There is a stack of neatly folded clothes on the nightstand, six inches from my face. My shampoo and conditioner lined up, just as neatly beside it.

Conner went to my apartment.

The thought tightens my gut. Jeremy is there. When I left, he was sprawled across my bed, asleep. I thought about waking him up and making him mover to the guestroom but in the end, I left him where he was because I didn’t have an intention of coming home anyway.

I don’t want to think about Conner’s reaction to finding Jeremy in my bed.

Finding my sweater and pulling it back on, I gather my things and creep down the hall to the bathroom. I’m not sure why I’m sneaking around, the house is as quiet as a tomb. No television in the living room. No laughter in the kitchen.

Nothing but silence.

I’m not sure why it bothers me, but it does. Fills me with a sense of foreboding that makes me want to skip the shower, throw on my clothes and run out the front door.

Quit being ridiculous, Henley.

My mother’s voice rings in my ears, chastising me, from across the ocean and the thought makes me laugh.

Shutting the bathroom door, I start the shower. Waiting for the water to warm up, I pull off my sweater. Taking a good look at myself in the mirror, I feel a flush of heat erupt over my skin. Conner is everywhere. The marks left with his mouth on my breasts. My belly. My neck. Between my thighs.

I get that feeling again. That I should be ashamed. That I should be angry. Horrified by what he did to me.

That I let him mark me.

That I wanted him to.

That I want people to look at me and know I belong to him.

You look like trash, Henley. Poor, common trash.

“Shut up, mother.” I say it out loud before turning away from the mirror, stepping into the shower.

Coming downstairs, I expect to find another note from Conner. Another math equation, propped against the coffee pot. Maybe stuck to the fridge with a kitchen magnet. Instead, I find him standing at the kitchen counter, arms cross over his chest, staring out the kitchen window. On the table behind him is a neat stack of legal-length paper, several inches thick.

“Good morning.” He hears me, I know he hears me, but he doesn’t turn around. Doesn’t say good morning back. Moving toward him, I pull a mug from the rack next to the coffee pot and pour myself a cup. I don’t really want it, it’s just a prop. An excuse to move closer so I can see his face. Leaning against the counter next to him I blow carefully across the rim of my mug. “Did you sleep?”

The corner of his mouth jerks, quick and sharp. Not a smile. More of a grimace. “Nope.” He doesn’t look at me when he says it. I turn my head, aiming my gaze in the same direction as his, trying to figure out what he’s looking at.

The hammock.

He’s looking at the hammock, struck between two bare branched oaks. He talked me into it once. Talked me into taking off my shoes and reading to him while he counted the freckles on my feet and teased me about how much I wanted him to kiss me. He was right. I did want him to kiss me. I still want him to kiss me. I suspect I’ll want him to kiss me for the rest of my life.

“Conner.” I try again, saying his name in that calm, gentle tone that he hates. “I—”

“I want you to tell me about the compromise,” he says, dropping his arms. “The one you and Bradford agreed to last night. The one you came over here to tell me about.”

“You talked to Jeremy.” My voice sounds strange. Strangled, like it’s being shoved through the eye of a needle. “I wish he hadn’t—we…”

“Tell me,” he says it softly, his tone at complete odds with what I’m seeing in his eyes.

I can feel panic, a wild fluttering in my throat, and I have to take a deep breath through my nose and let it out slowly to try to calm it. I try again. “I told him that I love you. That you love me, and I want to stay with you. I want—”

“Just tell me.” He shouts at me, and I can’t help it, I flinch away from him, my hands coming up to protect my face before I can stop myself. He stares at me, horrified by my reaction, that he did something to elicit it.

He moves away from me, putting distance between us because he thinks I need it. Thinks I’m afraid of him. Lowering himself into a kitchen chair, he braces his elbows on his knees before dropping his head into his hands. “Just tell me.” He pushes his fingers through his hair, tightening his grip like he’s going to pull it out. “Please, Henley just…”

“We’re going to London for the holidays. We’ll announce our engagement on Christmas eve, as planned.” I don’t sound strangled anymore. I sound flat. Like a lifeless drone spitting out words that have no meaning. “After we come home, we’re going to relocate to Boston. I spoke with Margo—there’s a good chance I’ll be hired on at the library, at least part-time. If not…” I let my explanation trail off because it’s not what he wants to hear. It’s not what he’s asking me. “We can be together, Conner.” I sound as desperate as he looks. “Nothing has to change. I can stay. We can still—”

“Sneak around and fuck?” His head comes up, his beautiful face twisted into something angry and sad and so hopelessly desperate it nearly kills me. “You can still pretend you barely know me and I can still pretend it doesn’t fucking kill me every time you look right through me.” He laughs, but it sounds broken. Painful. “I can park around back and use the service entrance and you can climb through my window at 3AM. I can get you off and you can pretend to be in love with someone else.”

“It wouldn’t be forever.” I show him my palms, shaking my head. “All I’m asking for is five years. Just—”

“Five years of watching you get led around like a show pony? Watching you live as another man’s wife.” He shakes his head when I open my mouth to protest. “It doesn’t matter if it’s real. Not to me, because he doesn’t love you—not like I do—and it’s not enough for you. He doesn’t love you, Henley, but he’s the one who gets to kiss you.”

The tone of his voice says it’s final. That he won’t change his mind.

That it’s over.

But I still have to try.

“I made a promise to Jeremy.” I shake my head, swallowing hard against a lump big enough to choke me. “I know this isn’t ideal, but—”

“Ideal?” He laughs again.

“I’m asking you to be reasonable.” I squeeze my eyes shut for a moment. “This is the only way he can access his trust fund.”

“It isn’t,” he says, shaking his head at me. “But it’s the only way you can get paid.”

My mouth falls open. “You think I’m doing this for the money?”

“I don’t know.” He sits back in his chair, spreads his hands wide. “Five-hundred million dollars for five years of your life is a lot of motivation—especially if you get to keep your fuckboy on the side.”

“Please—” A wave of nausea rolls over me when he says it and I have to close my eyes, press my hand to my stomach to quell the urge to throw up. “Please, don’t say things like that.”

“It’s okay, Daisy.” I hear the scrape of his chair legs across the kitchen floor. “I know what I am.”

He’s standing in front of me, so close I can smell the soap on his skin. The faint scent of leather and axel grease that he carries with him. “Don’t worry…” he lifts my hand from my stomach and separates my fingers. “You got what you came for and, in a few weeks, you’ll get to go home.” He pushes something onto my finger. “You can pretend I never happened.”

“That’s not what I want.” I grip my hand around his and shake my head, desperate to make him stay. To make him understand. “I don’t want to forget. I want you. I want—”

“What you want is all I’ve ever cared about.” He slips a hand around my neck, cupping the back of it while his thumb stokes the soft skin of my cheek. “Anything to make you happy. Anything to make you stay. It’s all that ever mattered.” His brow furrows, like he’s confused by what he’s saying. Like he’s trying out a new language and isn’t sure he’s getting the words right. “I need to matter.”

“You matter.” I whisper it, trembling chin tipped up so can see his face. “You matter to me.”

“Maybe I do…” The corner of his mouth lifts slowly while his eyes seem to eat up the sight of my face, like he’s never going to see me again and he needs to remember what I look like. “Just not enough.”

He leans into me, pressing his lips to mine. When he pulls away, he gives my hand a gentle squeeze before letting it go. The quiet snap of the backdoor being pulled closed behind him as he leaves, echoes around the empty house like a gunshot.

When I look down and my hand, I see Jeremy’s ring on my finger.