Page 90 of Love so Hot

It feels like betrayal. No, it is betrayal. Not because our relationship began as a sham—I knew what I was signing up for when we started this fake dating charade. But along the way, something shifted, lines blurred. And stupidly, foolishly, I let myself think that maybe we had crossed from pretense into something true.

I take a step back from the door, needing distance between me and the man who can talk about me as if I'm just another one of his business problems to solve. I wrap my arms around my middle, trying to hold together the pieces of my bruised ego.

"Damn you, Lawrence Sinclair," I whisper, the hurt morphing into a jagged, raw edge of determination. This farce ends now.

My footsteps echo too loudly as I stride off down the hall, the sound a funeral march for whatever foolish hopes had blossomed in my chest.

I slam the door to my room behind me, the sound sharp in the stillness of this stupidly large house. My breath hitches as I fight the tears welling up, a battle I'm destined to lose. Stupid, stupid tears. Larry's voice still rings in my ears, cold and calculating. Just another business problem, that's all I am.

The walls of my room feel like they're closing in on me. I should've known better than to let myself believe in this... whatever it was. But when he looked at me with those hazel eyes, when he smiled just so, I thought maybe we were becoming real.

I yank open the dresser, pulling out clothes and tossing them into my suitcase without care. Forget folding; who cares if they wrinkle.

"Hey, what are you doing?" I jump at the sound. Larry's voice from the doorway is laced with confusion, but I don't miss the note of concern either.

I whirl around, my pulse racing. "I heard what you said," I snap before he can say another word. His face registers surprise, but I barrel on, fueled by my hurt. "Just part of the strategy? Not like this is permanent, so I'm leaving."

"Wait, you misunderstood—" He tries to step closer, his hands reaching out as if to calm me.

"Save it, Sinclair." I cut him off, shaking my head. I need to get out of here, away from his charm and his lies. Away from the ridiculous fantasy I let myself indulge in.

"Please, just listen to me," he pleads.

"I don't care what you think you meant," I spit the words out, my hands balled into fists at my sides. The room feels suddenly smaller, with him standing there, his usual composed self now clouded with an emotion I can't read.

"Look, let me explain—" His voice has that smooth, persuasive edge, but it grates on me now.

"Explain what? How I'm just a pawn in your strategy?" My voice rises despite myself, bouncing off the walls of this monstrosity of a house.

"Damn it, no! It's not like that," he says, his temper flaring up, those hazel eyes flashing frustration. "You're more than that."

"Am I?" Doubt laces my tone, thick and choking. "Because from where I'm standing, I'm just your ticket to a good image. A way to calm the media."

"Damn it, will you just listen to me!" He slams a hand against the door frame, the thud echoing our escalating argument.

"Listen to you lie? No thanks, I've had enough." I can feel tears threatening again, but they won't fall. Not in front of him.

"Stop being so damn stubborn!" he shouts, the sound ricocheting in the tight space between us.

"Stubborn?" I laugh, hollow and bitter. "That's rich coming from you, Lawrence Sinclair."

We're both breathing hard now, the air charged with anger and something else, something that used to feel like hope.

"Look, I know how it sounded, but?—"

I cut him off with a sharp shake of my head. "It doesn't matter. I made a mistake thinking this could ever be anything but a deal. But I get it now."

"Please, just give me a chance to?—"

"Chance?" The word tastes like acid on my tongue. "No, we're done with chances."

I see his jaw clench, see the struggle as he tries to maintain control. But I’m past caring. Past wanting to understand why or how.

"I can't do this anymore," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the tension. "I'm leaving. This arrangement is over."

His face pales, and for a moment, the mask slips, showing a glimpse of something raw. "You don't mean that."

"I do." I heave my bag on my shoulder, ready to leave behind this charade, even if it means leaving behind a piece of me with it. "I'll get the rest of my stuff later."

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