“Let me explain.”

“Explain what?” I asked dryly, flipping on the light before opening the closet.

He stopped inside the door, sliding his hands into his pockets, leaning on the doorframe. I didn’t chance a look at his expression. My periphery was enough.

I thunked the suitcase on the bed and turned for my dresser.

“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said quietly.

A bitter, severe laugh shot out of me. “That’s what you’re going with?” I loaded an armful of panties, bras, and chemises and dumped them unceremoniously in the gaping suitcase.

Ignoring the jab, he continued, “We met at the engagement party—”

“I know when you met, asshole. I introduced you.” To the closet I whipped, trying to calculate outfits and shoes with the tiny percentage of my brain that wasn’t consumed with Brock the Cock and his excuses. I gnawed my lip so hard, I could feel the throb of blood at the point of contact.

“She’s just … she’s different, Lila. I’ve never met anyone like her before. Natasha is unpredictable when everything in my life seems planned out until I die.”

It was then that I finally turned to him, a painfully slow twist. Our gazes met. He didn’t look sorry, but he wasn’t happy either. There was no regret, but there was no defense.

“Like me,” I finished his thought.

“You and I are comfortable, easy. On paper, it makes sense. But that’s been my whole life. My parents had my application to Columbia filled out when I was in diapers, and I went along with it. I’ve done everything expected of me. I made them happy, but I won’t become them. Sleeping in separate rooms, never speaking beyond what’s required of them. Cold and loveless. I need more. I need passion.”

Fury. It was fury, unbridled and wild, lashed through me sharp enough to draw blood. “No,” I said on a shaky breath.

His fine brows drew together. “No?”

“You don’t get to break up with me. You don’t get to blame me, to make this my fault.” I stepped toward him as I spoke, my voice deadly calm and my body tight as a bowstring. “You weren’t happy? Fine. But don’t pretend like fucking a twenty-year-old child in the apartment we shared was the way to handle it. Self-destruct, if that makes you feel in control of your life. But you don’t get to break up with me. Because I’m leaving you.”

His face was still as he watched me approach, unafraid and unfazed. Pity flashed behind his eyes, and I resisted the impulse to grab the closest inanimate object and brain him with it.