He's in a suit—charcoal gray, all clean lines. The fabric adores his body. So do I. Hate is not a strong enough veil to cover how good he looks. His jaw is tight. There are faint shadows under his eyes, and he is looking at me with an expression I can't begin to read. Just last night, he was naked, inside me, murmuring things I had no reason not to believe. But not promises. I have to give him that. He never promised a damn thing.
"What do you want, Liam?"
"I want to—" he stops. His throat works. "I don't want you hurt."
The laugh that comes out of me is sharp, bitter. "I'm not hurt."
"Star—"
"You left." I wave the shears at his chest. He doesn't move. "You left me. Said you didn't want a future and never came back."
"I know."
"So what did you expect? That I'd just—what? Wait? Build a shrine?"
"I expected you to be safe."
"Safe?" The word is a blade. "Safe from what? From you?"
"From this." His hands come up, frame my face. "From me having to tell you things you shouldn't have to hear. From the mess I've made of both our lives because I can't—" He stops. "I can't give you what you want."
“What do you think I want?”
"A fairy tale." The words are bitter. "You built your whole life waiting for a prince. I am not a prince. I am a man with obligations and contracts and a life that doesn't have room for—"
"Don't." The word comes out flat. "Don't sell me your father story again."
His face goes still.
"You told me about your mother. The cancer. The way your father broke, and the lesson you took from it. You sold me a tragedy, Liam. And I bought it. I lay there in that bed, and I understood you, and I almost convinced myself it was enough. That you couldn't love me because some part of you was too scared of losing me." My voice doesn't shake. I am not going to let it shake. "And then I pulled the order form out from under my register an hour ago. Your order form. Your company paying for centerpieces. The wedding date is right there in the field I filled in myself. Six weeks from Saturday."
A muscle tics in his jaw, but he doesn't deny it.
"That's a lot ofmess," I say, using air quotes. "Mess you made of both our lives. While I was upstairs in my bed thinking the heaviest thing on your conscience was a dead woman from twenty years ago."
"I didn't ask for this."
"For what?" I demand. "For an omega to disrupt your plans?"
"For any of this!" He steps back, rakes a hand through his hair. "Very soon, I'll have to marry a woman I've signed a contract with. I have a merger that depends on it. I have a board meeting on Thursday and a deposition on Friday, and somewhere in the middle of all that, my body decided that you were—" He cuts himself off.
The silence is deafening.
I knew. I knew the second I read the form. Hearing him say it is something else. The suit, the watch, the way he moved throughthe world like he owned every inch of it. You don't get that by accident. You get that by building walls so high that no one can touch you.
"You should have told me," I say. Quietly. "Before."
"Would it have mattered?"
"Yes." I push away from the table. "It would have mattered because it would have given me a choice—"
"Would your body have given you a choice? Mine didn't."
"We'll never know, but at least I would have known not to hope. It would have mattered because the story you told me upstairs wasn't even the real story. Your father is a half-truth, Liam. The truth is, you were already promised to someone else, and you knotted me anyway."
He flinches.
Good. "I'll finish the order," I say. "The engagement flowers. I'll have them ready for your fiancée. I'll be professional. But you need to leave."
