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I need to smooth it out with her. Talk with her. Maybe...I don’t know, explain.
But if this is going to end anyway, then fuck it, let it end now. I need to rip the bandage off and bleed out, no matter how much it kills me.
Instead of running after her, I stand there, locked in place, making small talk with my sister about her damn honeymoon, gushing over the beautiful wedding she missed and how wewishedshe could’ve been there. All the while my heart burns like acid and my brain screamsthis is wrong.
Me, playing the role of picture-perfect husband, while my wife walks away.
CHAPTER 33
Jules
It takes all of twenty minutes to pack my suitcase because let’s be real, it’s over. Billionaire Brian Bishop doesn’t need a wife anymore, and I’m not sticking around to hear him say it to my face.
Honestly, leaving now is probably for the best because, God, he told her. That casual, inconsequential word:temporary.That this means nothing.Imean nothing.
And if I don’t get out of here now, I know exactly what’s coming. I’ll end up balled up, sobbing in the fetal position, drowning in a tsunami of emotions I’m not sure I’ll survive.
I’m done having my heart smashed like Play-Doh every time he does something thoughtful. But it’s even worse when he touches me. And the kisses? They destroy me.
The way he pulls me in, makes me feeleverything, only to tear away and bail like he’s snagged the last parachute on a crashing plane.
Ugh.
Why won’t this damn suitcase shut?
Maybe it’s just as exhausted as I am, overstuffed with too many emotions to keep inside.
I throw my weight onto it, bouncing with all my might. Even my luggage is so over this mess. But finally, it shuts.
I’ve already booked an Uber, courtesy of Brian himself. After that last bus ride when I nearly got eaten alive by paparazzi, he made sure I’d never have to deal with public transportation again.
So, being the rich boy he is, he prepaid enough Ubers to last me a lifetime. Like his credit card, I hadn’t planned on using them, but his words stuck:“They’re paid for. Just. Use. Them.”
Turns out, it’s pretty convenient when you’re trying to duck out of a fake marriage without being noticed.
The sound of laughter spills from the kitchen as I slip toward the door. It’s too much. His carefree voice, that low, gravelly laugh. And the dimple—hisdimple, the one that always shows when he’s happy from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.
Granted, it wasn’t there when I passed him a moment ago, but I can picture it now, and it’s unbearable. The tightness in my chest squeezes so hard I can’t hardly breathe.
I’m almost at the door when—dammit.
What am I forgetting?
I’ve got all my clothes packed, along with a couple of his old tees that I’m pretty sure he won’t miss. They’re soft as angel clouds, and at this point, I consider them community property.
My eyes land on the other half of the cookie I was eating—some crack-cocaine-level treat his friend’s sister makes calledsalted caramel brownie bombs.I can’t leave it behind.
And not because I licked it and therefore it is mine, but because there is no shame in last-ditch stress eating.
As I reach for it, something else catches my eye, stopping me cold. The ring. That blinding spotlight of a rock, sparkling like it was a gift from the gods and crafted just for me. The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
And now, it’s just a stupid, shiny reminder that this whole thing—this marriage, this life—was a sham. A devastatingly beautiful dream that, ready or not, I have to wake up from.
I tug it off, slow and deliberate, like each millimeter it moves is dragging regret along my veins. Then I leave it on the table as the flood of tears I’ve been holding back presses harder against my eyes.
I shove the cookie into my mouth, hoping the sugar can somehow plug the dam that’s about to burst.
Without another glance, I make a break for the door and leave.
