Page 117 of Broken Deal

“It’s complicated,” I say, keeping my tone neutral as the weight of the truth presses against my chest painfully.

Aria’s nostrils flare in frustration. “You better start filling in the blanks, because none of this makes sense.”

“I’m done talking about it,” I mumble, getting up to resume folding.

But of course, Aria isn’t about to let it go. She’s as stubborn as I am. She grabs the clothes I’ve just folded and tosses them onto the floor. “I’ll keep doing this all day if I have to.”

“Are youfive?” I snap. “Do you know how hard winter clothes are to fold?”

“Talk.Now,” she orders.

“I didn’t write the article. Max did. I tried to explain that to Lorenzo, but he didn’t believe me.” I shrug, my voice tight as I avoid their eyes.

What I don’t say is how deeply I fell in love with him. How his words cut into me like glass, leaving me in pieces. What I don’t say is how utterly shattered and numb I feel. What I don’t say is Iamtrying to escape. I want to leave this city and never look back, because I believed in something that was never real. He made me fall for him, and now all I have to show for it are my scars.

“Why did Max do that? I know he’s always been an asshole, but that’s too far, even for him,” Aria points out.

“For the past few years, I’ve been doing Max’s job,” I confess. There’s no point hiding it anymore. My life atVogue Eliteis over. “That’s why I always worked insane hours.”

“That asshole!” Isabella exclaims. “Why didn’t you report him?”

I shrug sheepishly.

“You wanted to make sure you could still take care of your mom, didn’t you?” Aria asks softly, brushing my forearm. “You were scared he’d fire you.”

I nod, the knot in my throat tightening. “And look at where it got me. The second I told him I was done being his puppet, he did this.”

“You need to report him, Sophia,” Isabella says firmly.

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“So, this is it? You’re just…leaving?” Isabella’s voice wavers, and it shocks me, because Isabella isn’t the type to show emotion.

I close the distance between us and pull her into a tight embrace. “You can always come visit. Now that you own a jet and all,Mrs. Carter,” I joke.

“I have a feeling even if shewasn’tMrs. Carter, Matteowould give her the world.” Aria snickers. “God, I’ll never get used to saying that.” She crosses her arms, tapping her index finger against her cheek. “Isabella Carter,” she says, testing the name like it’s a foreign word on her tongue.

Isabella sniffs, stepping back and giving us a dry look.

After a beat of silence, Aria looks at me. “Is this what you really want?” she asks softly.

I let out a long sigh, nodding.

They exchange a quiet glance before looking back at me, understanding etched into their expressions. I open my arms, pulling them both into a tight hug, holding on to the comfort they bring.

Despite everything, I can tell my friends are sad. I can feel their unspoken worry, how much they don’t want to see me go. And honestly, it breaks my heart a little.

But we don’t talk about it for the rest of the night. Instead, they help me pack, keeping the conversation light, and for a few hours, they manage to help me forget, for the most part. I don’t think there’s enough will in this world that can help me forget about the man who simultaneously mended and broke my heart.

I’ve fallen back into old habits. I practically live at Vortex now, gambling my money away like it’s nothing and drinking whiskey like it’s water. But none of it helps. The more I drink, hoping to forget her, the clearer she becomes—those blue eyes I fell for haunting me every time I close mine. The thrill of gambling, the hope that winning will bring some rush, brings me absolutely nothing. I can’t even look at my damn Ace tattoo without thinking of her and that stupid nickname I learned to love a little too much. I don’t even bother looking at other women. There’s no point. None of them are her.

The article’s still generating buzz, but I’ve tuned it all out. The board’s pleased with the attention the club’s gotten because of it, and they want me to do more interviews to gain even more exposure. Over my dead fucking body will I be doing any of that.

I haven’t been in a kitchen since… Hell, I don’t even know. Something that’s usually my safe space and heaven is now hard to do.

I made a mistake. A colossal one, and I know it. I’ve hadplenty of time to sit with it. I’m still angry—hurt, really—that she wrote that article. But I’ve had to accept she was just doing her job.

It doesn’t change anything, though. Even though it hurts to breathe knowing I’ll never hold her again, never dance with her in the rain, never keep learning about and falling for her with every conversation, I made the right choice. Maybe now she’ll find someone good. An honest man who doesn’t carry all the burdens and scars I do. Someone who can love her the way she deserves.

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