Page 63 of What You left in Me

“I know.” It lands like a bruise. “I hoped you lovedmemore than you loved the version of yourself that gets applauded.”

“That’s not fair,” he says, heat under the words for the first time… an edge. “I don’t use people like that.”

“Then why do I feel used?” My voice gentles without permission. That scares me more than the anger. A part of me knows I’m being hypocritical considering last night with Finn. Considering everything I’ve been feeling since I came back here.

Fuck. How did I get into this mess?

He stares at the floor, then at the phone, then at me. Resolve clicks in his eyes. He lifts the screen, thumb hovering over the contact at the top, no name, just the initials she saved in his thread, a little sun emoji next to them like an insult. He looks like he’s about to jump and build the parachute on the way down.

“No.” I stop him. Quiet. Final.

“Ari, you can check my phone. I don’t even have the number saved…”

“No.” I hold his gaze. “Just put it away.”

He lowers it and puts it back on the counter.

I take my ring off.

It’s a small motion, a twist and a slide. The cold circle leaves a pale indent behind. I don’t look at my hand. I look at him as I set the ring in his palm. He stares at it like it might reattach itself to me if he opens his fingers.

“Ariane.” His voice breaks on my name. He isn’t pretending. He’s bleeding right in front of me. It doesn’t change what’s true. “Don’t.”

“Your bag’s in the car,” I say. My tone holds—flat iron over silk. “You were leaving anyway. Please don’t come back.”

He blinks. “You… what do you mean?”

“What I said, Julian. I can’t do this right now. Just stay gone.”

A shocked breath escapes him; it almost laughs, almost chokes. “You’re serious.”

“Please go,” I repeat, because if I say one more sentence I will crumble right here on the rug, and the rug doesn’t deserve that.

“I can’t leave you like this.”

“You already did,” I say. “You just didn’t notice.”

Something in his expression pinches, offended and wrecked. “This isn’t me. Fuck, you’re ruining this over some fake screenshots?”

“Find the version who didn’t do this and bring him back,” I say. “But he’s not the one standing in my mother’s lounge.”

The room goes very quiet. He nods once, a concession he doesn’t believe yet. He tucks the ring into his jacket pocket like it might cut him. He picks up the overnight bag he left behind the sofa earlier. He walks to the gallery and pauses with his hand on the doorframe, not looking back like it might undo the last two minutes if he does.

“If you need me…” he begins.

“I won’t,” I say, and it’s cruel and also the only shield within reach.

He nods. Then, he goes. His footsteps travel the length of the gallery, the marble turning them into a record I’ll hear tonight when I try to sleep. The front door opens. Somewhere under the porte-cochère, an engine starts. Tires whisper. The gate clicks. Distance.

I stand very still until the tremor in my hands remembers who’s in charge. The chandelier blurs; I blink it back into focus. My finger throbs where the ring used to be. I curl my hand into a fist and it stops feeling so empty. Before I change my mind, I grab my phone and delete the file. I don’t ever want to look at it again.

I turn.

Finn is in the archway.

No sound or warning. Just him, set into the stone like the house decided to grow a darker doorway. Jacket open, tieloosened, hair pushed back by a hand that didn’t ask permission. One palm in his pocket, the other braced lightly on the column, like the estate needs his steadiness as much as I do. The room is built to make people smaller; he looks perfectly scaled to it.

He takes in everything. The pill bottles aligned like soldiers, the two mugs steaming on coasters, the folded towel with the cuff, the yawning space where Julian isn’t, my bare left hand… and his eyes find mine and hold. He doesn’t say a word.