Page 128 of The Revenge Game

“If you keep up this charade, you’ll end up hurting him more.”

“I know.”

“He deserves to hear the truth from you rather than finding out in some other way.”

“I know.” My voice cracks, sounding as fragile as Justin’s trust I’m about to shatter.

How will Justin react when I tell him? Will he still love me?

The scenarios play through my mind—Justin’s face morphing from love to hatred, his hands that cup my face so gently balling into fists instead, that soft smile he saves just for me twisting into something harder, colder.

What will he say when he realizes every intimate moment we’ve shared, every secret he’s trusted me with, was tainted? Will he think everything between us was fake? That I engineered every touch, every laugh, every kiss as part of some elaborate revenge? How can I make him understand that somewhere between plotting revenge and falling in love with him, the person I was pretending to be became more real than who I used to be?

Can the love between us overcome the fact I’ve been lying to him for so long?

My mother always preaches that two wrongs don’t make a right.

But can two wrongs create an epic love story?

I finally fall into an exhausted sleep at around three a.m.

I wake up at nine a.m. to a text message from Justin, sent an hour ago.

Hey, hope you’re feeling better this morning. Roger just contacted me to see if I’m available to go to Cumbria to talk to a potential client, but I didn’t want to say yes until I knew how you were feeling.

I stare at it.

The casual domesticity of him checking with me before making plans feels like a sucker punch to my solar plexus.

I press the call button before I can talk myself out of it, each ring echoing in my ear like a countdown to detonation.

The familiar warmth of his “hello” wraps around me like a comfort blanket. A comfort blanket I’m about to set on fire.

“Hey,” I manage.

“How are you feeling?”

Just hearing the concern in his voice sends a wave of nausea through me that has nothing to do with my fictional food poisoning.

“I’m okay. Just feeling weak. But the worst is over. You should go to Cumbria.”

“Are you sure? Roger already admitted it’s a big ask for me to travel on Boxing Day. But apparently, the account manager he wants me to see is jetting off skiing on the twenty-ninth, so it’s really the only chance to catch him.”

“I’m seriously fine.”

“I’ll drop off some chicken soup before I go, okay? If you’re not feeling up to eating it yet, you can keep it in the fridge until you feel more human.”

I hold my phone so tightly the metal edge digs into my palm.

“Chicken soup would be nice,” I say finally.

“I’ll come over in about an hour before I leave. Make sure you are resting and drinking plenty of fluids.”

“Okay.”

Relief floods through me when I end the call, followed immediately by self-loathing.

Justin is going away for a few days. I can’t tell him right before he leaves on a work trip, right?