebrity fresh off the Walk of Fame.
And here I am, frozen like an idiot, watching her disappear toward baggage claim while my heart does something uncomfortable in my chest.
I stand there like a fucking idiot for five seconds too long.
Then I force myself to move—walking toward the exit at a measured pace, not hurrying, not panicking, just another traveler leaving the airport.
Outside, I round the corner of the terminal building and stop.
Press my back against the concrete wall.
Close my eyes.
Breathe.
My heart's pounding like I just sprinted ten miles. Like I'm standing over a corpse with blood on my hands and sirens closing in.
Except there's no threat here. No danger. No reason for my pulse to be hammering against my ribs like it's trying to break through.
It's justher.
Walking past me like I don't exist.
Which is exactly what I told her to do, isn't it?You'll have to come to me.
I said that. Meant it. Walked away from that alley believing I had the discipline to wait.
And here I am. At her fucking airport. In a tracksuit. Hiding behind a wall because seeing her walk past nearly broke me.
