Page 12 of Meesha & Connor (What Happens In Vegas #2)

“How did she take it?” I ask, checking Kayla’s vitals on the monitor. Her discharge is scheduled for tomorrow, a success story in a week that’s otherwise felt like a personal apocalypse.

Kayla’s fingers twist the edge of her blanket. “She cried for two hours straight.”

My heart constricts. Five days since Connor walked out, and my own tears still come without warning.

“I’m sorry. That must have been awful.”

“It was,” she admits, meeting my eyes. “But then something weird happened. After all that crying, she hugged me.”

I pause, chart forgotten in my hands. “She hugged you?”

Kayla nods with a hint of wonder on her face. “She said she was devastated, but at least now she understood why I’d been acting so strange. That not knowing was worse than the truth.”

While this sixteen-year-old found the courage to face her mistake, I’d hidden mine until it exploded in my face.

“The thing is,” Kayla continues, “she said if Asher had told her, or if she’d found out some other way instead of hearing it from me...” She shrugs. “She thinks it would have broken us completely.”

I swallow hard, remembering Dennis’s smug face at Kamal’s party and the revelation that shattered my world.

“So you’re okay?” I ask.

“Not yet.” Kayla’s smile is small but genuine. “But we’re talking. That’s something, right?”

“That’s everything,” I say.

As I exit the hospital into the fading afternoon light, my phone buzzes with my mother’s photo lighting up the screen. Taking a deep breath, I answer.

“Hey, Mama.”

“Where are you, baby girl? You were supposed to be home an hour ago.” Her voice carries a blend of worry and command that’s intensified since she arrived four days ago.

“Just got off shift.” I slide into my car. “I’m going to stop by the house for a bit.”

“Meesha...” Her voice softens with concern. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Am I ready to face the embodiment of everything I’ve lost? Probably not. But I need to see it.

“I’ll be fine. I promise.”

“I don’t like you being alone right now.”

“I’ll text when I get there, okay?”

“You betta, baby girl.”

The drive to the lakefront property stretches through familiar streets, my mind caught between memory and regret with each turn of the wheel.

When I finally pull up to the house—our house—the setting sun stretches long shadows across its freshly sided exterior.

Connor had insisted on the warm cedar, blue, saying it reminded him of a summer sky reflected in the lake.

I park beside the construction dumpster and sit for a moment, gathering courage to enter what feels simultaneously like a dream and a nightmare. The May breeze rustles the trees surrounding the property as I finally step out.

My fingers tremble as I punch the numbers into the keypad. The door swings open to reveal what should have been our entryway—currently just bare drywall and subfloor, waiting for the finishing touches we’d planned to select together.

I move through the space slowly, trailing my fingers along unfinished walls. The living room, with its wall of windows faced the lake and the dining area we’d imagined hosting Thanksgiving dinners and Christmas celebrations with our future children.

In the kitchen, yellow sticky notes still mark where each appliance will go. Connor’s neat handwriting labels each space— refrigerator, double oven, coffee station.

We’d spent hours debating the merits of a kitchen island versus a peninsula, finally compromising on a design that incorporated elements of both.

“You’ll need lots of counter space for your baking experiments,” he’d said, wrapping his arms around me from behind as we reviewed the blueprints. “And I need room for my morning coffee ritual.”

The memory brings a fresh wave of pain. I sink to the floor, back against the wall where our refrigerator should stand.

Upstairs, I hesitate outside what would have been our bedroom. The door is partially closed, though I know I left it open during my last visit weeks ago. Taking a deep breath, I push it open.

Unlike the rest of the house, this room has been partially finished. The walls are painted a soft yellow we selected together. Plush carpet covers the floor instead of the bare subfloor. And there, centered beneath the window—our bed.

Not just any bed, but the king-sized four-poster we’d spotted in an antique shop in Montreal last winter. Connor had it shipped and refinished as a surprise.

A strangled sound escapes my throat as I cross to it, running my fingers over the smooth wood. This wasn’t supposed to be here yet. We’d planned to move in furniture after the honeymoon.

On the nightstand sits a framed photo of us from our trip to Quebec City, snow dusting our hats as we smile into the camera, cheeks flushed with cold and happiness.

The dam finally breaks. I collapse onto the bed, clutching the picture to my chest as sobs rack my body. Ten years of love. A lifetime of plans. All jeopardized by my doubts.

The possibility that Connor might never forgive me, that this beautiful house might remain forever empty of the family we planned to build, engulfs me with grief so consuming my lungs seem to forget their purpose.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room, to the man who isn’t there to hear it. “I’m so sorry.”

The subtle shift in the air makes me pause. A presence. I sense him before I hear him.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. Slowly, I turn, and there he stands in the doorway, silhouetted against the hallway light.

“Connor.”

After five days of silence and imagining this moment, he’s here, watching me with those dark eyes that have always seen straight through to my soul.

“Ma belle.” His voice is rough.

I sit up slowly, setting the photo on the nightstand with trembling hands. My heart drums so violently I’m certain he hears it from across the room.

“What are you doing here?” I say softly.

“Your mom told me where to find you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry, Connor. Not just for the kiss, but for not telling you. For letting you find out from him instead of from me.”

Connor moves to the edge of the bed. “You know what hurts the most, Meesha? Not the kiss. Not even the lying. It’s that you didn’t trust me enough to handle your doubts.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I was wrong. So wrong.”

He’s silent for a long moment, his gaze returning to the window where the last rays of sunlight are disappearing behind the trees.

“I shouldn’t have canceled the wedding like that,” he finally says. “By email. Without talking to you first.”

My head snaps up.

“I was hurt,” he continues. “And angry. I wanted you to feel as blindsided as I did.”

“Connor, I know I’ve damaged your trust. But I need you to know that in ten years, there’s never been anyone else. Not emotionally, not physically. Just you.”

“I believe you,” he says softly. Connor takes both my hands in his “I’ve been thinking about us, about how we got here.”

I tilt my head, waiting.

“We both hurt each other. You with Dennis, me with the lies and my failure to stand up to Maman. Neither of us is blameless.”

“No,” I agree, squeezing his hands. “We’re not.”

“I want us to promise something to each other. That we’ll both work every day to earn back what we almost lost. Not just you earning my trust, but me earning yours too.”

A sob escapes me. “I’d like that. I’ve missed you so much.”

“J’ai manqué de toi aussi,” he says, his accent thickening with emotion. “I’ve missed you too.”

Just as we’re about to kiss, Dennis materializes in our bedroom doorway, a pistol glinting in his hand. My heart stops beating.

“Touching reunion,” he says, his voice eerily calm. “Sorry not sorry to interrupt.”

Connor turns toward Dennis. “What are you doing here?”

“Claiming what’s mine. Meesha belongs with me, not you.”

The air freezes in my lungs. “Dennis, please,” I say, slowly standing. “Put the gun down. Let’s talk about this.”

His attention shifts to me, eyes brightening. “There’s nothing to discuss. I’m here for you, Meesha. We’re meant to be together. The way you looked at me in Vegas... I’ve been following you for weeks. I know you feel it too.”

Dread spreads through my veins. He reaches toward me with his free hand, and I instinctively step back.

“Don’t touch her,” Connor growls.

Dennis’s face contorts with rage. He fires a shot that embeds itself in the wall inches from Connor’s head.

The sound is deafening in the enclosed space, the smell of gunpowder instantly filling the room. My eardrums throb with the percussion.

I scream, dropping to my knees. “Stop! Please don’t hurt him!”

Dennis lunges forward, grabbing my arm and yanking me between them. I stumble, my back pressed against his chest as he reaches around me to press the gun to Connor’s temple.

“You see how perfect we are together?” Dennis whispers in my hair. “Once he’s gone, there will be nothing between us.”

His free hand slides possessively down my waist, and I suppress a shudder of revulsion. Facing me, Connor’s expression hardens with outrage.

Inhaling deeply, I focus on the air filling my lungs. There’s a way through this. There’s always a way through. We just need to stay alive long enough to find it.

“You’re right,” I say, forcing my voice to remain serene. “We belong together.”

Dennis’s grip loosens. “You’re choosing me?”

I nod, maintaining eye contact with Connor, willing him to understand my plan. “But first, you need to lower the gun. How will we be together if you’re in prison for his murder?”

“I don’t believe you,” Dennis says.

“It’s true,” I insist. My palm is sweating as I step back slowly to place it against his chest, fighting the urge to recoil. “That kiss in Vegas was unlike anything I’ve experienced. I’ve been fighting my feelings ever since.”

Dennis’s full attention is on me now. “I knew it,” Dennis breathes. “I knew you felt it too.”

“How could I not?” I continue, touching his face while I internally cringe. “You’ve shown me what passion really means. What devotion looks like.”