Chapter 7

"You know what you do," Demetrius said vaguely, his arm protectively around Cayla's shoulders. He led her out of the room, leaving Julianne alone with his confusing accusation.

She lay in the hospital bed, replaying their interactions. She had been cold to Cayla, dismissive, yes. But she had never actively tried to hurt her. She had simply existed in a space Cayla wanted for herself. Julianne decided it wasn't worth her energy to figure it out. It was their drama, not hers anymore.

Demetrius arranged for a private nurse for Julianne, but he rarely visited. When he did, he would stand at the foot of her bed, silent and brooding, before leaving again. She was glad for the quiet. It gave her time to heal, both physically and emotionally.

From her room, she had a clear view of the small hospital garden. A few days later, she saw Demetrius there. He was with Cayla. He had brought her a sandwich from a deli she liked, and he was peeling an orange for her, carefully removing every bit of pith, just the way she preferred.

He listened patiently as she talked, his expression soft and attentive. At one point, she shivered, and he immediately took off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her close. They looked like a couple deeply in love.

A memory surfaced, sharp and painful. Craig used to peel oranges for her just like that. He knew all her little preferences. He would wrap her in his coat when she was cold. He had loved her with that same quiet, attentive devotion.

Watching Demetrius with Cayla, Julianne realized something profound. Demetrius wasn't incapable of love. He was just like Craig in the way he cared for the person he loved. He was gentle, patient, and completely devoted.

He had just never loved her.

The person he showed to her-the resentful, conflicted, moody artist-was a performance. The real Demetrius was the man in the garden, the one who existed only for Cayla.

She understood then that you couldn't force a heart. You couldn't buy love. You couldn't create a perfect replica of a lost soulmate. A forced relationship would only ever lead to misery for everyone involved.

That night, she dreamed of Craig. They were at the altar, exchanging vows. He was smiling at her, his eyes full of the love she had so desperately missed. It was so real, so vivid.

She woke up with tears streaming down her face, a sob caught in her throat.

"Julianne?"

She opened her eyes. Demetrius was standing by her bed, a shadow in the dim light of the room.

"Why are you crying?" he asked, his voice rough.

"I had a dream," she whispered, her voice hoarse from sleep and tears. "I was getting married... to Craig."

Demetrius's expression tightened. He thought she had said his name. He thought she was crying because their wedding hadn't happened. He misunderstood.

A few days later, she was discharged. Demetrius was there to pick her up, his silence as heavy as the cast on her leg.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he helped her into the car.

"You'll see," he said, his voice clipped.

He drove them to Tiffany & Co. on Fifth Avenue.

"What are we doing here?" she asked, looking at the iconic blue boxes in the display window.

"We need to pick out rings," he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Julianne stared at him, utterly bewildered. Was he insane? Or did he really believe they could just pick up where they left off?

"Demetrius, the wedding is off."

"We can still get the rings," he insisted. He seemed to think this grand gesture would fix everything.

"I'll pay for them," she said, reaching for her purse. "A parting gift."

His face darkened with anger. "I can afford them myself."