The pool is packed with half-naked women, their laughter ringing through the air, mixing with the heavy bass from the outdoor speakers. The hot tub is just as bad—bikini-clad bodies pressing in around Jase, hands on his shoulders, in his hair, draped over his lap like they belong there.

And he’s drunk.

Completely, devastatingly wasted.

I stand in the shadows for a moment, my heart sinking lower and lower. I learned something real about him earlier—something raw and painful and honest. A glimpse of the man no one else gets to see. A glimpse of his loss.

And to add salt to the wound for ignoring me for days, this is what he does?

This is how he deals with it?

This is what he did on the day of the gala too? Fuck, I read him so wrong that night.

I should leave. Should turn around, walk inside, lock the door, and pretend none of this matters. But I can’t move. Can’t look away from him, sprawled in the middle of all of them, laughing, drinking, accepting the kisses they’re pressing to his neck, his chest . . . as though I’m only a long-forgotten memory. Pretending like nothing happened.

Like I don’t exist.

One of the girls tilts her head back in a flirtatious laugh, tracing a finger down his arm. My stomach twists. I hate this feeling. This anger eating at me. This stupid, irrational ache.

How do you fight for someone who doesn’t want to fight for himself?

How do you love someone who doesn’t want you to?

Jase finally catches sight of me. He grins lazily, lifting his drink in some kind of mock toast. “Hey, wifey,” he drawls. “You wanna join in? Or call some of your friends over?”

And that’s when I shatter.

I don’t reply. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. I just turn and walk away, my hands shaking as I push through the house, ignoring the burn in my chest.

I should have known better.

I knew he would push, but not like this. Cruel. Unforgiving. Devastating.

“You win, Gizmodo.”

Because I do deserve better.

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Hendrix

I don’t stop walking.

Not when I reach the front door. Not when I climb into my car and put as much distance between the two of us as possible.

I should have never let myself believe in the possibility of us. That he could love me back.

My chest aches, my hands tightening on the wheel as I pull up to the only place that’s ever made sense—my bakery. The parking lot is dark, and the closed sign hangs in the window.

My home.

The thought makes everything that happened hurt that much more.