Page 193 of Never Die for a Sinner
I want to ask Mila if she’s heard from him, but I don’t. Because if she says he’s been out at the Tomb with Cherry and her neon-red hair, I might lose it. I might actually show up just to get under his skin. To prove I’m not the girl everyone abandons.
Like maybe if I can piss him off enough, he’ll realize what he lost.
It’s childish.
It’s petty.
It’s human.
By day three, post-Levi, I’ve stopped waiting.
It’s over. And I know that now.
There’s no grand gesture. No apology. Just silence.
By day four, one million andonedollars show up in my account.
One dollar to show he remembers.
One dollar to twist the knife just a little bit deeper.
I rejected it immediately. I couldn’t follow the terms of his cold, transactional little arrangement, and I don’t want his or my father’s money anyway.
I’ve survived without it my entire life. I’ll keep surviving.
What I wanted—what I still stupidly want—ishim.
But that part of me is starting to die, little by little.
On day five, I tell Mila I’m moving. I spend the rest of the night moving into Gran’s old cottage in the woods. It’s off the beaten path and just isolated enough that I don’t have to worry about being friendly with the neighbors.
Everything is covered in dust and cobwebs. I haven’t been able to come back since I moved into Cross Estate. Mainly because it feels hollow without her. But, now . . . so do I.
I start by cleaning out the bedroom as best I can. I’m still surrounded by Gran everywhere I look, but at least now, I can breathe enough to sleep.
And somewhere along the way, I go numb.
Not in a peaceful, I’m-healed-now kind of way. More like my emotions have finally short-circuited.
I hate him.
I hate him because he made me fall in love with him. I’m a walking oxymoron with a penchant for falling for men who should come with a list of trigger warnings.
It’s pathetic.
I want to cry and scream and throw things. I want to break someone else’s heart because mine feels like it’s been ripped out and stomped into the dirt.
It wouldn’t change anything. I’d still be just as miserable without him as I am now. So . . . I accept it.
Not because I’ve moved on.
But because I’ve run out of ways to resist.
On my sixth and final day, I find myself in my old room, packing what few things I have. I hate that it doesn’t smell like him when I pass his door. Almost like he hasn’t been there since I left him.
I’m nearly finished when a sharp knock breaks the silence, echoing through the room like a gunshot. My heart lurches, skipping a beat. I freeze, unable to move. For a moment, it feels like time holds its breath with me.
My mouth is dry when I swallow hard, each step toward the door feeling heavier than the last. I suck in a deep breath and grip the handle like it might anchor me to reality. With a trembling hand, I pull it open—
