A table.

A chair.

The drip…drip…drip of the kitchen sink.

These things, they all make sense to me, but Belle’s admission that Lincoln is Emily’s father…does not.

“L-Lincoln?” His name gets lodged in my throat as tears burn behind my eyes, but I refuse to cry.

Belle advances toward me, hands raised in surrender. “Yes. Lincoln is Emily’s biological father,” she says slowly as if it’ll soften the blow.

But nothing will.

“How is this possible?” I ask, my voice sounding unlike my own.

“I’ve wanted to tell you this for so long,” she cries, tears streaming down her cheeks. “Will you listen? Will you give me the chance to explain?”

Those familiar green eyes bear nothing but hope, but the closer she gets, the more claustrophobic I feel. However, when she attempts to touch me, I realize this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach is nausea.

I manage to choke out, “Excuse me,” before my feet skid along the flooring as I run from the room and up the stairs. I barely make it in time as I rush into the bathroom and dry heave into the toilet.

My stomach is empty, but it doesn’t seem to matter as shudders rock my body. Each tremor is an attempt to purge this vile emptiness within. With my head buried down in the porcelain, I thump the wall, tears scoring my cheeks.

How is this possible? How could I have been so blind? Suddenly, broken images of the past twenty-eight years crash into me, and no matter that each moving memory is a mere sliver of what I’ve lived, one thing is clear—my whole life has been a lie.

Everything I thought I knew isn’t what it seems. I’m a stranger in my own skin.

“No,” I cry, refusing to accept this nightmare as truth.

With nothing left to lose, I wipe my mouth and raise my weary head. Slumped on the floor, I have one of two options. I can sit here in denial, complaining about how unfair life is, or I can stop being a wimp, put on a pair of pants, and go back downstairs. This really is a no-brainer because I’ve never backed down in the past. And I’ve lived through worse. I’m not a quitter, and I don’t intend to start being one now.

Rising, I flush the toilet and walk to the sink to splash some water on my burning cheeks. Taking a moment, I brace my hands against the porcelain and peer at my reflection. My mirror image reflects the raging war contained within. My eyes are wide. My skin is flushed. A palpable energy sizzles around me. “Don’t be a coward,” I whisper to my image. My cheeks billow as I exhale.

It’s time.

As I walk into London’s bedroom, I ignore the twisted heap of sheets lying in a tangled mess at the end of his bed. The reminder of what happened last night is just too much to deal with right now.

Has he also lain with Belle in this bed as he whispered sweet nothings into her ear? Did he destroy her mind, body, and soul as he had with me?

A wave of nausea overcomes me once again, but I quash it deep, deep down.

Hunting through his drawers, I snare a pair of track pants and pull the drawstring tight. Tying my hair into a topknot, I take a steadying breath before making my way down the stairs. Hushed voices reveal whatever Belle and London are discussing are for their ears only. My heart drops.

When I enter the kitchen, it’s high school all over again as Belle is quick to stop talking. That happened a lot at Harvard-Westlake, usually because I was the topic of discussion. Just as I am right now.

Hearing what Belle has to say will be difficult to stomach, but locking eyes with London is so much worse. It’s the first time I’ve looked at him since Belle dropped the bombshell that’s sure to change my life forever.

The stormy gray to his steel blue eyes rips the air from my lungs. He’s wounded because he knows beneath this bravado, I’m crumpling inside.

A ghost of a smile plays on his lips when he sees I raided his drawer. But it’s soon slathered in melancholy when Belle gently clears her throat. “Will you let me explain?”

London breaks our exchange, his Adam’s apple bobbing with a profound swallow as he averts his eyes.

His response makes me nervous, but nonetheless, I nod. “Okay.”

“Do you want to sit?” Belle wrings her hands in front of her.

“No. I’ll stand.” She flinches at the sharpness to my tone, but it doesn’t make a difference whether I sit or stand. What does matter, however, is the truth.

Belle nods once. She inhales. Gathering courage maybe?

With a final deep breath...her tale begins.

“Lincoln and I have always been flirty,” she explains, which is nothing I didn’t already know. “It was obvious you didn’t like him. And it was also obvious the reason was because you were always in love with…London.”

London stands unmoving, arms folded as he leans against the kitchen counter. I don’t bother correcting her because she’s right. His cadence has forever sung to my soul.

“Well, that flirting soon turned into something a little more serious, and before I knew it, one thing led to another. I thought you knew?” she offers as a possible explanation to why she did it. Her suggestion, however, doesn’t fly.

“I didn’t know, Belle. Do you think I’d have stayed with Lincoln if I had?”

“I suppose not,” she replies, chewing on her bottom lip. “The night of prom, I found out I was pregnant. I took a test, not thinking anything of being a few days late, but well…that night changed my life forever.”

Returning to that day, to our conversation in the car, I shake my head, feeling like an utter fool. “So that bad burrito turned out to be a baby?” I ask, remembering how Belle confessed she felt bloated and looked like the walking dead.

I also remember her ascertaining I wouldn’t be at prom. I now know why that is. She wanted to spend the night dancing in the shadows with Lincoln.

“Yes,” she confesses softly. “I told Lincoln the night of prom that the baby was his. He kissed me. He was so happy. But that happiness was short-lived when London saw us together and beat the living crap out of him. He fought to protect you, Holland. Just how he told Lincoln not to bring you to prom.”

Like a ship coming home in the dead of night, I search for my lighthouse in a withering storm. He stands tall, unapologetic, and goddamn, all I want to do is throw my arms around him and thank him for always keeping me close to his heart.

“He didn’t want you at prom because he knew something was going on with Lincoln and me. At first, I did it to make him jealous, but for him to be jealous, it would mean he’d have to care,” Belle sadly confesses. “But the only person he ever cared about was you. That’s why he didn’t want you at prom. Each time he saw you and Lincoln together…” She leaves the sentence unfinished because she doesn’t need to explain.

London told me why he did what he did. He didn’t hold back when he detailed the fact he would fight Lincoln once and for all because he was right—I should have been on his arm all along.

“But when he saw Lincoln kiss me, when he saw us commit the ultimate betrayal…he wasn’t fighting for me. He was fighting for you. I made him promise not to tell you because it was my story to tell, not his.”

“Listen to what Belle has to say.”

That’s what he said to me the night of prom when he turned up on my doorstep, bloody and beaten. And that’s what he meant when he said it’s not his story to tell.

I always knew that whatever happened was because of me, and that darkening sense of foreboding blankets me once again.

“He said if I didn’t tell you soon, then he would.”

My head snaps London’s way, but he lowers his jaw to his chest, averting his eyes to the floor.

“Lincoln was in a bad way, so once London left, and it was clear where he was going, I took Lincoln home and helped clean him up. We spoke about the future. He said he would take care of me and our baby.”

Bile rises, but as despicable as her confession is, beside the baby, isn’t her story a mirror image of mine? Didn’t I also tend to London’s wounds? Didn’t we make love and discuss the future? Our paths intersected and changed the course of our lives evermore.

However, there is one bothersome question…“Why were you so certain Emily wasn’t London’s daughter?”

A grinding fills the small space, and I realize it’s coming from London’s clenched jaw. I want to console him, but he shakes his head once, indicating there is so much more.

“Because…because Lincoln was the only man I’d ever slept with. But London didn’t know that.”

My lip curls on its own accord. “What?”

Belle’s eyes fill with tears while I hold my breath. “I told London we had slept together when he was drunk. We were at some party but not there together. Lincoln and I fooled around in his truck, and when he was done, he told me he had fun, but it was time to leave. I thought he meant together, but he meant me leave while he went to see you.

“I had never felt more used before in my life. But I did as he asked. He left me standing in the dark like some cheap whore. I just…I just wanted to be loved.” She sniffs, her lower lip quivering as she cries.

Belle has always craved love and belonging. I blamed this on her loveless parents. But maybe they weren’t to blame after all.

“I went back to the party and saw London. He was trashed. I knew he’d end up in a fight or passing out God knows where, so I drove him back to my house. My intentions were innocent until I put him to bed, and he told me how much he…loved you. That you were his. After what Lincoln had just done to me, it just, why was I always second best?” she reasons while I blink once, not recognizing this stranger in front of me.

“I undressed him and then slipped in beside him. When he woke the next morning and we were both naked, I told him”—she gulps, looking at London with nothing but remorse—“I told him we had slept together. He didn’t even question me. He believed me because that’s the type of person London is. But he was disgusted at what he’d done.” She appears hurt while I refrain from cursing.

Small pieces of this puzzle are beginning to come together. London was loyal to Belle because she tricked him into believing they’d slept together. London wasn’t like Lincoln. He actually cared about people other than himself.

“We hadn’t even really kissed. So I know it came as a surprise to him.”

Her confession winds me. “Belle, you insinuated you and London were together. Every time we talked, you hinted you were a thing.”

London sighs, running a hand down his face.

“I know. I’m sorry,” she weeps, “but it wasn’t fair. You had them both. What about me? I did it hoping he’d tell you. I wanted to hurt you. Just as you had hurt me by having Lincoln’s love.”

There are so many things I could say, but what would be the point? How do I tell her she’s a selfish, lying bitch without slapping her cheek and causing a scene? No matter what I’m feeling, I have to remember her daughter knows her as nothing but perfect, and I won’t drag her into this mess we’ve made.

“Lincoln was thrilled when I told him about the baby, but he made me promise that I’d wait to tell you, and we’d do it together. He wanted the timing to be right. I thought it was because he wanted to do the right thing, but I now know it was because he wanted to get to you first.

“He wanted to blame it all on me and turn it around so it was my fault.”

This is karma at its best, but I don’t feel a lick of satisfaction.

“The next day, I knew I had to tell you. I couldn’t lie to you anymore. I called Lincoln so many times, but when he didn’t answer, I knew something wasn’t right. So when you called me from Lincoln’s phone, I knew he’d lied. He had no intention of telling you. All along, he was going to blame it all on me. He painted everyone but himself out to be the villain.

“I tried telling you the truth, but when Lincoln told me he’d ruin me by telling the entire school and my family what a slut I was for sleeping with my best friend’s boyfriend, I knew he’d won. He said he didn’t tell you about the baby, and that if I knew what was good for me, I wouldn’t say a word. He said if I told anyone he was the father, he’d deny it.” Belle bursts into tears while I stand numb.

As I listen to everything she says, it all makes sense now.

I called Belle after Lincoln pressed me to find out if the “truth” he told me was in fact that. When I asked her if she had kissed Lincoln and she said yes, I made an assumption that will haunt me forever. I should have asked her the right questions, instead of believing Lincoln. But I didn’t.

He must have threatened her when I ran into the bathroom and relived what I experienced some five minutes ago. My life seems to be stuck on a loop, but I want out.

London is deathly quiet. However, the steady rise and fall of his broad chest indicates he’s listening and barely holding on.

This clusterfuck of events is sure to end in tears, but there are so many more answers I need. “But I came to London’s house. Your car was there. Why?”

London said he never saw me, but someone did. The curtain across his bay window drawing to a close is forever ingrained in my memory because that final act was the reason I left behind the person I once was.

Belle frowns, and once again looks at London for forgiveness. He simply leans back and arches a challenging brow. “I…I told London Emily was his.”

I knew it was coming, but that doesn’t soften the blow.

“Belle, how could you?” I gasp, covering my mouth, horrified.

“I was scared,” she bellows, attempting to latch onto my forearm as she lunges forward. But I recoil sharply; jaw hard as I shake my head in disappointment.

“I didn’t know what to do. I was seventeen. Lincoln broke my heart, and London was always so nice to me.”

“So, in return, you lie to him and tell him you’re having his baby?” I exclaim, my temper unleashing in a fury that will soon drag us all under.

“London may not have loved me, but he was always there for me. He was the only person I could talk to besides you, but after what I did, I couldn’t talk to you. He made me feel safe.”

My tether to the sane, rational Holland is slowly slipping, and it takes all my willpower not to tell Belle what I think of her deceiving, deplorable ways.

The question that has plagued me for over ten long years has finally been answered. I always thought it was me, and I now know it never was. “That’s why you stood me up? Isn’t it?”

London meets my eyes with nothing but utter torment in his. Time stands still for so many reasons as he watches me closely. This changes everything.

Tonguing the smooth scar above his lip, the one my father gave him when he sought me out, he sighs. “Yes.” A simple word has the ability to shatter my world.

I wrap my arms around my middle, unbelieving this is happening right now. London’s confession is one of the final pieces I need. “It was you, wasn’t it? You’re the one who saw me?” There is no need for me to clarify what I’m asking because all along, I thought it was London who saw me and let me go…but it never was.

“Yes,” Belle professes while I close my eyes, squeezing back my tears.

“How could you?” I spit, barely able to speak. “That one action changed my life forever.”

She has the nerve to break down and look at London for support. But he stands rigid, fists bunched tight in the crease of both elbows. “I know,” she says, her voice echoing her impending hysteria. “I’m sorry, but I just wanted someone to love me. With you gone, maybe London would finally let you go. But he never did.” Her attention falls to his muscled chest where his tattoo is, as if supporting her claims.

I’m trying to be strong, goddammit, I’m trying, but when I look at London, I feel like I’m seeing him for the first time. This incredible, fierce man before me has protected and loved me for all time. All those times when I thought he didn’t care, I was so, so fucking wrong.

I take a moment to focus on him and only him because through the storm, he is the only thing anchoring me from slipping into an abysmal darkness. With that mussed, dirty blond hair kicked to the heavens and those hypnotic stormy blue gray eyes, London Sinclair takes the word “bad boy” and fucking makes it his own.

But underneath that image lies a man with a heart so big that for countless years, he has shielded me from pain and, in turn, doubled his own. I thought he didn’t care, but it seems he cared too much.

The name, my name tattooed across his chest, over his heart, is affirmation of how wrong I’ve been.

I make no secret that I’m paying homage to his ink, and I promise myself that I will make amends for everything I’ve put him through. But things have changed, and when Belle steps toward London protectively, I know she won’t let him go without a fight.

“You left in such a hurry,” Belle says, continuing her tale. “I wanted to at least say goodbye. But your phone was disconnected. No matter what I did, our friendship meant something to me. I know that doesn’t make any sense, but you were a good friend to me, Holland.”

I scoff, but I’m in no position to judge. I slept with the boy she was crushing on for years.

“When word got out I was pregnant and London was the father, your parents made it clear they didn’t want anything to do with me. So I had no hope of ever finding out where you went, but I always hoped you were happy. I know how tough life was for you.”

“Don’t patronize me,” I snap, not wanting her pity. “Life is tough for everyone, especially when you’re in high school. I couldn’t care less what those people thought of me because none of them mattered to me.”

She toys with a gold locket around her neck while the corner of London’s bowed lips lift in a satisfied grin.

“That day after prom was the last time I spoke to Lincoln. After graduation, he went off to college. Everyone did. But us.” London is unmoved by her sentiments.

“My mom was furious and said she’d take care of it. But there was no way I was hurting my baby. I know what it’s like to be unloved and unwanted, and I wouldn’t do that to my child. And neither would London.” She gazes at him with nothing but love, and a surge of jealousy sweeps over me.

“If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know where I’d be.”

Metallic burns my tongue when I bite my cheek so hard, I draw blood. This trip down memory lane is one I have no interest in hearing. “How did you find out Emily wasn’t your daughter?” I gently ask London because I’ve had enough of Belle. I can’t shake the feeling she’s doing this to rub salt in the wounds—to show me the life she’s led with London and all the history they share.

London frowns, the memory still raw as he hoarsely replies, “When she was two, she began suffering from terrible seizures. They didn’t know what was wrong. They did bloodwork, and that’s how I found out”—he takes a steadying breath—“my blood wasn’t a match to hers.”

“But that didn’t make a difference,” Belle interjects. “He still raised her as his own.”

How can she be so damn smug? She lied to him in the worst possible way. His devotion to Emily and Belle reveals just what kind of man London is. I don’t think I’d be as understanding.

“So you were a…couple?” I ask even though I’d rather not know the finer points to their past.

“No, never.” London is quick to reply, shaking his head firmly. “But when Belle told me she was pregnant, I did the right thing by her and Emily. I know what it’s like to grow up without loving parents and questioning your worth every single day. I wouldn’t do that to my child.”

I simply stand mute and catalog the ways I hope to rectify the wrongs of the past. “Why did you send…Lincoln”—I can barely say his name without wanting to be sick—“those letters?”

When Belle pales, I know this can’t be good. But what’s the worst she can say? I’ve surely heard it all. “About nine months ago, Lincoln came back to Los Angeles for his grandmother’s funeral. We bumped into one another and well”—she pauses, wrestling with her words—“old habits die hard. I’m so ashamed of myself. I’m so sorry.”

I take it back because what she just said is the worst, the absolute worst she could say.

I feel sick. No, actually, I feel fucking betrayed.

“I didn’t know you were together, I promise,” she hastily declares when I dig my fingernails into my palms. “He only told me of his life with you after…” She gestures with her hands, which is code for after he cheated and reverted to being a spineless asshole. Actually, it seems he was set to asshole this entire time.

“He told me he wasn’t happy in New York and that he wanted to leave you and come back to LA. That’s how I knew where you lived. How I knew where to send the letters when that son of a bitch left me the next morning. He threatened to sue for custody of Emily if I told anyone what we’d done.”

My mind is racing. None of this makes any sense, but he did come back to LA for his grandmother’s funeral. I couldn’t leave New York because of the Rossi case. Well, that was my justification not only to Lincoln but to myself as well.

“That’s why I sent him the letters. They were never for you. Lincoln knew they were for him. I’m sure of it. I wanted him to know that regardless of what happened, I wasn’t the same girl I once was. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but I wanted to torment him just as he’s tormented me for ten long years. There was no way I would allow him to threaten my daughter.”

“That…motherfucker,” London growls, his jaw clenched. He looks intent on murder. It’s apparent this is the first time he’s heard this story. It seems I can’t stop being the reason behind his pain.

“I fell for his bullshit because he told me he missed me. That he missed what we had. That you were—”

“Spit it out, Belle. Nothing at this point could possibly shock me.”

Her gaze keeps darting back and forth between London and me. “He said that you were frigid, boring, cold. That I knew him better than anyone. I always had.”

London tongues his cheek, shaking his head with a sinister grin. He appears primed on finding Lincoln and beating him to a bloody pulp.

That pathetic coward.

He did what he did for no other reason than because he could. He knew Belle was weak, and what better way for a narcissistic asshole to get his kicks than to flaunt his superiority to someone he sees as less, a mere plaything he toys with when bored.

That shit doesn’t stick with me, but Belle is clearly the woman he uses and abuses time and time again because she allows it to happen.

Belle is broken. Looking at my once best friend, I see that now, and it saddens me to know that I played a part in her downfall. I should have been a better friend. Or seen the signs. But instead, I allowed myself to be played by the one person who has single-handedly ruined our lives. So I’m not here to judge because I’m no better than Belle.

Didn’t Lincoln play me as well?

“I told London I saw Lincoln. And that you two were together, living in New York. Lincoln told me you had made a name for yourself as some hotshot lawyer. He told me this just as he was about to walk out the door. He said this was the reason he would never settle for someone like me. I was fun, but you”—she pulls in her lips—“you were someone who you settled down with.”

There is so much wrong with that sentence.

That explains how London knew where I lived and what I did for a living. Caught in this wicked tempest, it warms me to know that even though he knew I was with Lincoln, he still took the time to look me up.

“I never told you, London, because I knew you’d find him and kill him,” Belle says, turning to London, begging he forgive her. “I pretended we merely bumped into one another because I didn’t want you to know what I did.” She lowers her eyes while I suddenly feel as though I’m encroaching on a private moment.

Even though there are so many more questions, I don’t think I can stomach anymore. There is so much to process, and I honestly don’t know where to start.

“I was following you because I wanted to tell you everything, that Lincoln…” But I thrust out my palm—I’ve heard enough.

“I need to go,” I say on a rushed breath. London’s attention snaps my way. Those eyes are telling me not to leave, but I’ve kept it together thus far. I can’t take any more.

I need to leave because I need to do one thing, and that’s find Lincoln and ask what in the ever-living hell is wrong with him.

Belle hugs her middle, nodding. This purge hasn’t given her the freedom she thought it would. She appears even more imprisoned by the past.

With a ringing in my ears and my heart thrashing wildly within, I know I only have minutes before I submit to this numbness overthrowing me.

How does one respond to discovering their whole life has been a lie? My parents, Lincoln, Belle, even London in a sense have all had a hand in shaping me into somebody they wanted. I feel so violated. So deceived.

“Princess…” London hustles forward, but I just can’t. I need to wrap my head around this, and I need to do that alone.

When I retreat, he freezes, mouth slightly parted in confusion. I don’t want to hurt his feelings—that’s the last thing I want to do. But in light of everything I’ve just heard, everyone is innocent until proven guilty. In no way do I believe that Lincoln is innocent, but I need to hear that from him. It’s the only way for me to move on.

For so long, I’ve allowed other people to have a say in my life, but no more.

“You’re going back to him?” he asks, his question riddled with so much emotion it almost suffocates me with the weight.

The truth should set one free, but for me, it’s done the complete opposite. I’m a captive to myself. “No, London,” I reply, stepping forward and meeting him halfway. “I’m going back to me.”

To anyone else, such a riddle would leave them baffled. But not to London. He understands what I have to do. No matter my impending breakdown, I owe it to Lincoln, but more importantly, I owe it to myself.

My whole life, everyone has done what they thought was right for me, but in reality, it was right for them. And this is me…taking back what’s mine.

London wrestles with what’s right and wrong, but this isn’t his decision. We stand mere feet apart, our gazes affixed to one other. There is so much reflected in those poignant eyes. He doesn’t want me to leave, but I know he will let me go. That’s what you do for the people you love. There is no greater gift than self-sacrifice, and London is saving me once again.

The space between us is a magnetic field, a perfect push and pull. He towers over me, his muscled chest rising and falling with a hypnotic cadence. My name tattooed over his heart has been his answer, and it’s now mine.

It’s time I find out who the real Holland Brooks-Ferris is.

With the slowest of movements, he reaches forward while I hold my breath. “‘Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished. For never was a story more woe. Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.’” He concludes his fated reference with a sweep of his thumb along the apple of my cheek.

His touch scorches my skin, but I refrain from leaning into his tender embrace because unlike the star-crossed lovers…this story won’t end in tragedy.

I promise.