Thirty-Eight – Eliza
THIRTY-EIGHT
ELIZA
I don’t cry on the way back to Harrison’s penthouse.
Not when I wave the town car away and tell the driver I’d rather walk home. Not when I stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue in heels I finally learned to walk in.
I don’t even cry when I see my reflection in the window of some designer boutique, dressed like a woman I don’t recognize.
But the second I close the door to the penthouse and hear nothing—no footsteps, no voice, no “You looked beautiful tonight” or “I’m fucking sorry” —I crack.
I kick off the heels, peel off the lashes, tug at the thousand-dollar dress until it tears at the seams.
All the stuff Harrison said about me to his family was all an act, and I should’ve known better than to think he’d ever want to be with me for the long term.
“It was just a deal,” I whisper to myself. “A temporary fucking unfair deal.”
I open my phone to send a message to Harrison.
Type. Delete. Type again.
I hover over sending Once an asshole, always an asshole. Fuck you and goodbye.
I can’t hit send, though.
I shut off the phone and rush to my room, packing up only the things I came here with.
It’s time to go back home.
For good.