Chapter 12

I can’t breathe.

Which feels dramatic considering I’m in an art gallery with high ceilings, air conditioning, and three strategically placed diffusers that smell like lemongrass and money. But here I am, standing in heels I can barely walk in, dress zipped too tightly across my ribs, and suddenly my lungs refuse to work.

Because she’s here. With Axton freaking Rowe.

They’re here. Together.

She’s laughing at something he just said, her manicured hand resting lightly on his chest like she owns him. Like he’s hers. And maybe he is.

Ashley.

Ashley the skank. Ashley the snake. Ashley, the reason my relationship with Monty went up in flames.

I feel the panic in my throat first, rising like I swallowed a balloon made of shame.

I duck behind a sculpture of what looks like a melted cello and whisper to Callie, “Abort mission. Tell Emily I’m sick. Or dead. Or both.”

Callie’s voice is dry. “Charlotte. Are you crouching behind interpretive art right now?”

“Not important,” I whisper, still hiding. “He’s here.”

Her face sharpens instantly. “Who’s here?”

“And she’s with him. Her. Ashley. It’s her, Callie. The woman Monty—”

Her jaw actually drops. “No.”

“YES.” I peek again. Ashley giggles and flicks her hair. Axton’s mouth twitches into something dangerously close to a smile.

I’m going to be sick.

Callie sucks in a breath. “Wait, so she cheated with Monty, then landed Axton?”

“Do you understand what this means? She slept with Monty. She’s engaged to Axton. And I-I slept with Axton, like a bloody idiot.”

Callie’s eyes dart around. “Okay, but let’s not panic yet-”

“That means I’ve been the ‘other woman’ TWICE, and I didn’t even know. I need air.” I say in a rush, cutting her off again.

Emily rushes over, her gallery heels clicking against the polished floor. “What’s going on?”

“That woman,” I hiss, pointing not-so-subtly, “is Ashley.”

Emily blinks. “Wait. THE Ashley?”

“Yes, Emily. THE Ashley. The Monty Homewrecker Ashley.”

She stares across the room, and her whole face goes stormy. “So if she’s with Axton, then that means-”

I can’t do this.

I will not do this. Not here. Not tonight. I will not scream in public. I will not start a catfight at my best friend’s debut art show. I will not cry about a man who made me the other woman and may or may not be marrying the woman who wrecked my past relationship.

“I need air,” I whisper to them, already walking.

“Charlotte?”

“I’ll be fine,” I lie.

The air outside hits me like a slap and my teeth chatters in response.

Rubbing my arms together for warmth, I curse at the fact that I didn’t bring a coat because the dress didn’t allow it.

It’s a backless emerald slip I justified by saying I’d be “indoors the whole time.” Famous last words.

I stand under the pale glow of the gallery lights, blinking back the storm behind my eyes.

I should’ve known this night would go sideways. I should’ve prepared for chaos. I should’ve known the universe would laugh in my face.

I scroll absently through my phone, half-hoping for a distraction.

And the universe, being the chaotic little minx she is, delivers.

Monty: Hey. I know I probably shouldn’t be texting. But I just saw something that reminded me of you.

Monty: I miss you, Char.

Oh, for the love of all things dramatic.

I should delete the message, and I should block his number. Again.

I stare at the screen, my heart thudding in that annoyingly traitorous way it always does when his name pops up.

But I don’t. Because for one brief, pitiful second, it feels like someone sees me.

Someone wants me.

Someone misses me.

Me: Fuck you.

Tossing my phone back into my overpriced black Bottega, I blink back tears. Damn Monty for making this night worse.

“Charlotte.”

His voice slices through the noise in my head.

Axton stands at the end of the alley. Hands in his pockets. Hair perfectly messy. Eyes locked on mine like he never stopped looking.

“Charlotte,” he says again, softer this time.

And just like that, every defense I’ve spent two weeks building comes crashing down around me.

I turn slowly. Axton stands there, his expression unreadable, his stupidly perfect jaw tight. He looks exactly the same as he did the night we—

No. Nope. Not going there.

I cross my arms and lift a brow. “Shouldn’t you be inside? Your date might miss you.”

Something flickers in his eyes. Pain? Guilt? Annoyance? I can’t tell. I don’t care.

He doesn’t speak. Just stands there, watching me like I’m the one who did something wrong. Like I’m the villain in his love story.

I feel the storm building again. Anger. Hurt. Want.

So I turn before it explodes.

“Have a good night, Axton.”

And I walk away.

Because if I stay even a second longer, I’ll slap him.

Or kiss him.

And either way, I’d lose.