Court

Everyone was staring at me.

I walked through the museum the next morning feeling like a rumpled-up newspaper, my feet dragging and shoulders slumped, my face unshaven and my eyes bloodshot. Even my clothes, which were pressed and neat when I’d put them on, sagged on my frame in defeat.

My night had never ended.

What had met its end was the back half of a bottle of scotch.

I’d woken up this morning in my pants from the day before—no shirt, no shoes or socks, just my slacks and belt. My body and mind were grinding and sore, as if I hadn’t slept at all. But somehow, I’d shoved my legs into fresh pants, punched my arms into a clean shirt, and hauled myself into work.

I had no purpose or objective going in—my alarm had gone off and told me to, so I had with a splintering headache and churning stomach to keep me company.

And as I passed everyone, they stared. And I didn’t give a single fuck.

About anything.

The first thing I did was walk into Bianca’s office. She looked up, looked me over, and opened her mouth to speak.

But I cut her off.

“You’re fired.”

I turned to leave the room as she sputtered behind me.

“What? You can’t—your father said—”

I whipped around so fast, my vision dimmed, my brain throbbing against my skull to the beat of my broken heart. “Do I look like I give a fuck what he said? He might be the president of the museum, but you’re my assistant. You picked the wrong Lyons to align with, Bianca. And if you’re stupid enough to fight me, just know this—I will bury you. Pack your things and get out of my fucking sight.”

That time, I ignored her when she argued. And she had the good sense not to follow me.

Once in my office, I slammed the door because it felt good—the weight in my hand, the strain of my arm, the satisfying sound it made when it clicked into place regardless of the echoing sound in my dehydrated brain.

And I sat down at my desk and stared at that closed door like the answers to my problems were written on it.

Scattered on the desk’s surface were resources for the exhibition, some advertising materials that needed approval, a folder of signed contracts. And on top was a letter from the Accademia, thanking me for my donation and offering congratulations on the partnership with The Met regarding the loan of David.

And I held that letter with no joy, no sense of accomplishment. There was no satisfaction. No pleasure.

After a year of planning and several more dreaming, I had everything I’d wished for right there at my fingertips.

And it meant nothing.

You’re just like your father.

Rin was right—I’d realized she was always right when I was so self-assured that it was me who had all the answers. I had taken without giving. I had sacrificed nothing, and she had sacrificed it all—her job, her education. Her heart. And she’d lost.

Because of me.

And now, nothing meant anything.

Not without her.

I loved her, and she didn’t know. I needed her, and I hadn’t told her.

I’d hurt her, and I was wrong.

I had to show her that she meant everything to me, that I would put her above everything I held sacred in the world.

And there was only one way to prove it.

* * *

Rin

I knocked on the doorjamb of Amelia’s office, book clutched to my empty chest.

She glanced over her shoulder at me and offered a smile. “Hey. Finished it already?”

One shoulder rose in a halfhearted shrug. “What should I read next?”

“Hmm,” she hummed as she pushed away from her desk and wandered to her bookshelves. “I feel like you need some historical in your life. Here.” She handed me a worn paperback, the edges curling and spine creased.

“Lord of Scoundrels?”

“Trust me, you’ll appreciate it.”

I sighed. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Still rough, huh?”

“I stopped crying. That’s something, right?”

“I mean, it’s better than nothing. I still can’t believe him. Val shouldn’t have let him in.”

“He’s not an easy person to refuse.”

“But you did.”

I would have laughed if I didn’t feel like dying. “It wasn’t exactly the romantic proposal a girl hopes for. And, he’s an asshole.”

“He is. But I can see how he might have thought he was doing the right thing.”

My face flattened.

“Not that he’s not a complete asshole. He is. The ultimate asshole. The king of all assholes. That’s not what I’m saying. I am on your side,” she defended. “But, after everything you’ve been through with him, do you really think he would have asked you if he hadn’t meant it in some way or another? If he hadn’t thought he was helping you?”

Now I was frowning, my insides twisting at the thought. “That’s not the point, Amelia. I’m not going to marry him to save my job.”

“No, and I wouldn’t suggest you should.”

“There was just this moment…” I shook my head. “It’s so stupid. I just…when I saw that ring, I thought he…I thought he was going to tell me he loved me and ask me. For real.” The words tumbled out, and I took a breath, pressing a cool hand to my warm cheek. “I am so, so stupid. He told me. He told me he would never love me, and like a stupid idiot, I agree to be with him anyway.”

“What would you have said? If he’d asked you for real, if he’d professed his love, would your answer have changed?”

I gave her a look. “Since we’ve been together, he’s berated me, accused me of seducing him for my career, seduced me, lied to me, put me in danger to suit himself, and got me fired. Oh, and insulted me with a proposal of fake marriage and subsequent divorce. The man is a red flag with legs.”

“Long, tree-trunk legs.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“You didn’t answer me,” she pressed. “Despite all that, you would have said yes, wouldn’t you?”

“It’s too ridiculous to even consider.”

“So, yes.”

I pressed my fingers into my eye sockets. “I would have made him swear we’d be engaged for years, but…” I sighed. “Probably. What is wrong with me?” I buried my face in my hand. “I would have said yes,” I said from behind my fingers. “I’m sick. I need a doctor. Or a lobotomy.”

“No, you’re not sick. You’re in love.”

“Same thing.” I dropped my hand. “It doesn’t matter anyway. He doesn’t love me, and he doesn’t actually want to marry me.” I tried to smile. “Thanks for the book.”

“I’m sorry, Rin.”

“Me too,” I said and made my way back to my room.

My phone was on my bed where I’d left it—the screen was lit up with a text. And his name sang in my mind, hope springing that it was him.

Until I read the message.

Bianca: I hope you’re happy. He just threw away his career for you.

My blood ran cold.

What? I fired off, my heart rate doubling as I waited.

Bianca: He resigned. And if you have a single shred of decency, you’ll convince him to come back.

“Amelia!” I called as I texted Bianca with more questions, but she didn’t answer. “He’s crazy. He’s fucking crazy,” I mumbled as I flew around my room looking for something clean to wear, stripping off my leggings and ripping off my tank, grabbing a sundress off the top of a pile of laundry heaped in my desk chair.

“What happened?” she asked when she blew in.

“He quit. He quit his job. He has lost his mind. That idiot! That stupid fucking idiot,” I fumed, shoving my foot in my sneaker, then the other.

“What are you doing?”

I scooped up my keys, grabbing my bag on the way out. “I’m gonna go tell him what an asshole he is.”