I remain quiet. The guilt is eating away at my stomach.

Bending down, James reaches for a shirt I left on the ottoman this morning and throws it to me. It falls into a soft heap right in front of me. I don't reach for it because I can't seem to steer myself from looking at him. His eyes probe me longer, deeper, like he's begging me to change my mind so he can make me his wife. Still, I remain quiet. He exhales a breath through his nose and I feel the frustration flaring from him. I love him so much and I'd give him anything else he asked for, but I can't give him that.

I swallow thickly as he props his hands on his hips. The colorful hues of his inked arms flicker against the low lighting in our room. My gaze lands on the flower he had tattooed onto his forearm. It was a moment, our first one, and one of the first tattoos he'd gotten on his untouched arm. The flower matches the dress I wore when we first met in Bryant Park. To this day, it's still his favorite.

"Do you have no desire to get married? Or does the idea of marrying me repulse you?"

"Repulse me?" I repeat. "You think marrying you repulses me?"

I'm shaking now over his asinine words.

Men are so dumb sometimes.

I need to count to ten, but I'm beyond hurt that he thinks he repulses me.

My eyes flare, instantly filling with tears. How could he even think that? He has to know what he means to me. James is taking this the wrong way.

My heart is a burning ball of fire right now confined inside of my chest. I grab the shirt and let the sheet fall to my hips to slip it on. It's inside out but I don't really give a fuck. I jump out of bed and march right up to him with determination. Lifting my chin, I say, "If marriage to you repulsed me, would I even be in a relationship with you? Just because I don't want to get married doesn't mean I don't want you."

"What's the reason then, Aubrey?"

My lips twitch, anxiety filling me instantly. "There's no reason."

He takes a step closer to me and a little gasp crests in my throat. I ache to lean into him. I'm so drawn to him. How could he question any of it?

"There has to be."

There is, but now isn't the time to bring it up. Not when the tension is increasing by the second.

"You won't ever marry me, will you?".

His voice is a clamp on my pulse. I'm reminded of the day I walked away from us the first time all those years ago in his home. How he looked when he threw his glass across the room—the way it shattered against the wall—knowing there was no changing my mind. He feels ruined, again, because he won't win.