Page 52 of Daring to Love

Fuck, it hurts…the whispered words shred me, piece by piece. I’m grabbling at straws, desperate and hurting, and take a tight hold on her waist to pull her flush against me.

“Don’t, sweetheart,” I rasp. “Don’t do this. I can fix it. Let me try”

She shakes her head, her back ramrod straight despite the violent trembling I can feel emanating from her body.

Or is it me? Are those violent shudders coming from my limbs?

“Go. Away.”

I pinch my eyes closed, the distaste in her voice evident, but I can’t leave her like this.

I rest my forehead against hers, squeezing my eyes shut.

The taste of defeat is acidic…hideous and poisonous, and yet, i deserve it.

I deserve to be tormented for breaking her heart.

Still, I don’t want her to be alone.

“Is there anyone you can stay with for the next few days? Someone you trust?”

She doesn’t answer me for the longest time, but at least, she nods.

“My parents are flying in from Paris this afternoon. I won’t be on my own.”

Still aching, I sigh before I place a lingering kiss on her head.

“You were meant to be mine, Amelie Winters,” I let out on a whisper. “I love you.”

She jerks once in my arms, and, heart in my throat, I release her. I can’t bear to look at her, to see the anguish on her every feature, and while my instincts scream at me to stop, to cling to her, I do as she asks.

I leave. The low click of the door as I shut it behind me makes me flinch, but the yelling photographers bring me out of my stupor, and I run away.

I need to make things right. I have to.

I won’t give up on us.

I can’t…she is my perfect match, and I refuse to live the rest of my life without her in it.

I have to win back her trust, and to do that, I’ll have to lay my heart and soul bare for everyone else to see.

She may still hate me afterwards, but I’m going all in.

* * *

I writeall afternoon and well into the evening, only stopping once in a while to get another cup of coffee. I’m a man possessed, longing and lovesick in equal measure, but I do what I set out to do.

I stop at midnight and scramble to my feet, the aches and pains prickling in my body. But I ignore the physical pain as the emotional one is at the forefront at my mind. I close my eyes for a beat as a wave of nausea hits me, but that, too, is ignored as I frantically search for my phone on my desk. The harsh glare from the lamp hurts my itching eyes, giving way to a massive wave of relief as I find it. In a hurry, I find the person I’m after and swipe the screen.

Harry, the copy editor, picks up on the third ring.

“Jensen? Bloody hell, man, what’s going on? The whole building is in an uproar. Is it true? Did you quit your job?”

I drum my fingers on the table, my body strung so tight I might explode any second.

“I bloody told him he was crazy for printing it,” Harry grouses, “but he wouldn’t listen. He never bloody listens to me.”

“Harry, I can’t talk about that right now,” I interrupt. “I need your help, and before tomorrow’s edition goes to print.”