He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, taking in the packed boxes and the half-empty cottage with an unreadable expression.
"Heard you were leaving," he said.
"News travels fast."
"It's Bankton. News travels before it's even happened." He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. "Mind if I sit?"
Raven gestured to the armchair in the corner. Arty settled onto it with the easy comfort of someone who'd never met an awkward situation he couldn't navigate.
"How did Annabelle take it?" he asked.
Raven's hands stilled on the shirt she was folding. "Fine."
"Fine."
"She understood. I told her it was for the best."
Arty was quiet for a long moment. The kind of quiet that felt deliberate, like he was choosing his words carefully or waiting for her to fill the silence with truth.
She didn't.
"So you ended it," he said finally.
"There was nothing to end. It was never going to work long-term. Better to cut it off now before…" She stopped. Before what? Before it hurt more? Before Annabelle realized Raven wasn't worth the trouble?
"Before it became real?" Arty finished.
"It was real." The words came out sharper than she'd intended. "That's why I'm leaving. Because it was real and I'm going to fuck it up. I always do."
"That's bollocks."
Raven actually laughed, but it sounded bitter even to her own ears. "Is it? Ask Alissa. Ask any of my exes. I'm not built for relationships. I'm selfish and difficult and I disappear into my music for days at a time. I sleep three hours a night andI'm a complete nightmare when I'm writing. Annabelle deserves better than that."
"Did you ask her what she deserves?"
"I don't need to ask. I can see it. She's already exhausted trying to keep everything together. The school, the kids, the fundraiser, add me and my bullshit to that? The paparazzi, the constant scrutiny, the way people tear apart everything I do? She’s already leaked personal info to the press. Not that I thoroughly blame her, she was trying to help, but things will only get worse. She’d have to be on guard every second of the day." Raven shook her head. "She'd burn out in six months."
"So you decided for her."
"I'm protecting her."
"Are you?" Arty leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks more like you're protecting yourself."
Raven threw the shirt into the suitcase. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it? You're leaving because you want to, or because you're scared?"
The question halted her movements. Raven opened her mouth to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but the words stuck in her throat. "I'm leaving because it's the right choice," she said finally. "For both of us."
"Did you ask her what she wanted? Or did you decide for her?"
There it was again. That same question, phrased slightly differently, cutting straight through every justification she'd built up.
"There's no point asking Annabelle," Raven said. "She's an eternal optimist. She'll say everything will be fine, that we can make it work, that love conquers all or some other fairy tale bullshit. But reality doesn't work that way. The press will destroyher. They'll dig into her life, twist everything she says, turn her into a punchline. I've seen it happen."
"So you're saving her from the hypothetical damage you might cause by causing actual damage right now."
"That's not…" But he was right. Wasn't he? Raven pressed her palms against her eyes. "I don't know what you want me to say."
