I hate myself.

It wouldn’t have killed me to wait and find out if Samuel was okay before running off.

No wonder I’ve been lying awake back at my apartment, getting nightmares over it again and again.

I left because of my guilt. I can’t expect to betray someone’s trust then hope it’ll all be okay if I just ask for forgiveness. That’s not how I was raised.

I’m in the wrong. Leaving was the only fair option.

Because I wasn’t about to tell them what I’d done.

That’s my rationalization as I sit with Bonnie, my editor, close to a month later. She has feedback for me, and as we live only thirty minutes apart, our first edits meeting to go over her comments is at her place.

I’m distracted, guilt drowning out her words. It doesn’t help that I’m sitting opposite her at her large dining table, each of our faces glued to our respective laptop screens with all these words floating, reminding me what I’d done.

As she starts to sum up her feedback, I manage to pay attention to the last few comments she has for me.

“Overall, I was impressed with the character development. That last plot twist blew me away as well, Elle. Tell me, how did you come up with that part where your heroine’s house collapses, and she ends up rescued and cared for by those two mountain men? I mean, I loved the way you presented them as scarred veteran princes. It was so unique, nothing like the work you’ve done before.”

My eyes glaze over again, and she sits waiting, body leaned forward with anticipation.

“I guess I dreamed it up,” I lie.

“I adore the names Bash and Sully, dear! These two characters are definitely worth revisiting for a follow-up story.”

Guilt clamps my chest, and I can’t inhale enough air to form a sentence.

Yes.

That’s what I did.

This is how I repaid Bastian and Samuel for their heroism and kindness to me.

By betraying them.

By writing them into a book.

I have no excuse.

What can I say, I was inspired? I was, but more than a little desperate. Or both. I even gave Bastian’s eye color to my character, Bash. They weren’t my fictional characters anymore. I wrote about real people and used zero discretion when I didn’t even anonymize them in some way. I just pray to God that they don’t read women’s action-adventure erotica anytime soon.

Bonnie runs through a few more suggestions. I should pay attention but it’s not mandatory. Everything she’s referring to is in tracked changes or sidebar comments in the electronic file of my manuscript.

My conscience starts to get the better of me, and I debate telling her that everything from chapter thirty-two to the end is based on fact, not something I dreamed up. Then I begin to think she’s not the person I need to confess my sins to. It’s Samuel and Bastian who deserve the apology. Except I don’t have the nerve to do such a thing by phone. I can’t face them either. Although if I really wanted to, I’d find a way. It would take me all of two minutes for my Mount Charleston landlord to give me their contact information.

But how am I going to finish my story if I pull this part, the section that my editor thinks is my best work ever?

This crisis of conscience ends up short-lived because I don’t say a word to her, which makes me feel worse. I’m not this type of person. When did I turn into someone who’d sooner betray a friend, a lover, two lovers for that matter, just to earn some cash?

On my way home, I stop at my local flower shop for roses. It’s not the first time that I’ve come here. And I’m not just visiting for the roses. I walk these tiny aisles to remember them. Being here, smelling these floral scents and seeing these blooms somehow help me feel a little closer to them. I can’t stop craving my two real-life mountain men, but I also can’t bring myself to see them. Coming here is my middle ground. I can think fondly of our time together, even if they probably hate my guts. By now, I’m sure they do.

Later in the evening, after I’ve settled in for an early night of reading, I doze off. As usual, falling asleep doesn’t keep me asleep. It’s the guilt, eating me up inside. Sitting up this time, I reach for my bracelet. Holding it, running my fingers over raised ridges that are my father’s and brother’s names and ranks, I feel somewhat comforted, but not nearly as much as before.

This piece has become somewhat of a torment. It’s supposed to be a symbol of my kin’s bravery. Their honor. But I have neither. I don’t even deserve to touch it right now. On top of that sad fact, I have the bracelet today because of Samuel and Bastian, but having it just reminds me of how I left things with them. Or rather, how I simply left.

My heart won’t stop hurting.

Nothing fills the emptiness, the ache.

I need to fix things. To redeem myself and live up to what this bracelet stands for, I make up my mind. First thing in the morning, I’m going to phone the landlord, get one of their numbers, and arrange to meet them so I can tell them everything. I find it so much easier to relax in my bed once I’ve made that promise to myself.

The clock reads nine thirty when I close my eyes. It’s early, but exhaustion wracks my body from so many nights of restlessness. Soon, I drift off, content from the weight lifted off my shoulders, knowing that I’ll soon come clean.

Except, the shrill chirp of a text on my phone wakes me. I reach over and check the screen. The number’s not familiar so I unlock the phone to see what the message says.

All the air gets sucked out of the room.

It’s from Samuel.

Samuel: Hey Elle. It’s Samuel. Got your number from your old landlord. I’m alive, if that matters to you at all. Thought I’d let you know.

Awww crap.

Time to face the music.