“Let you go for the next three months. It was hard enough doing it the first time.” His sigh drifts across my hair. “Now it’s unbearable.”

Guilt twists in my gut. “Can you give me a few minutes?” I lean forward and slip from his grasp, needing some space to find my composure.

“Take your time.” Liam rises to his feet. “I’ll order some breakfast. Something light.”

The door clicks shut behind him, and I push myself upright and face the pale, hollow-eyed girl in the mirror. Heartache and too many sleepless nights shadow her face, cheeks gaunt from lack of proper nutrition. The acrid scent of vomit hovers in the air, mixing with the stale trace of alcohol.

It’s a reminder of how far I’ve fallen.

I step into the shower and let the scalding water pound against my skin, trying to wash away more than just the remnants of last night.

It’s not enough.

No matter how hard I scrub, or how much steam fills my lungs, I can’t ignore this new reality.

Liam is back in the auction.

Water streams between my fingers as I drag a hand down my face. The nausea may have passed, but the finality of his reinstatement aches in my throat. Of course, I’d choose him over the others, but to admit that, even to myself, feels like another betrayal.

I focus on the rhythm of my breaths, and by the time I shut off the water, my skin is flushed. I wrap myself in a robe and return to the bedroom, where the scent of fresh-baked bread and eggs reach my nose.

Liam stands next to the small table by the balcony doors, pouring tea into a delicate cup. “I thought this might help.” He gestures at the food.

“Thank you.” I sit across from him and choose a croissant from the tray.

He’s downright haggard as he watches me eat with the same stoicism that puts Mr. Bordeaux’s disposition to shame.

“Please say something,” I plead after I can’t take the roar of his silence anymore.

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Something…anything. Just stop looking at me like that.”

“How am I looking at you?”

“I don’t know, but it’s unsettling.”

“Unsettling?” His voice is tight, pulled like a rope on the verge of snapping. “You almost threw yourself off a cliff last night. How am I supposed to look at you?”

As my face burns, I set the half-eaten croissant back on the plate. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

Any of it. Wishing him dead, trying to end my life, or letting him inside my body.