Chapter 13

I am not proud of this, but I’ve read every single one of Monty’s texts today. Every. Single. One. I didn’t respond, I’m not a complete idiot, but I did read them. Twice. Maybe three times. Whatever. Who’s counting?

But the truth is, I miss him. I miss us. The way we used to be. Before the lies, before I found out the truth. Before everything turned into a goddamn circus.

Callie’s voice breaks through the haze in my head, snapping me back into the present.

"Char, your meeting’s in five minutes." She’s standing in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of coffee, and I notice she’s giving me that look. The one she gives me when she knows I’m spiraling.

I force a smile, but it feels fake. "Thanks, Callie. I’m fine."

"Uh-huh." She raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. "Fine. Right."

I stand up, still clutching my phone like it’s some kind of lifeline, even though I know I shouldn’t.

I follow Callie into the conference room, where the editorial team is already seated. The conversation has started, but I’m not really listening.

The office smells like stress and reheated coffee.

I’m seated in the middle of a conference table that probably costs more than my rent and staring at a slideshow that hasn’t moved in five minutes. My brain is trying to stay present, really it is. But it’s hard to focus when Monty keeps texting me like we didn’t break up in a very dramatic fashion.

Monty: I miss your laugh. the real one. the one where you snort.

Monty: saw someone wearing that ugly yellow coat you loved. thought of you.

Monty: did you ever finish that book i got you? or did it sit on your nightstand collecting dust like my pride.

Okay, the last one was a little dramatic, even for him. But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me… feel.

“Charlotte?”

I blink. Everyone at the table is staring at me. My name echoes across the glass walls like a threat.

“Hmm?” I say, trying to pull my soul back into my body.

The editorial chief, Brenda, with a sharp bob and sharper mouth. She taps her pen like it’s a weapon. “We need a final decision. The cover piece. Destination. It’s due to design next week.”

Oh. Right. The travel feature.

I flip through my mental book of location options, none of which I’ve actually reviewed, because I’ve spent most of my time lately avoiding Monty’s messages or refreshing Axton’s Instagram like a lunatic.

Callie gives me a pointed look, her eyebrow raised in a silent question.

“London,” I blurt out.

A beat of silence. Brenda blinks. “We’ve done London.”

“Not like this,” I counter, sitting up straighter even though I’m absolutely pulling this from thin air. “Last time, we featured the budget-friendly stuff. The family itineraries. Big Ben, free museums, lunch under fifteen pounds. But what if we flipped it?”

They’re watching me now. The kind of silence that means I have their attention, and I better not mess it up.

I push forward. “Let’s do indulgent London. The decadent, exclusive, hide-your-credit-card London. Hidden luxury suites. Underground tasting rooms. Personal stylists at Harrods. Afternoon tea that costs more than my health insurance. A moody, cinematic take. Something lush. Sexy. Chaotic-rich energy.”

One of the designers murmurs, “That could actually work.”

Brenda studies me, chin resting on her fist. “You can deliver it by the deadline?”

“Absolutely,” I lie. “I already have contacts.”

She nods once. “Okay. Let’s do London.”

And just like that, it’s approved.

I smile and sip my coffee like I wasn’t seconds away from passing out from stress.

The meeting wraps up a few minutes later, and I’m still reeling from my impulsive decision. London? What the hell was I thinking? But maybe it wasn’t so crazy.

Callie leans over as we walk out of the room, nudging me with her shoulder. "That was impressive. Didn’t know you had that in you."

I give her a half-hearted smile, feeling like I’ve just woken up from a fog.

I’m about to ask Callie if she wants to grab lunch when my phone buzzes again. Another text from Monty.

Monty: I’m serious this time, Char. I’ve been thinking about everything. I don’t want to lose you. Let’s work things out.

There’s a bouquet sitting on my doormat.

Peonies. My favorite. Creamy pinks and soft whites.

And there’s a note.

“I thought you might need a smile. Hope I still know how to give you one. – M.”

I read it three times. Then I throw it on the kitchen counter like it didn’t just make my knees genuinely go weak.

Curse my stupid heart.

I bite my lip.

I read the note again. And Again.

Okay. Damn it. That one got me.

I sink onto the stool, phone already in hand before I can stop myself. I shouldn’t call him. I know I shouldn’t. But… maybe it’s harmless. A check-in. A thank you.

He answers on the first ring. “Hey, princess.”

God, his voice.

I know I should delete his number and block him for good, but the part of me that still remembers the way he used to hold me in the middle of the night, the way he’d whisper my name like it was the only thing that mattered, can’t help but feel a pull.

A voice in my head screams at me to be strong, to not let him manipulate me again, but then another voice whispers, Just talk to him, Char. You’ve always loved him. Maybe this is what you need.

Before I know it, I’ve picked up the phone.

“Char?” His voice is soft. Careful. Like I’m a wounded animal he’s trying not to scare off.

And for a second, I forget all the reasons I hate him.

We talk. About nothing. About everything. About how our barista used to give us free muffins, and how we both hated the orange candle my cousin gifted us, and how he still can’t parallel park for shit.

And I laugh. I laugh. Real, snorty, undignified Charlotte laughter.

By the time we hang up, I’m smiling like a teenager with a crush and already Googling how many peonies it takes to fill a bathtub.

It’s stupid and nostalgic and warm in all the ways I forgot I missed.

I curl up in bed, cheeks flushed, heart soft. I remember what it felt like when he used to be my safe space. My person.

Maybe people can change. Maybe he means it this time.

My phone buzzes again.

I expect it to be Monty with one last flirty goodnight text.

But it’s not.

It’s a notification from Instagram.

@axtonrowe just posted for the first time in a while.

Curiosity kills the cat, and apparently me, because against every ounce of common sense I’ve ever pretended to have, I tap it.

And instantly, I regret it.

It’s a photo of his hand laced with hers. Ashley’s. With a rock shiner than my forehead.

The caption is simple.

“Forever.”

I scream.

Like, into my pillow. Full banshee mode. Fists curled and my blanket over my head.

I scream into my pillow again.

God, I hate men.