Page 168 of Empire State Enemies

It wasn’t just the suits and muscles and the sexy Christian Grey swagger reeling me in against my will. I was drawn to his broken pieces too. But time and again he’s proved those jagged edges will slice my heart without remorse.

Deep down I guess I hoped I’d be the magical exception. I could make a difference, be the one to finally get through his mile-high barriers. LOL. Idiotic pipe dream shared by countless ladies before me who also stupidly thought they could fix someone so damaged.

The same awful question hammers in my brain, mocking any chance of sleep. How could he treat me like this? Was I just nothing to him?

By 11 p.m., I’m still staring at the ceiling, battling the pathetic urge to text him and talk things out. Because clearly, I haven’t been humiliated enough today.

But I said I was done and I meant it. There’s no coming back from this. My pride would never allow it.

I fire my phone onto the table at a safe distance. It lands beside the bright-blue folder—the one I’d filled with resources I’d found about his health condition. I’d gathered information on support groups, therapies, anything that might help. I wanted to know he wasn’t facing this alone.

What a fucking joke.

I might as well have been researching ways to communicate with ghosts for all the good it did.

Storming over, I shove that naive evidence of caring under old mail. Out of sight, out of mind. He doesn’t deserve my help or sympathy.

He’s not worth it.

???

Four hours later, I’m still glaring daggers at my silent phone, as if my sheer willpower can magically will it to sprout legs, march itself to Connor’s deluxe penthouse, and demand the groveling apology I richly deserve from that infuriating man currently sleeping sound in thousand count sheets instead of groveling desperately at my door.

I toss and turn, absolutely fuming.

Hating everything about him.

Hating that my stupid bed smells faintly of his aftershave.

Hating that there are too many pillows now, thanks to his giant blockhead requiring its own fluffy entourage. Huffing irritably, I grab one and hurl it across the room. It flops pathetically two whole feet.

Hating that he owes me the groveling of the century and isn’t delivering.

Hating that I got in his stupid car that day and let him talk me into being his friend, to then be tricked into giving him my heart and my trust.

Hating that trip to Ireland, all romantic and fairy tale–like, that’s nothing but a joke now.

And most of all, hating how he stared into my eyes and held my hand when we made love beside the fire, because that’s what it was to me, even if it meant nothing to him. That’s when he lied to me the most. With his fucking eyes. Making me believe I was special.

Now I know he bails at the first sign of something not going his way.

I deserve better than this.

The Quinn brothers are just arrogant bullies. I should have known better. I thought I was smarter than this.

I was mistaken.

No one, especially not Connor Quinn, will ever make me feel this way again.

???

Dragging my zombie ass out of bed, I stumble into the shower after another sleepless night. It’s been two nights since Connor kicked me out of Killian’s house. I thought I might feel a bit less shitty by now, but the pain is still as raw and fresh as ever. This has been such a horrible weekend, each minute dragging by.

Whoever spewed that crap about “things looking brighter by morning” clearly never had their heart mangled by an emotionless motherfucker who flips feelings off like a light switch.

So I hit the pavement to rage-run it off, stomping twenty blocks and trying to torch this anger and heartache from my cells.

In my head, I chew Connor out a dozen different ways. Verbally rip him to shreds with enough attitude and pissed-off monologues to make any grown dude bawl.