Page 118

“Exactly what you heard, Nickolas.”

I don’t blink. I don’t waver. My voice is razor-sharp, carved with superiority I barely have the strength to fake, but I keep going. I have to.

“If you think you can treat me like a whore, then maybe I should act like one. And that means you’ll have to pay me.”

I take a step toward him, my heart racing.

“And let me warn you—I’m not cheap. Because you’ll be paying with everything we are. This is the end.”

My voice doesn’t crack. My hands don’t shake. And that matters more than anything right now—because he has to believe me. I want him to see I’m serious. That I’m done letting him own my soul if he’s going to treat it like it’s disposable.

He doesn’t blink. There’s a heartbeat, maybe two, where he just stares at me. Then he closes the distance between us in three heavy steps. And suddenly, his hand is on my throat.

Not hard.

Not painful.

But tight enough to make me feel the raw need in his grip, the wild possessiveness in his touch.

“Don’t you ever dare say that about you again,” he says, his entire body vibrating with so much fury and ache that I can barely breathe through it.

I laugh. Bitter. Broken. A sound ripped from somewhere deep and hollow. My fingers wrap around his wrist, trying to pry him off, but he doesn’t budge.

“Oh, so I’m not allowed to say it. But you can treat me like that?”

I shove at his chest. Hard. But he doesn’t even move. Of course he doesn’t. He’s a wall. A wall I keep crashing into—over and over—bleeding every damn time.

“You’re so wrong about me, Nickolas,” I snap, fire raging in my chest. “You have no idea.”

I’m shaking now—with fury, with grief, with the goddamn effort it takes to speak through the weight in my chest.

“I came here last time to apologize. To say I was sorry. That I fucked up. That I regret what I said, what I did. That I’m in therapy, trying to figure out why I feel this insecurity when it comes to you.”

The words pour out like blood from a wound I’ve been hiding for months.

“That my jealousy didn’t come from you, it came from me. From not feeling enough. Not for you. Not for this.”

My voice cracks again, but I don’t stop. I can’t. I won’t.

“I came to beg for a second chance. To ask you to let me prove that I do respect you. That I’ve always respected you—even when I didn’t know how to love you right.”

My eyes blur, the tears falling hot and steady, but I don’t wipe them. I want him to see them. To know what it cost me to speak.

“I came to tell you that I love you. That I’ve loved you every single day since you walked out that door. That I can’t sleep without hearing your voice in my head. That I hate myself for losing you.”

He’s still. So still. Muscles taut. Eyes burning through mine. Breath heavy. Chest rising and falling like he’s holding back a storm.

“And then I walk into your house and find a woman cooking in your kitchen.” My voice fractures. “And yes, I felt jealous. Furious. Desperate. And you…”

I choke on the silence. Looking at him like he’s both everything I’ve ever wanted—and the sharpest blade I’ve fallen on.

“You punished me for it. You shoved your fingers inside me like I was nothing. Like my body was all I had left to offer. And when you were done, you sent me away like I meant nothing.”

I step forward again. Raise my hand to his jaw and grip it, forcing his gaze to stay locked on mine.

“So no, Nickolas Hardy. You don’t get to tell me what to say. Or what to feel. Or who the fuck I am.”

My voice is steady now. Cold. Full of all the power I forgot I had.