Page 149 of Failure to Match

He hadn’t looked at me once all week; wouldn’t speak to me unless I initiated the discussion or directly asked him a question, and even then, his responses were kept polite, short, and impersonal.

Oh, and Ria still didn’t have any reception, so I couldn’t call her and tell her about all the ways I’d fucked up when Wednesday rolled around.

I couldn’t talk to my best friend about how I’d had to sit there and watch the man I was halfway in love with have dinner with another woman. Her name was Lola Tan, she kissed his cheek when she greeted him, and it had ripped my heart in half.

On Thursday, it was Abi. On Friday, Parisa.

I wished I’d never met him.

I wished I’d never met him, but I was so fucking glad I had, you know?

I was at constant war with myself. Part of me—the part that was desperate and bleeding—kept trying to convince me that a contract was enough. He didn’t need to love me back.

Maybe it’s just you he can’t love. Maybe with Lola or Abi or Parisa it would be different. If you don’t stop this, you’ll have to watch him fall in love with someone else.

Is that what you want? So what if he’ll never love you back? Wouldn’t having just a small piece of him be better than not having him at all?

I was falling deeper and deeper into my personal pit of hell and couldn’t map my way back to solid ground.

He had another date tonight, and I didn’t know how I was going to get through it without breaking apart. I tried swallowing back the clump of misery lodged in the center of my throat as I finished applying my mascara, but the wretched thing wouldn’t budge. It was there every morning when I woke up, and it was there every night, keeping me awake.

I twisted the mascara cap back on and tossed it into the vanity drawer with a soft sigh. Not like anyone would be looking at my lashes tonight, but the restaurant was fancy enough to require a restrictive dress code. It didn’t matter how drained or tired I was, the effort was required.

I twisted my hair into a low, elegant bun and pinned it into place, then slipped into my dress—black, simple, and perfect for blending into the background. I still looked a little pale despite the bronzer and blush, and my puffy eyes were rimmed a bruised pink, but this was as good as it was going to get.

Not that it mattered. While I’d been forced to watch him for hours on end, Jackson hadn’t looked at me once all week. I was invisible.

I slipped into my heels, grabbed my clutch, and took a deep breath before leaving my suite.

At least I knew exactly what to expect. We’d fallen into a quick, unexciting routine: Jackson would meet me in the car, I’d brief him on his date while he scrolled through his phone or stared out the window, and then I just had to make it through the next hour.

If the date lasted any longer than that, I was free to make my way to the bar. A perk I’d taken advantage of three times so far.

“Good evening, Miss Paquin.” Mikey dipped his head as he opened the car door for me.

“Hey, Mikey.” My smile felt stiff, but it was better than nothing. “We’re headed to Rouge this evening.”

“I’m aware,” he said before I could give him the address. “Young Master Sinclair will be meeting you there.”

Wait, what? “Where’s he now?”

“At the restaurant. I drove him there just over an hour ago.”

“Why?”

Mikey shrugged. “I didn’t ask.”

Weird. I tried calling him once we’d merged into traffic, but it went straight to voicemail. I was getting really sick of that happening, to be honest.

I hung up with a sigh and decided to text him the briefing instead. His date was with Miray Kaya—sustainable fashion icon and the most beautiful woman on the planet. Out of all the candidates, her and Jackson had the highest overall compatibility score.

Maybe that’s why my bones ached so much today.

Not two seconds after my briefing went through, it switched from Delivered to Read. Frowning, I started to type again. But then he reacted to my message with a thumbs-down emoji.

That was all. He didn’t say anything else.

What does that mean? Which part isn’t to your liking?

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