Chapter 14
I sit curled sideways on one of the kitchen island stools, my bare feet hooked around the lower rung, phone pressed tightly against my ear while I stare at a tiny imperfection in the marble countertop.
There’s a chip near the edge shaped vaguely like Florida, if you squint hard enough.
I’ve been staring at it for the last three minutes because focusing on that feels easier than trying to figure out why Gabe finally called me back after over nearly a month of silence.
A month.
Twenty-six days of unanswered texts. Ignored voicemails.
Messages left on read while I sat confined inside this embassy compound, wondering whether my boyfriend was worried about me or simply relieved I was gone.
And now that he’s finally on the phone, the conversation already feels stiff and uncomfortable.
Like we’re standing on opposite sides of a hallway, pretending not to notice how far apart we’ve become.
Security lights glow brightly beyond the embassy windows while the massive kitchen sits mostly dark around me, lit only by the warm pendant lights hanging over the island.
Somewhere deeper in the residence, voices murmur faintly before fading again.
Security rotates shifts outside, and radios crackle quietly through the hallways.
The entire house feels alive with movement while somehow feeling painfully empty at the same time.
I tighten my grip on the phone. “So…” I clear my throat awkwardly, needing to just get this over with. “What’s going on, Gabe? You haven’t talked to me since I left.”
Silence crackles briefly through the speaker before he finally exhales. “What’s going on? You tell me.”
My stomach tightens instantly. “What does that mean?”
“I’ve heard things, Kenz.”
A cold feeling creeps slowly down my spine. “What things?”
“That you disappeared from campus with two heavily tattooed guys.” His voice hardens slightly. “That you dropped out of school. There are all kinds of rumors going around about why you left.”
I blink slowly at the marble countertop beneath my hands. Of course there are rumors. Westbridge practically survives on gossip and scandal. Half the students there would combust if they went more than twenty-four hours without inventing a dramatic story about somebody else’s life.
“What kind of rumors?” I ask quietly.
He hesitates long enough to make my chest hurt. “That you’re… I don’t know. Hooking up with them, or something.”
For one full second, I genuinely think I’ve misheard him. Then disbelief crashes into me so hard I almost laugh. “Are you serious?”
“I don’t know what to believe.”
It shouldn’t be humorous, but after being dragged home by armed security, readjusting my life due to a cartel threat, and the dozens of unread messages I left, explaining that my life had basically detonated overnight, this is the conclusion he came to.
I bark out a sharp laugh. “Oh my God.”
“Mackenzi—”
“No, seriously.” I sit upright so quickly the stool screeches against the floor. “Yes, Gabe. It’s true. I wouldn’t fuck you, but I apparently dropped out of college to become the center of a tattooed-men harem. And there’s four of them. Not two.”
There is nothing but silence on the other end, but I’m too angry to stop.
“Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?” I snap. “Had you taken literally thirty seconds to listen to a single voicemail or read one of my texts, you’d know exactly why I left campus, and that I’ve been trying to talk to you since I left for the airport.”
He exhales sharply through the phone. “I’ve been busy.”
“Busy,” I repeat flatly. “For a month?”
“I got into Beta Zeta Psi.”
I blink once, this time certain I misheard him.
“That’s it?” I ask incredulously. “You got into a frat, heard a few stupid rumors about me, and suddenly had no time for your girlfriend?”
“It’s not just that.”
“What is it, then?” I ask, already know where this conversation is going.
“We both know this has been coming,” he says finally.
The anger drains slowly from my body, because part of me knows he isn’t entirely wrong. There’s been distance growing between us for months now, time together dwindling, less patience about my need to wait for sex, and his attention wandering whenever prettier girls entered rooms.
Still, knowing something was dying doesn’t make hearing it hurt any less, though.
“And now that I’m a Beta,” Gabe continues carefully, “my reputation matters.”
For a second, my brain refuses to process the sentence. The words hit my ears individually without connecting into meaning. Then understanding clicks into place, sharp enough to physically hurt.
His reputation.
My throat tightens as I picture the girls I used to see hanging off his arm at parties before we started dating.
Tall girls. Tiny girls. All with blonde hair cascading down bronzed backs, while they laughed too loudly and moved through crowded rooms as if they belonged there.
Girls who looked effortless. Ones who didn’t count calories silently every time they sat down to eat or tug shirts away from their stomachs when fabric clung wrong.
Girls who never had to wonder whether the man touching them secretly wished for somebody prettier.
I’ve never been that kind of girl.
I’m short. Curvy in ways magazines politely call “plus-sized.” I study bioengineering and chemistry because I want to save things, not because it is Instagram-worthy. I don’t sleep around. I don’t party enough. I don’t fit.
And suddenly I realize that Gabe sees me that way, too. My chest burns painfully, and I softly whisper, “Oh.”
Gabe sighs into the phone like this entire conversation is exhausting him. “Mackenzi…”
Breaking up with me? That hurts, but honestly, part of me expected it eventually.
This relationship has been slowly bleeding out for months.
But this? This implication that I’m somehow embarrassing him because I don’t fit the image he wants attached to his shiny new fraternity status hits a nerve inside me.
Somewhere deep where I’ve hidden every insecurity I’ve spent years trying desperately to outrun.
“So…” My voice cracks slightly. “We’re breaking up.”
The hesitation before he answers tells me everything.
“I think…” He exhales softly. “Yeah. I think that’s for the best.”
That’s it. It’s official. The strange thing is, my first emotion isn’t heartbreak. It’s humiliation.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “I agree.”
“I knew you’d understand.” Relief floods his voice immediately, like he’s been waiting for permission. “Thanks for not making this a big thing.”
Big thing? The words slice straight through me like a knife. I’m not being mature about this. It’s hard to argue when he just carved open the most vulnerable parts of me and left me wounded across the marble countertop.
I stare blindly at the little Florida-shaped chip on the island. “Sure,” I murmur. “See you around.”
“Yeah,” he says. “See you.”
The call disconnects with a soft click, and suddenly, the kitchen is deafeningly silent.
I keep staring at the phone long after the screen goes black. Then slowly and mechanically, I lower it onto the counter. The sound echoes sharply through the empty kitchen, and I break.
With my hands covering my face, tears spill hot and humiliating through my fingers.
It’s not cinematic or pretty. My shoulders shake violently while broken breaths catch painfully in my chest, every emotion I’ve been holding together crashing into me at once—rejection, shame, anger, and embarrassment rising to the top.
God, I’m so fucking embarrassed.
Some horrible little piece of me believes him, and I immediately start cataloging each of my flaws. Too thick. Too awkward. Too emotional. Too much, but not enough. Never enough.
I cry harder because I hate that my brain does that.
Footsteps sound suddenly behind me, and I gasp, jerking upright immediately. I scrub furiously at my face with my sleeves while panic slams into me.
Oh my God. Please don’t let it be everyone.
I spin toward the doorway and find Damon standing there.
He looks like he’s been dragging frustrated hands through his dark hair, leaving the strands slightly disheveled.
His broad shoulders are strained beneath a fitted black shirt, tattooed forearms exposed beneath sleeves rolled carelessly to his elbows.
His expression shifts instantly the second he sees me. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly, stepping backward like he’s intruded on something private. He pauses at the threshold, concern hardening across his features. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I answer too fast.
He doesn’t buy it for a second. His eyes move carefully over my face, taking in red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.
“Really?” he asks quietly. “Because you don’t look okay, trouble.”
Something in his tone nearly breaks me all over again. It’s not pity or awkwardness, but genuine concern.
Damon walks into the kitchen slowly, giving me enough space not to feel cornered. He opens one of the drawers near the sink and pulls out a clean dish towel before unfolding it carefully and holding it out toward me.
I hesitate; the thoughtful gesture alone almost makes me cry again. Because it’s gentle. Because he noticed. Because after spending the last ten minutes feeling fundamentally unwanted, that tiny act of care hits way too hard.
I take the towel carefully, and our fingers brush lightly. His skin is rough and warm against mine, and I flinch slightly at how much I feel it.
“It’s stupid,” I mutter while dabbing at my face with the towel.
He leans against the counter with a warm half-smile. “It doesn’t look stupid.” The softness in his voice cracks something open inside me completely. Before I can stop myself, words start spilling out hot and messy.
“My boyfriend just dumped me,” I blurt out. “Which honestly… I was prepared for that part.” I laugh weakly through tears. “But apparently, now that he got into some frat, his reputation matters and…” My throat tightens painfully. “Basically, I’m too fat to fit into it.”
Embarrassed, I bury my face in the towel, waiting for silence to fill the kitchen. The careful silence people use when they secretly agree with you but know the truth will hurt your feelings.
Damon lets out a heavy sigh, and I lift my head from the towel to find him shaking his. “Then he’s a fucking idiot.”
Heat rushes suddenly across my face so fast it makes me dizzy. “What?”
Damon rounds the island slowly until he’s standing beside my stool. Close enough for me to breathe in his sweet, woodsy cologne.
“You are beautiful,” he says simply. It’s not flirtatious or performative. It’s certain, like it’s an undeniable fact, instead of a line designed to make me feel better. “Don’t ever let anyone make you think otherwise.”
My breath catches painfully in my chest, because I believe him. For these few impossible seconds with Damon this close to me, I actually believe him.
A broken laugh escapes me. “You’re just saying that because my dad pays you.”
His eyes darken slightly, and before I can process what’s happening, Damon carefully brushes a loose strand of hair behind my ear. The touch is devastatingly gentle, his thumb delicately wiping away one lingering tear beneath my eye.
“We both know that’s not true.”
Still lightly cupping my cheek, he leans in a little closer, and warmth radiates from him. I stare up at him while my pulse pounds so hard it physically hurts, my breath turning shallow as his gaze drops briefly to my mouth. Mine flicks to his, and the tension between us becomes unbearable.
Footsteps echo suddenly down the hallway outside the kitchen, and the spell we’re both under shatters immediately.
Damon steps backward quickly, almost giving me whiplash, distance slamming back into place between us like the last thirty seconds never happened at all.
Except my heart is racing hard enough to rattle my ribs.
And when he looks at me one final time before turning toward the doorway, I realize his is, too.