chapter 2

I took the notebook, a smile touching my lips as I slid it into my bag.

Then, lightly—as if his skin might burn me—I tapped his arm. "Scott. See you on the ninth."

His ears flushed crimson. "Make it the eighth," he mumbled, voice thick. "We can review Calculus together."

"The eighth, then."

...

"What day is the eighth, Scott?" I said into the phone, hair dripping a cold rhythm down my neck. "Do you remember?"

"I know, Rosé. But something came up at the office—you know how critical this project is." His voice was soft, placating, woven with that particular tenderness he used like a tool. "I'll make it up to you. I promise."

Had I not stood outside that patisserie, I might have believed him.

He loved his career.

In all our years, work had often come first. Missed dinners, forgotten plans—I had always chosen to understand.

Omnity Partners was our shared creation.

We built it from nothing. We worked through the nights, pitching to anyone who would listen, surviving on caffeine and takeout, and pushed ourselves so hard I once ended up in the ER with a bleeding stomach.

No one knew better than I what that company meant to him.

A man like that wouldn't make cakes with a girl during work hours.

For the first time, Scott felt like a stranger.

I towel-dried my hair, roughly.

On the hook next to mine hung his towel.

He'd insisted our "couple towels" should always be close.

I threw mine into the washing machine.

A towel could be cleaned.

But love? What would you do when love turned dirty?

"Rosé, happy anniversary." Scott pushed the door open, his voice buoyant with joy. "From your favorite patisserie. Sorry I'm late."

I watched from my chair as he set the box on the table.

The classic strawberry chocolate cake.

A perfect, airbrushed red rose stared back from the lid—the same bloom he'd held when he asked, "Can I call you my rose?"

A cold relief cut through me.

Thank god. At least it was store-bought. If he'd brought home some crooked little DIY cake—something she might have helped him pipe—I though I might've lost my mind right there.

When I didn't move, he came closer. He knelt, his presence too large for the space between us. His fingers found my earlobe. "Rosé, I'm sorry," he said, his voice dipped to that soft, persuasive register. "Just forgive me this once? I truly couldn't get away."

His eyes were bright with practiced sincerity. The same look he'd used so many times before. This performance of remorse.

How many of those other times had been lies, too?

My heart felt swollen, numb. Heat stung the back of my nose, my throat thick with everything I couldn't say.

I turned my head aside, letting his hand drift off me.

His expression stiffened.

"Rosé. Don't be unreasonable," he said, the words suddenly chilled. "You've never been like this before." It was a threat, soft-spoken.

"I'm stuffed," I said, my voice flat. "I can't eat anything else tonight." My gaze drifted to the clock on the wall. The hands pointed to eleven.