Chapter 19
CHAPTER 19
E lla
“Don’t do this,” Callum pleads, sounding genuinely sorry, as I methodically go through the drawers and cabinets where I’ve left a few things over the past year that we’ve been together.
The bedroom overlooks the Pacific Ocean, which glimmers under moonlight through a wall of windows. He’s owned the place for longer than I’ve known him, but it barely shows any signs of wear. White leather armchairs at the foot of the bed sit uncreased. The white carpet always looks freshly vacuumed, and the low wood table contains three arthouse books, arranged at a right angle to the bed.
Jenny is long gone, having thrown on her clothes and scurried out of the condo as soon as she saw my face. She knew Callum wasn’t going to ask her to stick around. Guess that’s what makes her a good manager—knowing what her boss wants. And giving it to him.
“Cal, I’m doing it.” Yanking open a drawer, I realize I don’t know what I’m doing exactly. I’m also unsure what he’s asking me not to do, so I stop. “Don’t do what?”
“End us.”
Forehead resting against his fist, he sits on the bed where hours before he was thrusting his dick into his tour manager. The sheets are no longer in disarray, but I can still smell the sickly pungent scent of sex. I probably always will.
Exhaling a long breath, I stand with my arms crossed and wait for him to look at me. He does, eyes red from rubbing them, hair still askew, mouth pulled down into an anguished frown. “Don’t go,” he pleads, tilting his head in that way that lets a long lock of hair fall across his cheek. I always liked that. His dark eyes look bottomless, smoldering for me. I liked that too. So many times, I’ve looked into those eyes and seen our future. Now, I see a manufactured fairy tale I was dumb enough to believe. I’m not as mad at him as I am at myself for thinking he could be better than his reputation.
Callum Haywood had been linked with several different A-list stars in the two years before we met. But then, so had I.
Our manufactured love story was the kind of epic fodder that social media lives for. We were photographed at every turn. We were called Hollywood royalty. Our names were blended together so people could refer to us simply as Ellum.
And I do like him. Or, I did. Now, I don’t know what I feel except that I need to get out of his condo and think.
“I can’t be here with you. I can’t even look at you,” I tell him, shoving my toiletries into the bathroom trash can.
“Are you taking my trash can?”
“Were you fucking your tour manager?!” It’s the first time I’ve raised my voice and it feels good.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Take the trash can.”
“I just need to get away from you so I can think.”
He stands up from the bed and walks over to me, hands drawn together like a prayer. I try not to notice how his biceps flex when he does it. “Okay. Take the time you need. Just know that this was a one-time slip. We had some drinks…it was stupid. Purely physical. And I’ll fire her, never see her again.” His eyes plead. He bites his bottom lip, looking vulnerable.
“God, Callum. That is such utter bullshit. Did you get that out of a book of things to say after you cheat on your fiancée?”
He takes a step closer and I take a step back. “You’re the one I love. And I know you love me. We can get past this, can’t we?”
I shake my head, hating conflict but unwilling to roll over. “I don’t know. Probably not,” I admit. I don’t see how I can ever look at him the way I did before.
He nods and hangs his head. I open a drawer and grab the bras and panties I stashed there months ago. Looking around the room, I can’t think of anything else I want. Taking all this stuff is hardly the point, but I feel the need to do something, make my exit from this place feel like something to him. So rifling through his drawers is apparently the way I will do that.
But now there’s nothing left to grab and no reason to stay, so I head for the door.
“What about the adoption?” Callum’s voice echoes in the hallway behind me. I turn and my eyes blink shut.
It’s not that I’ve forgotten about it—to the contrary, it’s all I think about. But do I need Callum Haywood for that? Do I need to accept his apology so I can keep my court date in the spring, a month after our wedding?
“Just give me time to think.”
“Take all the time you need. I’ll be here. I really do love you.”
I roll my eyes as the sex stench follows me downstairs.
“Let’s face it. This relationship was a farce from the beginning. We were just a Hollywood couple, made for the tabloids. It was never going to work,” I say, mostly to avoid taking responsibility for jumping at the first guy who seemed willing to be my husband .
An almost-smile tugs at the corner of Callum’s pretty-boy face. “That mean you don’t blame me for stepping out on you?”
I fly at him and push his chest with both hands. Unfortunately, due to his beefy build, it has the effect of a fly hitting a window. “No, you imbecile. Even if we weren’t perfect, I’d expect my fiancé to be faithful. Jesus, Callum, don’t you have any morals at all?”
He shrugs. Maybe he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.
I think about what could have happened with Archer on the patio outside the wine cave. How every part of my body ached for it to happen. It sure seemed like Archer wanted it to happen. But like I told him, I’m engaged. That has to mean something, or what’s the point?
I continue throwing items into a bag, whirling around looking for who knows what in my attempt to clear my life of all things Callum.
“Am I just a fool? Am I the only one who thinks that a commitment is sacred?”
Callum, who’s been watching me with his arms crossed and a confused expression, relents. His cocky posture sags a little and his mouth turns down. “No.” He shakes his head. “You’re right. It should be sacred. I guess that’s just one of the many reasons why you’re too good for me.”
I’ve been hearing that excuse for ages, how no one can introduce me to their single guy friends because I’m “too good” for them. It just strikes me as one more way that what people see when they look at me isn’t who I am.
“I’m sick of people telling me I’m too good. I’m just…normal good.”
He extends his arms to hug me, and despite how angry and betrayed I still feel, I consider patching things over and embracing him.
Then I come to my senses. “But yeah, you’re right. I am too good for you.”
I take my things and walk out the door.