Page 34 of What You left in Me

When it does, I’ll be awake. And when morning comes, I’ll still be here.

Chapter 12 – Ariane – Perfume and Promises

I’m in a stiff plastic hospital chair that could double as a medieval torture device, my neck screaming at me for the position I apparently passed out in. I shouldn’t even be here in fresh clothes. I shouldn’t smell faintly of lavender detergent instead of smoke and champagne. I shouldn’t have hair that looks brushed or a cardigan soft against my skin. But I do. Because last night, after the world cracked open on the lawn, I didn’t stay. I left the hospital. I left with Finn.

Finn.

That’s the part that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.

We drove home together. His car, the console, the kiss, God, that kiss, and then silence so loud it could have drowned me. He dropped me off without a word, and I went inside on legs that didn’t feel like mine. I showered, changed into shorts and a sports bra, stared at myself in the mirror until my reflection blurred, and finally crawled into bed with wet hair and a heart that felt like it had been dropped down a flight of stairs. I didn’t sleep much, just drifted in and out, replaying everything like some cruel movie I couldn’t switch off.

Now I’m back, in fresh clothes, pretending to be a dutiful daughter while Richard lies motionless under too many machines. My mother looks like a zombie across the hall, still in last night’s dress, pearls glued to her throat like armor, lipstick smeared, face gray under her makeup. She shoved a change of clothes into my hands this morning but never bothered with her own. That’s Eleanor Wagner for you: appearances first, even if she looks like death warmed over.

Me? I look fine. Presentable. Respectable. A woman who knows how to keep herself together. Except I don’t. Because the only thing running through my mind, while my stepfather fights for his life and my fiancé paces outside with perfect, political calm, is the heat of Finn’s mouth on mine, the rough scrape of his hand at my waist, the way I didn’t stop him.

I curl my fingers tighter around Richard’s hand, as if he can anchor me back to who I’m supposed to be. “You promised me forever,” I whisper. My throat stings, my chest twists. “Don’t you dare get out of it now.”

The only answer is the mechanical chorus, plastic sighs and electronic beeps. No witty comeback about how he burns the first batch every time. No dad-joke about the coffee being “rocket fuel.” Just silence, except for the machines. My stomach twists so hard it feels like it’s folding in on itself.

And then the guilt comes barreling in, as relentless as the monitor.

I lean forward, pressing my forehead to Richard’s hand, trying to scrub the memory out, but it only sinks deeper. The way Finn pulled the car over abruptly like he’d made up his mind and nothing in the world could stop him. The way his eyes found mine in the dark, storm-gray and unreadable, but telling me everything anyway. The way I leaned in first, like some reckless stranger had hijacked my body.

And when our mouths crashed together, messy, wild, and desperate. It was fire and ruin, his hand fisting in my hair, his other anchoring hard at my waist. The console digging into my hip, my knee jammed awkwardly against the cupholder, it should’ve been uncomfortable, but it wasn’t. It felt like the only place I was supposed to be. His mouth opened against mine and I swear I forgot what air was.

I should’ve stopped. Even if it isn’t by blood, we’re still related, for the love of God. If nothing else, I should’ve remembered Julian—remembered the ring on my finger and the promise I made when I accepted it. I should’ve thought of the man lying in this hospital bed, who would be sick to his stomach if he ever found out what we did.

Yet I lost myself to primal hunger, all-consuming heat, and the sounds Finnick Wagner elicited from the depths of my soul.

But that was last night.

Today, the shame burns hotter than the kiss ever did.

“I am a disaster,” I whisper against Richard’s hand. My voice cracks, half-laugh, half-sob. “I have a fiancé who endlessly adores me. I have a father figure fighting for his life. And here I am, still thinking about my stepbrother’s mouth.”

I almost laugh again, but it catches in my throat and turns to tears. What kind of sick person does this?

Me, apparently.

I squeeze my eyes shut, but the flashbacks keep coming in jagged fragments: the heady smell of his cologne, the scrape of his stubble against my palms, the sound of him swearing when I pulled at his shirt and popped a button. And then the moment after, the silence thick as tar when I pulled back and gasped, “We can’t.”

His face… God, his face. Like he wanted to argue. Like he’d already decided we both knew the truth: we’d crossed the line, and there was no uncrossing it.

I sit up abruptly, wiping my face with the heel of my hand.

“Get it together, Ariane,” I scold, furious with myself. I deserve to go to hell. “No one cares to hear about your existential meltdown. Selfish, sick, wretched…”

The sound of footsteps saves me from spiraling further.

It’s Julian. I know from the sound of his footsteps, that gait I have learned over time and would know anywhere. This man, who adores me, who I have betrayed like a soulless whore.

He slips into the room like he’s arriving for a press conference, suit immaculate even this early, hair combed, and his tie knotted perfectly. His eyes soften the very instant they land on me. In his hand, he carries coffee like an offering. He’s wonderful. I feel sick to my stomach.

“Double cream, no sugar,” he says sweetly, placing it into my hands before I can object. “I thought you might need it, sweetheart.”

I blink at the cup, then at him. “Why are you so good to me?”

His smile is small, warm, practiced. “My beautiful girl deserves a beautiful life,” he returns, his words as smooth as a line made for the silver screen.