74. Allie #2
Violet leans in, leveling me with her mom voice. “Just play along. Hypothetically. Say he didn’t cheat. Say he’s seeing a licensed, degree-holding, couch-having therapist and working through his damage. Not for anyone else—just to be better. Remove the cheating from the equation for one second.”
“I’m going to need more Baileys for this level of optimism.”
“Think of it as an exercise,” she says, all cheery. “You’re clearing emotional fog to see what’s actually there. Because—if there’s even a chance he didn’t cheat—what you do with that version of Rico is up to you.”
“And if he did cheat?”
She lifts her cup in a toast. “Then we bring snacks and toilet paper to your pity party and start planning a hot girl summer.”
“God bless you and your feral energy,” I mutter, sipping the now-too-sweet coffee. How much Bailey's does one need to drink before they feel at least tipsy?
Violet’s brain is a glittery disco ball—always spinning, occasionally blinding, and once in a while, it smacks you in the face when you least expect it.
“But hear me out,” she says, wagging her spoon like it’s a magic wand about to rewrite my emotional stability.
“In this new and improved scenario, there’s no escort.
Just therapy. Real, actual therapy. With a couch and tissues and a doctor who probably sighs a lot.
Rico’s basically the poster child for emotional breakthroughs.
If they ever did a mental health PSA, his broody face would be front and center on a Times Square billboard with the caption: ‘Got trauma? So does this guy.’”
I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “He’s still not signing the papers.”
“Exactly,” she says, like that’s some kind of victory. “You were both forced into this, but that doesn’t cancel out the feelings that came after. Are you seriously telling me that falling in love during an arranged marriage doesn’t count?”
I open my mouth to respond, only to pause mid-thought and scowl at nothing in particular. “Yes? No? Hell if I know. I can’t even tell if my husband cheated on me, let alone figure out how I feel about him.”
Violet sips her coffee, annoyingly calm.
“All I’m saying is, sure, forced proximity puts everything on fast-forward.
But it doesn’t make the emotions fake. No one held a gun to your head and said ‘Love that man or else.’ And no one forced him to love you either.
Even if he’s yet to say it out loud—which, for the record, I think he does love you.
He just hasn’t read the instruction manual on how to express it. ”
I shake my head so hard I’m tempted to rattle out the frustration lodged behind my eyes. “It’s not that simple, Vi. This was a business deal. A contract. My uterus was the fine print.”
She winces, but I power through.
“I’ve always been a box to check. Marry the girl. Get the heir. Fulfill the terms. And now? Now he thinks staying with me makes sense. Logical. Efficient. But love? That’s not logic. That’s messy and stupid and impossible to spreadsheet.”
“So you think once he’s better—like really better—he’ll wake up one day and realize you were just a placeholder?”
“Exactly.” I exhale, chest tight. “He’ll be all emotionally evolved and functional, and suddenly the idea of me won’t be enough anymore. I don’t want to be the starter wife he regrets. I want to be someone’s first and final choice—not the safest option on the menu.”
“And what about you? Don’t you think you deserve to be happy?”
I flash a smile. It’s weak. The smile you give a stranger in an elevator when they won’t stop talking about their dog’s gluten allergy. “I do. I think I’m getting there.”
And I’m not lying. Not totally.
The restaurant’s finally hitting its stride.
I’ve been apartment hunting—actual tours, not just Zillow scrolling at 2 a.m. like some heartbroken millennial.
Only, I can't get an apartment until my marital assets are finalized, which would require Rico to sign the damn papers.
Clearly, he has the time to text. It would take less time to send those daily messages signing the tabs on the divorce documents.
Then my phone buzzes again.
I don’t mean to open the message. But the Bailey’s swirling in my bloodstream makes me bold. Or reckless. Hard to tell the difference.
Rico: There are also now 226 text messages you sent me I never responded to. I plan to make it up to you by sending just as many. Unless you’ve blocked my number already.
I haven’t blocked him.
Thought about it? Absolutely.
But not out of spite. Not even out of that low-grade fury that comes from watching a man who wouldn’t share his feelings suddenly transform into Mr. Daily Text.
No, I haven’t blocked him because part of me still hopes. And that part? It’s stupid. And fragile. And keeps smashing into the reality that this is all happening now.
Now that I’ve walked away.
Now that I’m not the default option.
Now that he’s realized I was never his person—just the contractually convenient one.
So no. I don’t text him back.
Because I can’t.
This—whatever this is—it’s him processing. Grieving. Probably bargaining through the stages of grief. He thinks he needs me, but he’ll figure out soon enough that he doesn’t. That he never really did.
He never said he loved me.
Not once.
And I’m finally ready to believe that wasn’t an oversight—it was the truth.
Eventually, he’ll move on. Find someone he wants. Someone who wasn’t handed to him in a gilded cage and told to breed.
And when he finds her?
I hope she makes him laugh. I hope she helps him sleep. I hope she gets all the words he’s never given me.
He deserves that.
Marco was right—Rico deserves to be happy.
And me?
I’ll cheer him on from a safe distance.
Even if it leaves me quietly shattered.
Because love shouldn't feel like survival.
And I’m finally done just surviving.