Page 25 of Bared Betrayal
Sebastian pulls back. He has no idea that I was just a million miles away from his kiss. “I love you. I’ll be back this weekend.”
“Love you, too.” The words barely leave my mouth before he disappears, and the closing of the front door echoes with the sound of me being utterly alone. With my thoughts. With my memories.
I never thought of myself as the cheating type. I never imagined I’d do what I did. I’ve been faithful to Sebastian since the day we met. Hurting him has never once crossed my mind.
I’m not a cheater.
I touch my finger to my lips, replaying every second, every moment, every detail of that night. I can’t get it out of my head. I don’t want to. I’m afraid if I forget, life will start to wither inside me again. My memory is all I have because I can never go back there. It was only for one night. One experience. And it’s over now.
I’m not a cheater.
I keep repeating it as if saying it over and over again makes it true. Makes me believe that it wasn’t me the other night at Myth with the blue-eyed stranger. Not me gasping in pleasure under the sting of pain. Or me writhing on black silk sheets with a man I don’t even know the name of choking me, fucking me until I see nothing but stars.
That wasn’t me at all.
God, who am I?I shake my head. I don’t feel like I know. Two sides of a coin. It flips, and the other side emerges. Will there always be two of me?
Overwhelmed with too many emotions, unable to distinguish between them, I pick up my phone and dial a number—one I haven’t phoned in a while. I bite my lip as I listen to it ringing, inhaling deeply when it’s finally answered.
“Hi. This is Kallie Sawyer.” I pull my hand through my messy hair. “I would like to check in on a patient. Pearson.” I walk up to the window, glancing down the street, the asphalt a dark, dreary gray from the rain. “Yeah. Is she…has there been any change? She hasn’t gotten worse? Okay…That’s great. Thank you.” I hang up, leaning back against the windowsill, allowing myself one single moment to wish my life was different.
My phone vibrates in my hand, signaling a text. Sighing in frustration, I pick it up, swipe the screen…and feel the world drop right from under me. “Oh, my God.” I sink back against the wall, slipping down until I’m flat on my ass, staring at my phone’s screen. “No,” I whisper. “No.”
It’s a photograph of a headstone, a single white rose placed upon it. And the name on it is one I know all too well.
“Jesus, no.” I’m lightheaded, my stomach turning inside as I stare at the image, feeling like my entire life just landed in someone else’s palms.Who sent me this? Who knows about me?
My eyes well with tears and the familiar ache in my chest settles in as I stare in dread at the screen. I’ve spent years hiding who I really am, becoming someone else. But someone has dug up my secrets, leaving my past exposed. Accepting Sebastian’s proposal, paired with the fame he basks in, opened the box to my past, and I don’t know if I can close it.
Another text appears. I stop fucking breathing altogether, black spots swimming in front of my eyes as I read it.
Don’t you want to tell your story?
The words pierce my chest, and all time seems to stop, tears burning the back of my eyes. With shaky hands, I type a text back.
Who is this?
Someone who wants you to tell your story in your own words.
I don’t have a story.
My heart beats wildly as I wait, holding my breath and wiping tears from my cheeks. When my phone signals a new message, my chest breaks open as the words appear.
Yes, you do…Miss Pearson.
No.
Eight
KALLIE
Just breathe.
In and out.
Slow, deep breaths.
My palms are sweaty, nerves gnawing away at my bones. I hate every minute of this. I stare around the huge Tower room at all these people I don’t know. I can feel their eyes on me. Studying me. Scrutinizing me. Judging the bride-to-be. I’ve never even seen most of them, and they’re here atmyengagement party. This entire charade is ridiculous. All of it. So ostentatious and over the top. Too many flowers, too much crystal, too many glasses of champagne and hors d’oeuvres. Too much of everything. And nothing of me.
