Chapter Thirteen #2
‘You tried. You did everything you could, Aristotle. This isn’t your fault. It’s just—’
But how could she explain? How could she make him understand that it hadn’t really been a choice at all?
She lifted her hands then, pressing them to his chest. A part of her wanted to relieve him of this burden by pretending it wasn’t a big deal, that she’d get over him.
But that wasn’t fair to Aristotle. Deep down, inside his big, burly man body, with that veneer of arrogant ruthlessness, was the fifteen-year-old boy who’d had his world obliterated.
That boy deserved to know that her love was authentic, and eternal.
‘I will always love you,’ she said simply. ‘I think I always have.’ Another tear slid down her cheek. ‘And if you ever wonder why, think back to this conversation.’ She sobbed softly.
‘I’m breaking your heart,’ he groaned, pulling her against him and holding her tight. ‘I’m so sorry, Rosemary. Believe me, if I was capable of giving you what you want, I would. I would do anything not to hurt you like this.’
‘I know,’ she sobbed again, aware that her make-up and tears would be leaving marks on his crisp white shirt, and not caring. Because wrapped in his arms, against the warmth of his chest, everything felt—for a moment—as it needed to be. ‘This isn’t your fault.’
He stroked her back, his fingers moving up and down her spine, warm and comforting, so she closed her eyes and allowed herself to pretend this was real. But it wasn’t, and lying to herself wasn’t going to make this any better.
She glanced up at him, ignoring the familiar lurch of need at the sight of his stubbled chin. ‘What do we do?’
‘I’ll deal with it.’
‘I don’t just mean the wedding,’ she whispered. ‘I mean, after that. We’re still having a baby.’
His jaw stiffened. ‘And my wishes are unchanged.’
Her eyes widened. Surely he wasn’t still threatening to sue for custody?
‘I want to be in their life,’ he said. ‘But you need to think about what that looks like.’
He was ceding all control to her. All the decisions. He was giving her the ability to shape their futures. What was that if not proof that he cared for her?
‘I will never stop you from spending time with our child,’ she said, dashing away her tears.
‘I know.’
‘I just can’t think clearly right now.’
‘Of course. We have time.’
She sobbed.
This was the end for them, and yet it was nothing like she’d imagined an end. This was nothing like her parents’ awful arguments, that resonated around the house with the force of a supernova. This was mature and adult, a reasonable, calm, considerate conversation about what was best for her.
Because they were different to her parents? Or because he didn’t love her enough to fight?
She strongly suspected the latter.
If he loved her, Aristotle Machairas would let nothing and no one stand in his way. Come hell or high water, he would fight and slay mythical creatures with his bare hands, to make her his.
She looked sideways, towards the incredible bougainvillea that always managed to take her breath away with its beauty. She wished she hadn’t looked at it: the vine would forever remind her of this. Her bleak acceptance that she was deeply in love with someone who would never return those feelings.
‘I guess we should go tell them.’
His hand on her back moved to her cheek. ‘I’ll do that. Why don’t you go home, start putting this behind you.’
Home.
Where even was that?
She thought of all the changes she’d made to Aristotle’s penthouse now with a sense of mortification.
She’d been playacting this whole time. Pretending to be his actual fiancée, acting as though she had any right to be in his life.
She’d got carried away so quickly. Swept up in their fake engagement, all because in her heart of hearts she’d known she wanted it to be real.
She bit into her lower lip. ‘I don’t know if I can.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s not home,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Do you want to go back to England?’
She closed her eyes against that thought, too. This was home. Here, at the estate, where she’d spent so many blissful school holidays. Where she’d first set eyes on Aristotle.
‘I think I want to stay here,’ she said, gesturing to the house in the distance, then looking back at him. ‘Is that weird?’
He held her gaze for a beat, then shook his head once. ‘I would be glad to think of you having my mother and your father on hand for support.’ A muscle jerked in his jaw. ‘But I am only a phone call away, if you need anything.’
She swallowed hard, nodding once. ‘Thank you.’
They sounded like polite strangers. After everything they’d been through, and with what was on their horizon.
‘I’ll walk you to the house,’ he offered, but she shook her head. Her heart was breaking; he was right about that. She was trying to hold it together by sheer force of will.
‘No,’ she whispered. ‘I’d rather go alone. If you’re happy to just explain everything to them,’ she said, fidgeting with her fingers.
‘Of course.’
He stared down at her for so long she thought he might kiss her. It felt just like any other moment they’d shared in the past: charged with passion and feeling, and urgent need. But he took a step backwards, showing more restraint than her.
‘I’ll call you tomorrow, to see how you are,’ he murmured, and she nodded, because she knew it was about the baby, rather than her.
‘Goodbye, Aristotle.’
He watched her walk to the house with a deep, throbbing ache that started in his gut but pulsed through his whole body. He felt like running after her, to hell with everything he’d just said, and pull her to him, kiss her until they both forgot all of this. Forgot everything.
He felt like going back in time and letting the wedding happen. Standing at the altar, it had felt so wrong to go through with it, yet watching her walk away was somehow so much worse.
He opened his mouth to call her name, but all he could see was her beautiful face, tear-streaked, her lips parted on a sob. Because of him.
It kept him silent, and held him still.
‘Darling, you must eat something. For the baby,’ Melina said gently, placing the tray of food on Rosie’s bedside table.
She tried to force a smile but her mouth seemed to have lost the ability. She eyed the food warily. Melina was right. She couldn’t live on tea and crackers indefinitely, but the thought of food turned her stomach.
‘I’ll try,’ she promised.
Her stepmother had been incredible over the last four days.
Rosie had curled up in the bed in the centre of the room she’d always used since her father’s marriage to Melina, stripped down to her underwear, the wedding dress hanging like a bad dream on the closet door.
Melina had wordlessly removed it, and within hours, her clothes from Aristotle’s penthouse had appeared, and been unpacked silently by her stepmother.
On the first day, no one had tried to talk to her. They’d seemed to understand that she needed to be left alone, trying to glue her heart back together.
The day after, her father had come to gently try to make sense of things.
He’d explained that her mother had left, but sent her love.
Rosie had dismissed the statement for what it was: her father trying to make out that her mother had any hint of normal maternal feelings.
Rosie had curved her hand over her stomach and silently promised her child that she would never treat them in the same cold manner.
Whenever she thought of Aristotle, it was as though her heart was being rolled over spikes. True to his word, he’d called the next day, but she didn’t answer. She couldn’t bear to hear his voice. Instead, she’d sent a quick text reassuring him that she was fine.
She did the same thing when he’d called the next day, and the next, and on this day, too.
‘It’s a beautiful morning out there. Your father and I are going to go for a walk; would you like to join us?’
Rosie reached out and broke a corner off the piece of the bread Melina had brought. ‘No, thank you.’
Melina sighed softly and kissed Rosie’s forehead. ‘I love you, dear one. See you at lunchtime.’
Rosie lay down when her stepmother left, any attempt to eat forgotten, as she fell back into a fevered sleep, and dreamed of a time when Aristotle had been, oh, so briefly, hers.