Chapter 31
thirty-one
VANESSA
I stared at the dinner jacket as if it had personally wronged me.
An hour ago, the blonde I remembered draped all over Elliott during the hike had knocked on my door to drop it off.
Apparently, he’d left it in her room because he’d told her this—my room—was actually his.
Touché, Satan. Now I was in Morgan’s suite with the offensive garment, holding it with two fingers as far from my body as possible, as if STDs were airborne.
“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Morgan said. Always the optimist.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s something. I just don’t want it in my room.” My head still pounded, but the pain was being overridden by a surge of pure, hot adrenaline. I wanted to find him and strangle him with my bare hands.
“Well, why don’t you find him and tell him that?” Morgan offered.
“Because I’ve already looked everywhere. He’s probably in some other blonde’s room by now. He’s likely going to work his way through every blonde in this resort and send them each to my door with a different piece of his wardrobe. He’s an evil-genius whore.”
“He was pretty upset when I ran into him earlier,” she said quietly, dropping that kernel of information like a casual lure. Morgan had never been good at playing games; only Elliott and I excelled at those. She was fishing. “What happened between you two?”
“We got into a fight, I guess. He was being weird. Usually, he lets things roll off his back, but this time he got his panties in a wad.”
“You guys always fight, though. What made this time different?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.” I paced the small rug in front of her bed.
“If anyone should be angry, it should be me. He called my mom, Morgan. She’s probably worrying herself sick in LA, and I don’t appreciate it.
He crossed a line. I know my mom adores him, but that doesn’t give him the right to weaponize her against me.
And he talked to my sister. Why? Why is he suddenly so concerned with my life? He fired me.”
“Maybe you should talk to him.”
“No. Just please... give him his jacket,” I said, turning to leave.
“Are you okay?” she asked, her voice laced with the kind of uncertainty that comes from watching a train wreck in slow motion.
Hell, I didn’t even know how to handle this, and I was the one in the conductor's seat. “Yeah, I’m okay. Get some rest, okay?” I rubbed her belly in passing and pasted a fake smile on my face. She could see right through it, but in the world of Vanessa Miranda, it was the thought that counted.
“Van?”
I turned with my hand on the door handle. “Yeah?”
“It’s okay, you know? To let someone in. To let someone shoulder the burden with you.”
I looked at her, and for a second, the fake smile slipped.
If she only knew that the last time I’d let him in, he had left my heart so mangled it was still hanging by threads and ligaments.
He had rejected me so thoroughly that even now, I had an Elliott brand PTSD from it.
Trust had always been a steep climb for me, but after what he’d done, the mountain had become a vertical cliff.
I’d even started guarding myself against Morgan—the person closest to me.
The damage he did hadn't just left a scar; it had changed my DNA. I didn't even know if Morgan realized how much of "Old Vanessa" died that night ten years ago.
I knew what she was getting at. I knew why my relationship with him was a constant, jagged edge. It was because the feelings had never actually left; they’d just curdled. Hate and love aren’t opposites—they’re neighbors. They stay warm with the same fire.
It was just easier to stay at war. For both of us, peace felt too much like a surrender.