'Try not to be dramatic this time, okay.'
The drive back was quieter than usual and not because the city had suddenly softened, but because I didn't have anything left in me to react to it.
Darius didn't say much either, he just glanced at his phone a few times, responded to something I couldn't see and when the car finally came to a stop in front of the house, he didn't move to get out.
"I have an appointment," he said, his voice flat. "I'll be late. Don't wait up."
"I won't," I replied, grabbing my bag.
That was it. No questions. No acknowledgement of whatever had clearly shifted in me since the lobby. But I was grateful he was leaving, because if he had asked one question, just one, I would have shattered right there on the leather seats.
The car pulled away again, leaving me standing in a house that felt too big and far too quiet for one person.
For a second, I considered calling Naomi but I couldn't bring myself to voice the humiliation to her. I didn't want to hear concern or pity or advice that would make everything feel heavier than it already did.
I could still hear Chloe's voice ringing in my ears.
"You're just bitter because you couldn't keep him happy."
So instead, I dropped my bag on the couch, tied my hair up, rolled up my sleeves and walked straight into the kitchen.
Baking had always been my thing because it gave my hands something to do when my head got too loud.
When I'm happy, I sleep or do something exciting. When I'm sad, I run. But when I am consumed by the kind of white-hot rage that makes my skin feel too tight, I bake.
I started with flour. Then sugar. Eggs. Butter. I didn't measure properly at first, just poured and mixed with the flow. One bowl turned into two, then three. Cupcake trays lined the counter, then another batch followed.
I wasn't thinking about waste; I was thinking about the seven years i had poured into a man who treated my heart like a temporary lodging.
At some point, I pulled a small, scruffy plastic cat out of my bag, a toy Emma had given me from the orphanage. It was one of those cheap things that repeated whatever you said in a high-pitched, distorted voice. I set it on the marble counter and turned it on.
"You're going to sit there and mind your business," I muttered, cracking an egg into a bowl.
"You're going to sit there and mind your business," the toy echoed back, its voice annoyingly cheerful.
I let out a short breath that almost passed for a laugh.
"Good. At least one of us understands boundaries."
"Good. At least one of us understands boundaries."
I whisked harder than necessary, the metal climking against the bowl.
"You know what's funny?" I said after a moment, glancing at the toy. "My sister loved him."
"My sister loved him."
I swallowed, my hands slowing just slightly.
"She used to say he was the kind of guy that doesn't come around twice. Said I should hold on tight before someone smarter comes along and steals him."
"…steals him."
I let out a quiet breath, reaching for the sugar and pouring more than I needed.
"We got fake married once. Did you know that?" I added, my voice softer now. "Under a tree behind our old house. We were sixteen. My sister was the officiant. She took it very seriously too. Made us repeat vows and everything."
"…repeat vows and everything."
The memory came back.
We were sixteen, standing under the massive oak tree behind the old school. Paul laughing halfway through the words because he couldn't take anything serious, my sister clapping like it was a real wedding. He had even placed a ring made of twisted soda can tabs on my finger.
The cheat had looked me in the eye and promised to love me forever.
I moved to the fridge, grabbing a carton of orange juice and drinking it straight from the container. The sugar hit my system, but it didn't dull the ache. I was a person who lived on sugar when the world turned bitter, yet I never seemed to gain an ounce, a trait Paul used to joke about.
"You're made of candy, Bri," he'd say, pulling me onto his lap after a long day. "That's why you're so sweet."
"I think I'm the problem," I said suddenly, my voice quieter now, almost lost under the hum of the oven. "I must be, right? Because how do you go from… that… to this?"
"…to this?"
"He was there when she died," I continued, staring down at the mixture as I stirred. "When everyone else didn't know what to say, he did. He sat with me. Didn't try to fix anything. Just… stayed."
"…just stayed."
My throat tightened, but I kept going.
"I couldn't sleep for weeks. Every time I closed my eyes, it felt like everything went quiet in the worst way. And he'd just… start singing. Off-key sometimes, but I didn't care."
"…but I didn't care."
I laughed under my breath, shaking my head.
"Who sings people to sleep and then ends up like that, huh?"
"…ends up like that?"
The oven beeped. I ignored it.
"Maybe I pushed too hard," I murmured. "Maybe I asked for too much. Meeting his parents, talking about the future… maybe that scared him."
"…scared him."
I slid down the cabinet until my knees hit the floor. I felt pathetic. Chloe was right. I was being dramatic. I was sitting on the floor of a multi-million dollar penthouse, married to one of the most powerful and handsome men in the country, and I was crying over a man who didn't even care if I was dead or alive.
"I waited seven years," I said, my voice breaking just slightly. "Seven years of being patient, understanding, supportive… and somehow that still wasn't enough."
"…wasn't enough."
The next batch went into the oven. I grabbed another juice without thinking, the sweetness almost overwhelming but still not enough to settle whatever was twisting inside me.
"And now he's perfect for her," I added bitterly. "Now he's ready. Now he's introducing someone to his parents, taking care of everything, playing the role I thought he wasn't ready for."
"…wasn't ready for."
I leaned against the counter, staring at the ridiculous cat toy.
"Tell me how that makes sense."
"…makes sense."
"It doesn't," I muttered, shaking my head. "It just means I wasn't worth it."
"…wasn't worth it."
Before I could think it through, my hand shot out and knocked the toy off the counter.
It hit the floor with a sharp crack.
For a second, I just stared.
One of its legs had snapped clean off, the ceramic split where it had taken the impact. The head was tilted at an awkward angle now, the cheerful expression somehow worse for it.
"…wasn't worth it," it repeated weakly from the floor, its voice glitching slightly.
I swallowed hard.
"I hate that I still miss him," I whispered.
"…still miss him."
"I hate that part of me is still trying to figure out what I did wrong instead of just being angry."
"…being angry."
"I hate that she gets to stand there and look at me like I lost something valuable, when she's the one who took it."
"…took it."
"I'm not the problem," I said, though my voice didn't sound convinced.
I picked up the toy cat from where it had fallen. I looked at its stupid, painted-on eyes.
"He's the son of a bitch, Kitty. Not me."
"Not me," the cat replied.
The kitchen was starting to smell like sugar and heat and something slightly burnt.
I didn't notice the front door open.
Didn't hear the footsteps until it was too late.
"What the hell just happened here?"
I turned, too quickly, my head spinning from the sugar and the heat and everything I hadn't let out properly.
Darius stood at the entrance of the kitchen, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and disbelief as he took in the mess, the trays, the scattered ingredients, and then me.
I opened my mouth to say something.
Nothing came out.
Instead, my stomach lurched violently.
I barely had time to step forward before everything came up.
Right on him.
"...oops."