For the split of half a second, when I saw her, a surge of happiness nearly made me dizzy. The face that held my thoughts, my entire being hostage had suddenly appeared in front of me. But as I take her in, I remember that underneath that beauty is a fraud.

What had I done to deserve this shit? Her name is Lilly. She’s named after, of all things, a symbol of purity. What a fucking joke.

I'd spent the last three months hating her, talking to Freya about her in disparaging terms. The memories of the most amazing sex I'd ever had tried to make me forget that every moan had been a lie. Months later, the conversation from the nights we talked until the sun came up, ring hollow. She never talked about herself.

I was so blinded by what I wanted to see that I didn’t even notice. She looked me straight in the eye and lied. I made myself remember all of those things so I could hate her and move on.

It worked too, or so I thought. One look at her and my brain tried to wash away every negative imprint I’d spent months carving. But, in my heart, I hadn’t really let go.

I'd built a wall around all the good we'd shared, and it had crumbled like a house of sand in a gust of wind. I felt happy to see her. I’m an idiot

Even after that little traitorous speck of joy receded, I didn’t know if I wanted to push her against the wall and kiss her, or demand to know what the fuck happened to her.

I'm opening the door to my car when Freya calls out from behind me. "Harry, wait." I look back to see her rushing toward me, her dark hair streaming behind her.

"Frey, where's your coat, your gloves? It's one of the coldest days of the year."

"I wanted to catch you before you left. That's her? Emma?" she asks. Her breath is coming out in puffs of white, her cheeks are red from the chafing wind, and her eyes squint against the wind. The expression on her face tells me she wants to talk. No, that she’s determined to talk. I continue walking to the car. She reaches me just as I’m climbing in.

I start the engine and feel the rush of warm hitting my face as the heat kicks in right away. She stands in the door of the car, preventing me from closing it. I scowl up at her and she scowls back. I sigh in resignation.

"Get in if you want to talk, I don't want you standing out here and getting sick because of me. George will kill me if you can't be his full-time maid because you had the audacity to get ill."

She smacks my arm. "Shut up, Harry. Stop trying to deflect and answer my question. I'm not getting in." My comment about her husband appears to roll right off her back, but it was a low blow.

“I’m sorry, Frey. I didn’t mean that,” I say, putting a hand on her arm.

She rolls her eyes dismissively. “Of course you meant it.”

I don’t argue. I did mean it. He’s a total prick. I groan. "Fine. Yes, that's her and I don't want to talk about it. Not right now.” Not ever. I start to pull my door shut. “I'm late.”

She puts a hand on my door handle and stops me.

"Harry, I'm going to ask her to leave. I won’t let you have another miserable New Year’s Eve" she says vehemently. Her eyes are hard.

I sigh and put my gloved hands over her bare one. My sister would jump in front a charging, hungry lion for me. After everything I've told her about "Emma”, I know she thinks she's only doing what I would want. But this weekend and the next two weeks aren't about me.

"It's Louis' wedding and she's like family to Cara. Mum and Dad would be pissed if we let what was really just a holiday fling gone bad create tension this week. This house is big enough for all of us to co-exist in without killing each other.”

"Pfft. Holiday fling?" She wags a finger in my direction. "I've listened to you talk about her for months. I saw your face just now. You looked like you did when found out about Zara and William." I flinch at the mention of their names.

I fix her with a narrow eyed glare. "I don't want to talk about them. Or her. And there's nothing similar about what she did and what they did."

"I think if I spoke to her alone, she would find a reason to leave without anyone knowing that she isn't welcome under our roof." She muses up at the sky, clearly not listening to me.

"Oh, God. Fre, no.” I raise my voice to get her attention, she glances at me, not the slightest bit perturbed. “You’re overreacting. I'm not going to die or anything."

At least not literally.

“I know, but I'm just saying you looked--" she starts to protest.

“That’s enough. I know you're trying to help me and I love you for it. But I'm late and there's nothing to be done that won't upset Louis, Cara, or our parents." I don't want to hear any more. I know how I feel. I sigh heavily, my gut full of dread and anger.

"I'm sure she's wishing she was anywhere but here, too." I give her a dry smile and glance out at the lane that stretches ahead of me. The snow dusted trees that line it are familiar and give me the same feeling of fortitude that they always do. This estate is my birthright, and my responsibility, but I truly love it. I'll be on steadier ground here than I was in Ghana. She can't get under my skin here.

My heart contracts hard as if to tell me I can lie to everyone but myself. The thought of her being here makes me want to break something. Freya, smooths her hand over my head, like she used to when we were little and I’d crawl into her bed after a nightmare. What used to sooth me, now irritates me.

I duck my head from under her hand. She just smiles, a pitying smile and says, "I'm glad you invited Camille to be here this weekend. It'll be good for you to have her there. She's so lovely. I think she'll make you happy."

At that, I groan and roll my eyes. "I've only been seeing her for a month. Leave it."

She mimics me, "Fine, but it's true."

I lean out of the car and place a quick peck on her cold, wind-chafed cheek. "Get inside, it's freezing. I'll see you tonight."

My stomach pitches at the reminder that tomorrow is the rehearsal dinner for Louis and Cara and she’s likely to be there. Freya smiles at me, but the sympathy in her eyes is all I see and it makes me crazy. I'm not a victim. Lilly's the one who walked away from something with real potential. It's her loss. I dodged a bullet.

I force a smile but, shut the door of my car with a slam that makes her jump. I glance in my rearview mirror and see her standing there watching me.

I drive in silence, forgetting to turn on my radio as every single memory that I've battled over the last few months comes flooding back. Her touch, her taste, the way she cried when she came. The salt of her tears on my tongue as I kissed her eyelids. How happy I was when I thought I'd finally gotten somewhere with her. What a fucking joke.

I shake my head in disgust and remember the way I sat in the hotel lobby until noon waiting for her. I'd known she wasn't coming as soon as I got downstairs and she wasn't at our usual table. But I'd sat down anyway, ordered coffee for both of us. Watched as hers had grown cold, a thin film forming over the top as the cream I knew she’d want had congealed.

I didn't call Kojo to get Bambi's information. I decided I wouldn't chase her. Not if she could look at me and promise something she had absolutely no intention of giving.

It was tempting to tell myself the lie that everyone tells themselves when someone doesn't return a call, doesn't show up, or doesn't respond: Maybe they're hurt. Maybe they're lying in a ditch bleeding and alone, unable to reach me.”

Only, they never are. They're just not coming. They’re not going to call. They’re not going to respond.

I'd had enough of lying women to last me a lifetime.

So, I'd gone upstairs, packed my bags, gone to the airport, and left Ghana with my heart in my throat. The tightly wound ball of resentment still sat in my gut for months.

I prayed to never see her again. Those prayers were lies. Seeing her again was all I’d wanted.

But now that I have what I want, I have no clue what I should do.