Page 135 of Kiss Me Like I Didn't Kill You

Tears spill freely down my face. I shake my head weakly. “I’m sorry… I can’t.”

“Don’t say that,” he grits out.

“I feel guilty,” I whisper, my voice trembling.

“I know,” he says firmly. “Because you’re too damn pure for this world. But none of this is your fault.”

“I don’t think we can come back from this.”

“You keep saying that, ma lune,” he murmurs, “but I’ll prove you wrong. There’s no other ending for us.”

“You hurt me, Arlo,” I whisper, barely audible. “Deeply.”

He closes his eyes for a moment. “I know. And I hate myself for it more than you could ever understand.”

“I need time,” I whisper.

He studies me for a long moment, so long I almost think he won’t answer. Then he exhales.

“I understand. I’ll give you that time, even if it kills me. Because I need to earn your forgiveness. But don’t mistake distance for surrender, Ophelia.”

He leans closer, his voice low. “You’re mine, now, always, and forever. Remember that.”

He stands, hesitates for a moment, then turns toward the door.

And when he leaves, it feels like he’s taken the air, and my heart, with him.

Chapter 49

Ophelia

It’s Christmas Day, but I feel anything but joy.

It’s been just over twenty days since the accident. Ten of those, I spent in a coma. The rest, a slow, disorienting recovery.

I’m home now, back in Italy, at my father’s estate.

I was discharged five days after waking, and with the academy closed for the winter break, there was little choice but to return here.

My body still aches in places I didn’t know could hurt, bruised and tender, but at least I can walk without assistance.

Octavia hasn’t left my side once. My father, on the other hand, has made himself scarce. I haven’t seen him properly since I arrived. It’s strange how comforting his absence feels. For once, I’m not under the weight of his temper, and I don’t question the reason.

Most days, I stay in bed. The doctor insists I rest, and my body doesn’t argue. I try to read, to watch films, even to knit, anything to distract myself with trivialities, but my thoughts always find their way back to him.

Arlo.

He sent so many flowers to the hospital that they ran out of vases. I eventually asked the nurses to take them home, there was simply no space left.

When I returned to Italy, they kept coming. Every few hours, a member of the staff would knock softly and leave another bouquet on one of the few remaining surfaces. In the end, I had to ask the staff to spread the bouquets throughout the estate.

All white tulips.

My sister keeps saying they meanI’m sorry, grinning every time she reminds me.

Each bouquet arrives with a note.

Just one.