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Lie.

Because if the board cracks this open—if they find the contract, the payments, the arrangement—Aria doesn’t just lose me.

She loses Brookhaven.

Her father loses everything.

I can’t let that happen.

So I sit on the floor in the dark and tell myself this is protection.

And I don’t text her back.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

ARIA

He doesn’t come home.

Although, to be fair, he did say he wouldn’t be coming home tonight. Still, I tell myself it’s fine.

I eat the dinner Matteo made—salmon with roasted vegetables and some kind of lemon sauce that’s probably delicious and I wouldn’t know because I’m too busy staring at my phone to taste anything. I put his plate in the fridge and rinse my wineglass. I turn off every light on the first floor because walking through an empty house with all the lights on feels sadder than walking through it in the dark.

Then I go upstairs and get into his bed alone.

Our bed.

It’s too big without him. I lie on his side for a while because it smells like him, and then I feel pathetic about it and move back to mine.

I check my phone twice. Then a third time, because apparently I’m a person who does that now.

The heart emoji I sent is the last thing in our thread. No response. No goodnight. Not even a sleep well.

Forty-eight hours ago this man carried me to the shower, called me insatiable, and looked at me like he fully intended to spend the rest of the morning proving it. Now I’m lying alone in his bed sniffing his pillow like an obsessed weirdo.

This is fine. I’m fine.

I fall asleep telling myself that, which is never a great sign if I have to convince myself.

Morning comes and I wish I could say that I slept well, but I didn’t.

I reach for my phone before I’m fully awake.

Two texts.

Still dealing with this. Going to be at the tower until it’s resolved. Don’t worry.

Then, twenty minutes later:

I’ll keep you posted.

I stare at the screen.

Don’t worry is the kind of thing you say when there is absolutely something to worry about. And I’ll keep you posted is the kind of thing you say to someone when you’re putting them off so they won’t keep asking for updates. Neither of those things brings me any relief.

I type three different replies and delete all of them. The first one is too needy. The second one is too casual. The third one autocorrects I miss you to I miss tour and I take that as a sign from the universe to stop.

I send: