Chapter 2

Sleep was a stranger that night. I tossed and turned, the mattress a bed of thorns, my mind a churning sea of betrayal and fear. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Aidan' s arm around Gisele, his cold dismissal of me.

Sometime in the dead of night, the door creaked open.

I froze, my body going rigid. A shadow fell across the room, and then the bed dipped beside me.

It was Aidan.

His familiar scent, a mix of expensive cologne and something uniquely him, filled my senses. It was a scent that used to mean safety. Now it just smelled like lies.

"You didn't eat dinner," he murmured, his voice a low rumble in the darkness. He touched my shoulder, a casual, possessive gesture.

My skin crawled. I flinched away from his touch.

His breath was warm on the back of my neck, and I could feel the heat of his body seeping through the thin fabric of my nightgown. He used to hold me like this every night, his arms a cage I had mistaken for a home. Tonight, my heart was a stone in my chest, cold and heavy. There was no flutter of excitement, no quickening of my pulse. There was only a vast, empty wasteland where my love used to be.

I tried to sit up, to put distance between us. "I'm tired."

"Stay," he commanded, his arm tightening around my waist, pulling me back against him. "Just for a bit."

His lips brushed against my neck, moving with a lazy confidence toward the tattoo over my heart. My brand. The permanent claim he had on me.

A wave of humiliation washed over me, so strong it was dizzying. This mark, once a symbol of my undying love, now felt like a slave' s brand. A reminder of my own stupidity.

He knew every inch of my body, every secret curve and sensitive spot. His hand moved with an expert familiarity that made me want to scream.

"Please, Aidan," I whispered, my voice trembling. "Don't."

He ignored me, his fingers tracing the outline of my hip. His touch was clinical, practiced, and utterly devoid of the passion I had once imagined was there.

He was about to take me, right here, right now, as if nothing had changed. As if his "true love" wasn't sleeping in the master bedroom down the hall.

Then, just as I felt his weight settle over me, he stopped.

"Your period is late," he said, his tone casual, almost bored.

Rage, cold and sharp, cut through my fear. He didn' t even remember. All those times, all that pain, and it didn't even register. To him, my body was just a calendar, a thing to be managed and controlled. I was nothing more than a vessel, a convenience.

The thought was so vile it made me sick. I pushed against his chest, my voice laced with a fury I didn't know I possessed.

"Shouldn't you be with your fiancée? I'm sure Gisele is waiting for you."

That did it.

The name Gisele was like a splash of ice water. He stiffened, every muscle in his body going taut. For a long moment, he didn' t move. Then, he rolled off me, the warmth of his body replaced by a sudden, chilling emptiness.

He stood up, a tall silhouette against the moonlight streaming through the window.

"You're right," he said, his voice flat and cold. He walked out of the room without another word, closing the door softly behind him.

A few minutes later, he returned. He was carrying a tray. On it was a bowl of fish soup, the kind he knew was my favorite, the kind my mother used to make.

I stared at it. He had even picked out all the tiny bones, just like he always did. I remembered one of the first times he' d done it. I was sixteen, struggling with a piece of cod, and he had taken my plate without a word, his long, elegant fingers methodically removing every single bone before placing it back in front of me.

It was one of the thousand small kindnesses that had made me fall in love with him.

He knew me. He knew my habits, my likes, my dislikes. He knew me better than anyone. And he didn't love me. The thought was a fresh stab of pain.

The rich, savory smell of the soup hit my nose, and my stomach revolted. A wave of nausea, stronger this time, crashed over me. I scrambled out of bed, grabbing the small trash can by my desk just in time.

I retched, my body convulsing with dry heaves. There was nothing in my stomach to come up.

When the spasms finally subsided, I looked up. Aidan was standing in the doorway, his face a mask of stone.

"Are you pregnant again?" he asked, his voice dangerously quiet.

Ice flooded my veins. My face, already pale, must have turned ghost-white. This was it. This was the moment he would take my baby from me. I couldn't let him. I wouldn't.

"No," I said, forcing my voice to be steady. I looked him straight in the eye, praying he couldn't see the terror warring with the defiance inside me. "I'm not."

The silence in the room stretched, thick and suffocating. His gaze was intense, searching, and for a terrifying second, I thought he could see right through me, right to the tiny, flickering life I was so desperate to protect.

But then, the hardness in his eyes softened, replaced by something I couldn't read. Relief? Disappointment? I didn't know. I didn't care.

"Good," he finally said, his voice clipped. "That's for the best."

He turned to leave, then paused at the door.

"Gisele and I are getting married next month."

The words were a final nail in the coffin of my dead love.

"Okay," I said, my voice surprisingly calm. I was numb. There was nothing left for him to hurt.

He seemed surprised by my lack of reaction. He had expected tears, pleading. He had expected the broken girl he had so carefully created. But that girl was gone.

"I'm tired, Aidan," I said, the words heavy with a weariness that went bone-deep. "I'm just... so tired of all of this."

I even managed a small, sad smile. "Congratulations. I hope you and Gisele will be very happy."

I wouldn't attend the wedding, of course. But I would send a gift. A generous one. It was the least I could do to ensure a clean break. A final, polite goodbye.