Chapter 22 #2
I push past him, stomping down the hall toward my purse. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch his friend casually sampling the pasta from the pan, completely unfazed, as if my world hasn’t just crumbled into pieces.
Diego’s footsteps echo behind me, and before I can grab the strap of my bag, his hand clamps over mine, firm but trembling.
“You needed me?”
His voice is rough and low, as if trying to steady himself. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, a nervous tick.
“All that talk about being an only child, acting like you understood me. Like you knew me. Then you go and betray me like this? Yeah, Diego, I thought I needed you. Turns out, you played me better than anyone else ever could.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut, his face contorting as if each syllable physically wounds him.
“It wasn’t a game, Iz,” he croaks, tightening his grip over mine. “You’re not a game to me.”
“Then why does it feel like I’m the punchline?”
I yank the strap of my bag free from Diego’s grip, slinging it over my shoulder. The burn of unshed tears pricks my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall here.
Not in front of him.
Not in front of his friend.
“Because I screwed up, alright? I never meant for this to happen.”
His confession cracks with desperate and raw emotion, but I’m already halfway to the door. I whip around, jabbing a finger at his chest.
“Yeah, well, it did. And what a fool am I. Well played, Diego, well fucking played.”
I turn back and make for the door.
“Don’t go, please. Isabella.”
As I grab the doorknob and wrench it open, my vision blurs with unshed tears. I’m crying from humiliation, frustration, and something deeper. The blooming hope that this could work, given all the odds stacked against us.
“Let her go, man. She’s not worth it. Just take another class or whatever. Plenty of other chicks out there.”
His friend’s lazy drawl floats through the sharp, mocking tension behind me.
I freeze for a heartbeat, the audacity of his words slicing through me like a blade.
Slowly, I turn my head, my eyes locking on the smug bastard leaning casually against the counter like he doesn’t have any respect for women.
“You’re a real piece of work,” I say coldly, my voice trembling with scorching fury, before glaring at my ex-lover. “You are only as good as the company you keep, Mr. Kahale.”
“Shut the fuck up, Hollister. Just shut the fuck up!”
Diego whirls on him. His hands curl into fists, and his muscles ripple with restraint and venom coating his words. But I’m already out the door. Their voices fade when I slam it shut behind me. I race down the stairs, each step taking me farther from the bitter betrayal, from the hurt, from him.
Diego doesn’t follow.
The ride-share app pings, confirming a driver is two minutes away. I stand on the corner of the block. The chill of the evening air bites into my skin, numbing my arms as I hug myself tightly. My chest feels hollow, as if all the air has been sucked out and replaced with a suffocating ache.
I glance back at his penthouse apartment. Its illuminated windows stand tall and welcoming, contrasting the emotions swirling inside me. He doesn’t appear as I half expect him to do. I tell myself it’s for the best.
When the car pulls up, I climb in without looking at the driver. As the cityscape blurs past the window, I focus on the bright, flickering lights of passing buildings, but they do nothing to distract me from the sinking pit in my stomach.
I’ve been such a fool.
I replay the past week in my mind. Each memory cuts deeper than the last. How easily I let Diego in. His smooth words wrapped around me, effortless and reassuring. He spoke of understanding. Of always being there. Every moment we shared, every laugh, every touch, felt real.
They were real, my heart protests.
But how can I believe that now? I think about how he listened to me. Really listened when I shared my worries for my father and his health, the possibility of becoming a caregiver, and the loneliness of being an only child with no one to lean on.
He said he understood and shared his own personal stories. How his dreams were cut short by his accident and injury. How he’d held me in his arms, made love to me under the stars, and in a blanket of rain.
You’re mine, Izzy.
I believed him.
He was there for me when I wrecked. Too shaken and disoriented to think, he handled everything. Was even upset to see the bike destroyed, but relieved when he saw I was okay.
I got you.
He really did.
In more ways than one. But then there’s his friend. His smirk flashes in my mind. His condescending tone replays like a cruel echo.
He just needed the credit.
She’s not worth it.
Both chase each other around my mind until they blur into one big ball of lack of self-worth and doubt. Not worth it. Not worth his loyalty. Not worth his silence. Why would he even talk to a guy like that about me?
To boost?
To brag?
Isn’t that what the male students in my classes do? Gawk, brag, and talk vulgarly about their female classmates? Is that what Diego did? Distilled me down to a wager, a bet amongst his friends to see if he could score with his only professor.
He never told me that.
Never told me any of this.
He probably figured that if he had, it would ruin his chances of sleeping with me. And it would have. My tears fall harder as I comb over every detail of his betrayal.
When the driver approaches my apartment, my legs feel weak, like they can barely carry me inside. I mutter thank you and stumble up the steps, each one heavier than the last. Once inside, I collapse onto the couch, clutching a throw pillow to my chest.
I believed everything he said.
Every single word.
All lies.
All of them.
I let out a raw, anguished sob, burying my face in the pillow. The highs of this past week, the way he made me feel seen, understood, and accepted. It all feels like some cruel trick.
My phone buzzes in my purse, but I don’t move to get it. I already know it’s him. And I can’t bear to hear his voice, not when it’s the same one that made me feel special until it didn’t.
How could I be so stupid?