“You proposed of your own accord,” I say, jutting my chin out. “That was all you. And I was happy to say yes.”

He looks at me with such bitterness, I could shatter.

He gets up from the couch and crosses the living room to lean against the kitchen island. He clutches it like it’s keeping him upright. I can’t help the hot tears welling up and threatening to spill onto my cheeks now.

“You used me to turn a profit and never bothered to clue me in. That’s not love, Eliza.”

“Please, Blake, listen,” I plead. I’m dangerously close to the verge of hyperventilating. “I know that was wrong. I need to make this up to you. But you said it yourself when you proposed—we would have the best life together.”

There’s a long silence in which he stares at me with dead eyes. I’m too afraid to break eye contact.

“Eliza,” he says quietly—so quietly I almost can’t make it out. That’s scarier than if he yelled. “Get out. We’re done.”

I can barely feel my feet as I rise from the couch.

“I’m going, I’m going,” I say. I slip my shoes on and grab my purse.

He’s still stony-faced and frozen in the kitchen.

“Go,” he says simply.

So I leave and close my fiancé’s door behind me, possibly for forever.

• Chapter 21 •

When I wake on Monday morning, my eyes feel sealed shut with schmutz. They’re swollen like grapefruits from crying all weekend. Everything feels grubby and grimy: the dark smudges of makeup on my fingers and pillowcase, my greasy hair, my sweaty bedsheets. Outside, the sky is alarmingly blue, as if it’s midday instead of my usual 7:30 a.m. wake-up. In a panic, I grab for my phone on the nightstand. It’s nearly noon. Of course, I forgot to set my alarm last night. There are several texts and missed calls from Sophie.

“Accidentally slept in, coming soon,” I type back, then throw my phone onto the other side of my bed.

I certainly don’t feel as if I slept in. I was up until at least 3 or 4 a.m. as my mind churned through the same scene over and over again. I replayed Blake’s bitter gaze, the cold horror of the moment he understood what I had done, and the pained way he refused to even sit near me. I couldn’t help but anxiously wonder what would happen to Blake, what would happen to my company, and how this would all play out in the press. I know that I deserve every inch of panic and misery and self-flagellation. I hurt someone for my personal gain, and in the end, it might not even matter. Maybe it’s karma. Maybe I deserve to lose everything.