“You’re right. She had everything in common with you, and she was kind enough to point out that I have nothing in common with you and am just a toy to be played with while I’m new and shiny. I’m surprised she didn’t sticker me with an expiration date. Although, I hear they’re taking odds on that in Vegas.”

Creighton winces. “That’s not what I fucking meant. Don’t twist my words around.”

The words are flowing now, and I can’t stop them. “I’m just taking them at face value, Crey. Do you have any other ex-wives hiding in the wings I need to know about? Any secret children or mistresses you don’t think are important?”

His nostrils flare and the muscle ticks in his jaw. I can sense the moment when I’ve officially pushed him too far.

I’m staring at the woman I’m in love with—that’s right, fucking in love with—and in the space of a heartbeat, I realize she doesn’t feel the same way about me. Maybe she never will.

Pain claws through my chest, matching the fear that tore through me when someone came running to get me after she collapsed at MoMA. Her every breath matters to me more than my own, and she’s completely oblivious.

She’s also oblivious to the fact that she’s finding my breaking point. Years of trying to earn someone’s love and being met with contempt at every turn grips my throat like a stranglehold. I lost my parents to a horrific attack, and instead of being welcomed into a family that would love and accept and comfort me, I walked into completely the opposite, into the care of someone devoid of any feelings that would help a grieving boy deal with the loss of his parents.

Even after everything, Holly doesn’t trust me. Objectively I know I should have told her about Annika, but that is my own private failure, and compared to what I feel for Holly, Annika is completely inconsequential and meaningless. It’s like trying to compare a raindrop to a hurricane.

My words strike like lashes, and the driving force behind them is the knowledge that whatever I thought we were building is nothing but a figment of my imagination.

“If you’re looking for a reason to get out of this, Holly, I’m sure you can find one. I’m not going to beg you to stay.”

Her face hardens into a nearly unrecognizable mask, and I wait for the cracks to show at my words.

But I get nothing except silence.

I’m not going to beg for her affection. Holly’s made it clear that she can’t be bought, and apparently I’m not deserving of it through my actions.

I watch her face, eyes riveted, waiting for a single hint that there’s something to fight for, but right now, she might as well be a stranger to me.

My temper is yanking on its chain, and I know I need to leave before I say something I can never take back.

I turn on my heel and head for the door. My steps are measured, and all I want from her is a single word. Maybe two.

Don’t go, I want her to say.

But she says nothing.

And I’m gone.

Pride is a dangerous thing, but when it’s all you have left, how do you make yourself let go of it?

Hours later, I’m still curled up in the mammoth bed alone. I shift my face away from the wet spot on my pillow, refusing to acknowledge that I’ve soaked it with my tears.

When did my life get so complicated? Oh yeah, when I decided to marry a guy I only met once—and by met, I mean banged until I could barely walk.

I think about what Dr. Wylie told me. His diagnosis: panic attack, caused by stress. His prescription: take some time to relax and get away from the stress.

It’s thinking about that last part that caused the tears to start running.

I can’t stay in New York, but I don’t want to go back to Nashville.

There’s only one place I can think to go.

Home.

It echoes in my head as I finally fall asleep.

Creighton never comes back. When I open my eyes at seven a.m., his side of the bed is empty and still neatly made, no impressions in the pillow. I wonder if he ever even came back to the penthouse. I pull on a sweatshirt and socks, and go investigate.

It’s still expensive, perfect, and completely unwelcoming.

I don’t belong here. The panic starts to rise again. It’s sharp and fast, stealing any rational thought. Words flash back through my brain like they’re lit with neon.

“It wasn’t important.”

“It was a whim.”

“You’re nothing like Annika.”

The slam of the door.

I don’t belong here.

Then a new phrase pierces through on a continuous loop.

I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here. I have to get out of here.

The words drown out every other thought until I find myself in my closet, tossing on the first thing I grab before shoving clothes into a bag. I stumble into the bathroom and grab random shit off the counter and from the drawers until my suitcase is full. I don’t know what I’ve packed. I don’t care.

I have to get out of here.

I rush through the living room and into the kitchen, spying the same damn notepad I used before.

Creighton’s going to want to kill me when he gets home.

But I’ll already be gone.

I scrawl the same two words, but this time for an entirely different reason.

Good-bye, Creighton.