by Kat T. Masen
“Can I come in?”
I pull the door completely open as she walks past me, keeping her distance.
“Will,” she breathes, lowering her gaze while tugging her sleeve. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for? Choosing your flesh and blood?”
Her lips press tight, still avoiding eye contact with me. “It’s too hard, we’re too hard together.”
My hands clench into fists until my head falls, hanging with a pained expression. The truth is we’re too hard together. We are tearing each other apart and fighting for something which neither one of us have the strength to fight anymore.
“I’m going to London.”
Her gaze lifts, then falls on the suitcases near the door. “You’re leaving?”
“I think it’s for the best.”
Silence falls between us, but then I allow myself to stare into her eyes one more time.
“Amelia, I never wanted to hurt you nor make you choose. But we’re at different stages in life. I can’t have you give up everything for me.”
“And I can’t have you give up everything you’ve worked hard for just for me.”
Our breathing echoes in the room, the weight of our gaze locked into a catatonic state. Neither of us blinks an eye until my hand reaches out to caress her cheek. She rests into my hand, a tear escaping her.
“Don’t say goodbye,” I tell her. “I need you to walk away.”
“But, Will…”
“I’m begging you,” I plead, struggling to control my emotions. “Please walk away to a life you deserve.”
Some may call it selfless to encourage Amelia to go live her life without me holding her down.
Or maybe I’m the selfish one. The second I step foot on English soil, I’ll have leveled up to billionaire status.
Lex Edwards officially won the bet.
Yet all the money in the world means nothing if I can’t have the woman I love.
The beautiful woman still standing in front of me.
Amelia Edwards.
Thirty-Two
Amelia
For the longest time, my theory on love has been conceptualized to be a feeling of overwhelming happiness.
It’s the holding of hands on a beautiful summer’s day, the endearing smiles while eyes lock together as if the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
It’s the gesture of holding the door open or pulling out a seat in a restaurant.
It’s offering to drive, to removing your coat when the other person is cold.
Love, in my eyes, is the hardest of lessons if ever fate is not on your side.
I turn to lay on my side, the complete view of Will asleep beside me. His body appears worn, tired after our emotional goodbye which led to truthful admissions, then one last night together—no sex, no lovemaking, just in each other’s arms.
We both want the best for one another, yet neither of us is the best for each other.
I drink in the sight of him, knowing this will be the last time. The small pout of his lips, lips which have kissed every single part of my body. The bridge of his nose, sitting between the bluest of eyes. Above them, his dark lashes curl so naturally. Against the black satin pillowcase, his hair appears lighter than the usual dark shade of brown. His usual controlled style is nothing but a wild mess, making me smile softly.
My gaze falls upon his shoulders, broad and toned, to his perfectly sculpted chest. My fingers ache to run their tips on the edge of his skin but touching him will wake him up. I need to savor this moment for as long as I can.
Something drags my eyes to his chest, watching the rise and fall and what appears so effortlessly. Beneath the movement lays his heart. I so desperately want to be everything it fights for, the only thing making it beat. But the longer I sit here and stare, the deeper my own heart weeps. Every inch of me feels like an open wound, a pain so visible you’re unable to escape the severity of its presence.
I can’t do this—pretend it doesn’t hurt when not one part of me has been affected.
Beside me, Will stirs softly before his eyes open wide, the blue ocean torturing my already weakened heart.
“I have to go,” I whisper, lowering my head. “It’s time.”
He takes a deep breath, twisting his body, so he’s flat on his back. Staring at the ceiling, his cheekbones tighten while he bites down on his lip.
“It doesn’t have to be this way.” His change of mind comes across uncertain, and I know him well enough to know he’s scared of the unknown.
“And love isn’t supposed to be this hard,” I tell him.
His gaze shifts, and perhaps the word love was premature to use. Our feelings are strong, our emotions run deep, but love doesn’t end by saying goodbye.
“So, this is it…” he states, rather than question. “We go our separate ways. Pretend this never happened.”
I shake my head. “I’ll never be able to forget, Will.”
My hand reaches out for my jacket which so carelessly lays on the foot of the bed. I admire the fabric inside my hands, but, of course, this jacket will be another memory of him amongst everything else.
“I don’t know what you expect me to do, Amelia.”
I stand up, placing my jacket on, ignoring the pain crippling my simple moves. Adjusting the skirt of my dress, I find my boots on the ground and grab them.
With a forced smile, so much so that my mouth hurts, my eyes struggle to follow in suit. I allow myself to look one more time at the man my heart cries for.
“I expect nothing, Will,” I say, until my voice waivers. “London is the right decision.”
As I turn back around, a shuffle occurs behind me, and Will has stopped me in my tracks. His hand caresses my face, the pain rippling through as I beg myself not to cry. Slowly, he lifts my chin, so our eyes meet.
“I wish things were different,” he chokes.
How I wish the same—that we don’t feel compelled to lie to our loved ones, that this relationship almost destroyed our families, and that we had the freedom to express our love without the restraints of age or what society deems appropriate.
If our love has a chance of lasting forever, all these hurdles would come second, not be the priority.
“If they were different,” I whisper, unable to look him in the eye. “There’s still no guarantee.”
He moves forward, placing his lips on mine. There’s no urgent rush, no sexual gratification in our kiss.
This kiss comes from a different place, and despite my willingness to mask the pain, I’m so close to falling apart in front of him.
“Goodbye, Amelia,” he murmurs with an ache. “I just want you to be happy.”
And perhaps that’s the biggest catch of all. My happiness falls dependent on him.
I remove his hands from my face, choke back my words, wishing I can return the sentiment, but I need to walk away now.
Just one step at a time, I tell myself. The room is behind me, the hallway leading to the door appearing impossibly long. I walk past the dining room, the living room, every room carrying its own memories of us.
But the hardest part is seeing the suitcases beside the door.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes tight, my hand resting on the doorknob as I leave the apartment, closing the door behind me.
I have no recollection of walking toward the car, or climbing inside, or even starting the engine. I pull out of the parking lot, and just before I drive on the street, I stop at the top of the driveway and grab my phone to send a text.
Me: You won, as always.
And there is the final nail in the coffin, no more lying to my father. He wants the truth. Well, there it is.
The streets are dead on Sunday morning, and the radio plays lazy tunes without the idle morning chit-chat. I switch to my playlist, but every lyric runs deep, and eventually, I turn everything off to complete silence.
The fog is clouding my vision from the heavy rain which lashed the East Coast last night, and when
I’m only a few blocks away from campus, the red light prompts me to stop.
The traffic lights are buried amongst the fog, and as I count down to the light turning green, my heart rate begins to accelerate. Unwillingly, I clench the steering wheel, trying to ignore my skin flushing. My shoulders bear tight, but they feel like they are quaking, causing me to choke out a gasp.
Everywhere I turn, everywhere I look, all I see is Will—his smile tormenting me, his laughter, and the way he caresses the back of my neck and draws me in for a deep kiss.
I breathe faster, but each breath begins to turn into a sob until my eyes cloud, and warm streams of tears fall down my face.
It all hurts, every piece of me. I don’t want to be here, not without him. I contemplate turning around, driving to the airport to beg him not to leave until my phone beeps beside me, and my focus shifts to the text on the screen.
Dad: It’s for the best.
Anger ripples through me as I open my window and throw the phone outside the car. It smashes against the road, falling into pieces.
Gulping for air, the light turns green, my foot slamming on the gas until the sound of a loud horn catches my attention on my left.
Fuck, what’s that?
I try to control myself, but all I see is the parked car in front of me. I slam my foot on the brake, my white knuckles clutching the steering wheel with panic.
I let out a scream before it all becomes a hazy vision of lights, and my car drives up an embankment, the impact releasing the airbags. My head knocks front forward against the blown-up bag, a sharp pain ricocheting across my temple.
My breath is caught in my throat, shock paralyzing me while strangers rush to my aide.
The voices are panicked, none of it registering. Someone yells, “Call 9-1-1.” A woman opens my door with a phone in her hand. I hear a dial tone, then a voice on the other end saying state your emergency.
It all drowns out—the accident, the noise, the strangers around me.
My emergency isn’t my catatonic state, nor is it the gash on my head with a trickle of blood falling down the side of my face.
It’s a broken heart.
Unrepairable, damaged, and writhing in pain.
And that’s the trouble with love.
It’s the greatest feeling in the world, if only for a fleeting moment.
Yet, a broken heart will last a lifetime.
To Be Continued
Sneak Peek – The Trouble with Us
Click Here
Next to the only window inside the room, I sit at the head of the table.
Outside, the cluster of gray clouds form in the sky, rainfall predicted as usual. It’s your typical day in London—dreary, wet, and cold. Nothing at all like home.
I welcome the momentary silence.
The last two weeks have been chaotic. Non-stop travel between different countries across Europe. Endless meetings, networking, conferences—nothing remotely pleasurable aside from a day trip to the Greek Islands courtesy of a client. If it wasn’t for my personal assistant, I wouldn’t know what day it is as I barely set foot on English soil. Right after this meeting, I am scheduled on a flight to Brussels for a convention where I am the guest speaker.
Yet these moments of solitude, its purpose of disconnecting me from the world if only for minutes, is a blessing and a curse.
My eyes close, silence drowns out all distractions while I take the deepest of breaths. I’ve formed a bad habit, cracking my knuckles to loosen my joints. With my eyes still shut, my head tilts left, then right, releasing the built-up tension in my shoulders.
The door opens, and noise from outside the room filters through. Some of our executive team arrive early, entering with a welcoming nod before taking their places at the table. Jensen, our head of IT Infrastructure, takes a seat beside me without considering my personal space and starts rattling off numbers with which he seems displeased. I listen attentively, nodding my head in agreeance, but my focus is elsewhere.
And the very reason is about to walk in the room at any minute now.
Lex Edwards.
If you listen carefully, you can hear the weighted steps, each one taken with a sense of pride. The voices around me slowly filter out, and then suddenly, the energy in the room changes.
Lex’s entrance is not subtle.
His presence demands attention.
The team respectfully rise from their chairs, acknowledging his arrival.
Not me, though.
I don’t even bother to look his way.
It’s been four years since I last spoke to him—all of our business dealings executed through our management team. The moment he gave me the ultimatum—organized that contract to ship me to London with strings attached—we ended our relationship then and there.
I’d been called a fool to go up against the man who deals all the cards, often warned of the risks and ability to lose everything I have.
But the damage is done.
I’ve lost everything.
All that matters.
My wealth, if measured, is rather impressive. Yet money is the devil’s playground. There’s the freedom to do things people only dream about, but none of these things nor possessions will ever replace the heartache of letting go of the woman you love.
A phone inside the room rings, forcing everyone to silence themselves so Lex can answer.
“Hello,” he states, almost void of emotion. “I’m sorry, now is not a good time.”
My gaze shifts to where Lex now sits, and I observe a man who I once considered family. There’s resignation in his expression, despite the lowering of his head to grant himself some privacy during his call. And then, he closes his eyes, momentarily, before they spring open and lift to meet my unrelenting stare. The usually emerald eyes appear dark, however despite the change in shade, his presence inside this room onsets memories.
Memories I have long-buried in an effort to move on with my life.
“Congratulations,” is all he says, without the usual jovial response attached to the sentiment. “I love you, too.”
The call ends, prompting Jensen to suggest we start our meeting. As usual, he leads while I try my best to immerse myself. There are a few disagreements that encourage others to weigh in with their opinions. After two hours, I begin to lose interest, my mind drifting elsewhere.
Bored with the discussion, I respond to an email on my cell then exit my inbox, the Insta icon in the corner of my phone showing me a notification. I barely check any of these platforms, uninterested in connecting with people who serve me no interest.
I don’t bother to scroll. I simply watch the first few stories, which are mainly of my friends from college. And then, in the fourth story, Ava’s picture catches my attention. My fingers move on their own accord, swiping to view the story again.
It’s a picture of a hand with a diamond ring and a caption reading, ‘She said yes!’
My heart stops to what feels like a complete standstill. I’d recognize those fingers anywhere. They touched me in intimate places. Caressed my face so lovingly. Those same fingers ran through my hair softly until they found their way to the back of my neck, where they would often rest.
The kickstart of adrenalin knocks the air out of me, my breathing ragged as my skin begins to crawl with heat beneath the suit I wear.
I scramble through Ava’s profile, where the last few photographs are of her, and nothing out of the ordinary. My lips press together as I contemplate stalking Amelia’s profile, something I refused to do for the last four years.
The name alone is a trigger, yet her profile is nothing but scenic pictures or objects, with not one picture of her. There’s nothing to suggest the ring is hers, and perhaps my eyes have imagined it all wrong.
Heading back to Ava’s profile, I scroll further. There’s an image of a Grey’s Anatomy scene in which she tagged Austin Carter. Clicking on his name takes me to his profile which is open to view.
My eyes widen in disbelief.
With a hard swallow, I try to ignore the pressure inside my chest, but it feels impossible—the pain has become unbearable.
It’s the same picture—the hand with the diamond ring. On the top right-hand corner, the image says one of two. So I swipe left, my stomach hardening at the second photo, which sends a stabbing pain straight to the middle of my chest.
Austin is on what appears to be a clifftop, kneeling with the ring box in his hand. And standing there, with a happy expression, is Amelia.
Anger thrums through my veins, unapologetic with its ferocity. My nostrils flare, the temperature inside this room unbearable. The four walls surrounding us begin to close in, trapping me in this fucking nightmare called life.
“Are we done, gentlemen?” I demand, unable to control myself.
No one says a word, yet all eyes are staring at me curiously, confused by my sudden outburst.
I push my chair out, ignoring everyone in the room, and head toward the exit.
“Romano,” Lex calls, his artic tone gaining my attention.
My sweat-filled palms rest on the doorknob while trying to control the anger which is tearing me to pieces. I refuse to turn around, but like the sadistic fool I am, I do so and fall victim to the man who ruined my damn life.
“Leave her alone,” he demands, with an insulting stare. “It’s over.”
I give him nothing.
The bastard doesn’t deserve anything from me.
Exiting the room, I head straight to the restroom. Inside, I slam my fist against the stall door, the pain connecting through my entire body. But the physical pain is nothing compared to leaving her behind or the moment I chose to give up because she deserved better than me. And this pain can never compare to the last four years of hell without her.
I have a choice—follow Lex’s command once again and leave her alone.
Or—go back to the States and fight for what I should have all along.