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“We don’t know what was in that video, and we don’t want to,” she says quietly, offering me a sad smile. “But it breaks my heart being stuck in the middle like this,” she admits. “There are so many moments when I’m about to text you, and then I see her face in my mind and realize it’s not my place to decide whether you get to find her if she doesn’t want that.”

By now, tears are streaming down her cheeks, and Nick gives me a helpless look from across the room.

I gently swipe Sierra’s tears away, then pull her into my arms.

“Don’t cry, Ser,” I whisper into her hair. “I can’t handle you crying because of me too right now.”

With my eyes closed, I force myself to draw a few short breaths, trying to regain control of the anger and desperation clawing at me.

A moment later, another pair of arms wraps around me, and I realize it’s Thalia.

I pull both of them closer, allowing myself a few precious seconds with the people who, surprisingly, manage to keep me sane in this mess.

Or at least try to.

Eventually, I lift my gaze and tell them I’m ready to go to the party.

But after tonight, I’m disappearing for however long it takes to find Selene.

I don’t have any chance left of having a relationship with her. There’s no way she could forgive me—or move past what she saw.

But she deserves an explanation.

She deserves to see that I cared enough to do everything possible to find her, to stand in front of her, and to try to explain myself.

THIRTY-SIX

Selene

The Hartho event came and went without me enjoying a single second of it.

My biggest project so far—one I’m certain will become a real success. Not only because we managed to create actual works of art and transform every room into a space overflowing with life and luxury, but because it carries the Hartho name.

A project that’s supposed to bring me even more recognition, now overshadowed by the pain weighing heavily on my chest.

Because I am hurting. I know that much.

People say every love feels different, that intensity takes different forms, that heartbreak wears a different face for everyone.

What I’m discovering is that it doesn’t matter how long you spend beside someone. If you give them the chance, they can destroy you in an unbelievably short amount of time.

It’s been seven days since I ran away from London and hid myself back in Romania. Seven days of barely eating, of sleeping maybe two hours a night.

Seven days without opening a single social media app, without checking the news, without allowing myself any contact with the life I left behind.

I bought a new phone and a Romanian SIM card the moment I landed, using them only to speak with my parents—who, ironically, ended up attending the Hartho event—and to stay in touch with my team.

They’ve already taken over the projects waiting for me, handling everything, while I coordinate them remotely.

I can’t keep doing this for much longer, though. No matter how easy it feels to hide here and pretend everything’s fine, eventually I’ll have to pull myself together and return to the life I abandoned the moment I started collaborating with Zayn.

Collaborating.

As if that’s all it ever was.

I don’t know how long people are allowed to grieve over love before it becomes pathetic. I don’t know when heartbreak crosses the line into exaggeration.

But I’d really like to know how long it takes for these feelings to stop following me everywhere.