“You’ve had seven drinks in two hours, bud.” The

bartender stared at me with a dubious expression.

“And I’m ordering an eighth.” I enunciated each word with cold precision. I didn’t slur or sway. I could be blackout drunk and no one would be the wiser. “You got a problem with that?”

He held up his hands and shook his head. “It’s your liver.”

Goddamn right.

It was my liver and my money. I could do whatever the hell I wanted with them.

I tossed back the glass he slid in my direction and drained it in a minute flat.

The alcohol had stopped burning four drinks back, and it tasted like water going down.

It pissed me off. What was the point of alcohol if it didn’t numb the way it was supposed to?

“Is this seat taken?” A blonde slid onto the stool next to mine before I could answer.

Tiny dress. Long legs. Lips that would make Angelina Jolie cry with envy.

I didn’t spare her a second glance. “Not interested.”

It was the same fucking thing every time. Couldn’t a guy drink in peace without getting hounded?

I could’ve saved myself the trouble and drank at home, but the apartment was too depressing these days. I also didn’t want to go to the Valhalla Club since everyone there was nosy as fuck. No one liked seeing a member down more than the other members.

So here I was, holed up in some shitty dive bar near the office, drowning my sorrows in equally shitty scotch.

If my liver rebelled, it wouldn’t be from the quantity of drinks. It would be from the quality of them.

The offended blonde left in a huff, clearly unused to being rejected.

Tough shit.

It’d been two weeks since Stella and I broke up.

Two weeks of unrelenting hell where everything reminded me of her. The blender she made her smoothies in, the tub where she’d bathed, the cafe where she bought her pastries. Even the fucking trees and plants outside reminded me of her.

It was enough to make me want to lock myself in a dark concrete box and never come out.

The jangle of bells above the entrance pulled me out of my pathetic self-pity and drew my attention to the door.

My heart stopped.

Dark curls. Green eyes. Warm smile.

Stella.

For a second, I thought I was hallucinating and had conjured her from my thoughts.

Then her voice wound toward me, as real and tangible as the cracked vinyl cushion of my stool and the muted baseball game playing on TV.

I straightened, my spirits lifting until I saw the guy standing next to her. He looked vaguely familiar, and he said something that made her smile.

My hand tightened around my glass as an icy black wave of possessiveness rippled through me.

Whoever the guy was, I wanted to fucking kill him.

My eyes tracked them as they sat at a table across the room.

Stella hadn’t noticed me yet. She said something else to the soon-to-be dead fucker, but she must’ve felt the weight of my stare because she finally looked up.

Our gazes collided like sparks in the air.

Our relationship had turned to ashes, but the fire between us was still there, burning up space and oxygen until we were the only people left.

My blood roared at the sweet relief of seeing her again.

She asked me to leave her alone, and I had. Us showing up at the same bar on the same night would’ve been a coincidence, but nothing was a coincidence when it came to her.

It was fate.

Stella’s smile faded. She turned away, and the sounds of the bar rushed back in a painful whoosh.

I wasn’t sure what was worse—seeing her and not being able to touch or talk to her, or knowing that seeing me had caused her light to dim.

Restlessness and the urge to rip out the throat of the man she was talking to churned beneath my skin.

Instead of ordering another drink, I slid off my stool and pushed my way through the crowd to the bathroom.

The sting of cold water against my face cleared the haze from my vision.

Giving her up was the hardest thing and the biggest sacrifice she could’ve asked for. It went against my every instinct.

She would never know if I checked her social media or blog. But every time I went to pick up the phone or pull up Stella’s profile, something held me back.

I’m asking you to leave me alone, Christian.

I yanked a paper towel from the dispenser and wiped my hands dry before I stepped into the hall.

I made it two steps before I stopped.

Stella stood at the end of the hall, her tall, slim frame silhouetted against the bar lights. Still, I could make out the way her lips parted in surprise.

We stared at each other.

Music pulsed a few feet away, but here, in this hall, there was only silence and the hum of things I wanted to but couldn’t say.

I’m sorry. I miss you. I love you.

A burst of laughter from the main room shattered the spell. My face darkened when I looked over her shoulder and l saw the guy she’d arrived with joking with the server.

Violence pulsed through me at the thought of him touching Stella. Holding her, making her laugh.

I had never hated anyone more.

Stella must’ve picked up on the glint in my eyes because she followed my gaze and paled.

I walked down the hall, intent on leaving before I gave in to the urge to touch her. She stopped me with a low warning on my way past.

“If anything happens to him, I’ll never forgive you.”

The only words she’d spoken to me after our breakup, and they were to save another man.

A muscle in my jaw flexed before I walked past her and out the door.

Coldness invaded my chest.

Just when I thought I’d experienced all the ways a heart could break, she proved me wrong.

 

 

STELLA

I sagged with equal parts relief and disappointment after Christian left.

I told myself I’d gone into the hall to return a call, but I could’ve done that outside the bar. The truth was, I’d wanted that passing interaction with him, and I hated myself for it.

After two weeks, my bright burst of anger had faded into a deep, ceaseless ache.

I hadn’t forgiven him, but I missed him so much it was hard to breathe.

Ironically, the rest of my life was on an upswing after our breakup. It was like now that my love life was in shambles, the universe was working overtime to make it up to me in other areas.

The Delamonte print campaign and Washington Weekly profile had opened a new flood of opportunities, as expected. Luisa was ecstatic about how the partnership was going. Maura hadn’t had any issues since her sedation, the stalker hadn’t made a reappearance, and my blog and social media were thriving. I hadn’t publicly announced my breakup with Christian, but I wasn’t posting about him anymore. That hadn’t hurt my engagement as much as I’d thought, though I didn’t care much either way.

I’d also started reaching out to local boutiques about my collection. In fact, I was here celebrating with Brady because one of them finally agreed to carry a few test pieces.

Overall, my life was going great…except for Christian and my family.

Speaking of which…

I took a deep breath and refocused on the reason I’d excused myself from Brady. A quick glance told me he was still talking to the server and that Christian was nowhere in sight.

Maybe I was being paranoid, but I could’ve sworn there’d been a moment when Christian had looked at him like he was capable of murdering him.

I dialed the number from my latest missed call and tried to unknot my nerves while the phone rang.

She picked up on the third ring. “Hi, Stella.”

“Hi, Mom.”

It was the first time we’d spoken since our family dinner in April.

Four months.

It was the longest we’d gone without contact, and hearing her voice again caused a lump to form in my throat.

I’d had my reasons for lashing out the way I had during the dinner, but she was still my mom.

“How are you?” A rare thread of hesitation ran beneath her voice.

“I’m okay.” I twisted my necklace around my finger. “Sorry I missed your call. I’m out with a friend and I didn’t see it earlier.”

“That’s okay. It’s nothing important.” She cleared her throat. “I read your Washington Weekly profile. It’s a great piece, and your Delamonte photos are beautiful.”

All the air left my lungs. Of all the things I’d expected her to say, that hadn’t even been in the realm of possibility.

“Really?” I asked in a small voice.

My confidence had grown over the past few months, but there would always be a little girl inside me that wanted nothing more than her parents’ approval.

“Natalia said you and Dad were upset about the photos.”

My last conversation with my sister still left a bitter taste in my mouth.

“Well, we would’ve preferred it if you’d worn more clothes,” my mother said dryly. “But we were more shocked than upset. The profile, however…I had no idea you’d accomplished so much with your blog, or that you felt so strongly about fashion starting at such a young age.”

I didn’t point out that was something I’d been trying to tell her since I was in middle school. I didn’t want to start another argument.

“Is the profile the only reason you called?” I wouldn’t be surprised. My parents loved anything that made the family look good. “We haven’t talked in months.”

My mother was quiet for a minute. “Everyone’s emotions were running high after the dinner,” she finally said. “After things calmed, I wasn’t sure you wanted to hear from us. You always call, and when you didn’t…you were so upset…”

You always call.

Translation: I always apologized first.

My hand curled tighter around my phone. “Dad told me to get out, and I didn’t know if you even cared that I wasn’t around.”

My mother let out a sharp exhale. “Of course we care.

You’re our daughter.”

I twisted the necklace harder. “Sometimes, it doesn’t feel like it,” I said, my words barely audible.

“Oh, Stella.” She sounded more distressed than I’d ever heard her. “We didn’t…”

Raucous cheers from the bar drowned out the rest of her sentence. The Nationals must’ve scored a run; their game against the Rangers was playing on all the TVs.

When the noise died down, my mother spoke again. “You’re out with a friend, so this isn’t the best time to talk. Perhaps we can all meet as a family soon? Not a dinner. Something more casual where we can just talk.”

“I’d like that,” I said softly.

I didn’t want to hold onto grudges, especially not against my family.

I hadn’t seen them in so long, and I wasn’t angry anymore. I was just sad.

After I hung up, I stayed in the hall and tried to wrap my head around the events of the day.

My call with the boutique, seeing Christian, talking to my mom…

It was too much at once, but the only thing I could focus on was how much I wanted to share what’d happened with Christian.

Not just the boutique and my mom, but everything.

How I accidentally used the wrong milk for my smoothie that morning and nearly gagged at the taste.

How Ava and Jules offered to be fit models for my collection.

How proud I was of all the local outreach I’d done.

How much I missed him.

I was so used to sharing the details of my life with Christian that even journaling didn’t fill the void.

In fact, I hadn’t touched my journal since we broke up; it was filled with too many memories of us.

I was upset with him, and I wished he were here. Both things could be true at once.

Light and dark. Flame and ice. Dreams and logic.

Our relationship had always been a dichotomy. It made sense that its death would be as well.