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It's beautiful.

Fucking beautiful.

Fair.

Smart.

Honest.

Everything Layla is.

And there isn't one word about us.

Nothing.

No indication she ever slept in my bed.

No mention of dancing.

No Firecracker.

No mornings.

No stolen coffee.

No hand-holding.

No indication that while she was discovering the man behind Mitchell Knight, Mitchell Knight was falling hopelessly fucking in love with her.

She's completely objective.

Professional.

Perfect.

I should be proud of her.

I am.

I'm also fucking gutted.

Because she did it. She finished the story.

Which means she doesn't need me anymore.

The thirty days don't matter. The contract doesn't matter.

She has her article.

Her research.

Her answer.

And apparently, whatever happened between us was something she could cut cleanly from the final draft.

Maybe that's my answer too. Maybe I meant nothing to her.

The thought feels like someone reached into my chest and squeezed.