Chapter 21
TWENTY ONE
THE CITY LIGHTS blur into streaks of color as I speed away from James’s office. My hands grip the steering wheel so tight my knuckles ache. A loud sob escapes from the depths of me, quickly followed by another.
How could I have been so blind?
So stupid?
“Amy Beckett, you’re everything I’ve been looking for in a wife. Marry me, and I’ll give you the world.”
The memory, sickeningly sweet, pierces my despair. I remember that night. It was something out of a fairytale.
A thick layer of rose petals covered every inch of the floor.
Countless candles flickered, their light reflecting off hundreds of red roses.
And there he was, my James, kneeling before a matching lush arch, the words ‘Will You Marry Me?’ lit up behind him.
In that moment, my heart overflowed with a love I thought would last forever.
“Yes, a thousand times yes!”
The agonizing lie of that night versus the brutal truth of tonight is a vicious blow. I feel exposed, like a live wire buzzing with a dangerous current of fury.
James’s smug face flashes in my mind. My stomach clenches with renewed anger, intense enough to momentarily eclipses the heartache.
Hysterical, he’d called me.
Looking for drama.
My jaw tightens, my foot pressing down harder on the accelerator.
The car lurches forward, tires screeching against the pavement.
Streetlights flash past, their glare blinding me.
My hands turn the wheel without conscious thought, taking a sharp left onto a quieter, tree-lined street that feels dimly familiar.
Then I see it.
Halfway down the block, the dark slope of the roofline, the single soft light near the front door. Drawn by an instinct I don’t understand, I wrench the wheel, pulling haphazardly into the driveway. The tires bump against the curb. The engine sputters and dies as I slam the gearshift into park.
The sudden silence amplifies the frantic drumbeat of my heart.
My chest heaving, I stumble out of the car, drawn to the front door.
I jab the doorbell repeatedly, fingers trembling.
Propping my hand up for support, I lean heavily against the stone wall. Each breath is labor. It feels like I’ve run a marathon, and every part of me, body and soul, is screaming.
The door opens. Matthew’s panicked voice cuts through the stillness. “Amy?! What’s wrong?”
He’s in a thin black tank top and matching sweatpants, his own breathing heavy. One hand is still gloved, the other holds the second glove against his chest.
“Yes! Just what I need,” I whisper in relief as I step past him into the house.
I kick off my ankle boots and grab the boxing glove from his chest, taking his other hand to undo the Velcro.
“Have you been crying?” His question, heavy with worry, brings fresh tears to my eyes. I take a deep breath, willing them not to spill.
My fingers brush his. The muscles in his arms flex, a vein pulsing in his temple. He stands there frowning, searching my face, letting me strip the glove from his hand.
“Amy…?”
Not trusting myself to speak, I turn and descend the stairs to his basement.
Matthew follows, his footfalls silent behind me. He leans against the wall, arms crossed, a muscle jumping in his jaw as he watches me struggle with the boxing gloves. His eyes hold a wary tension.
Gloves on at last, I move up to the punching bag hanging from the ceiling. I throw my first punch. My arm trembles with the effort, the impact jarring my tired shoulders.
I take a step back.
Chin down in determination, I throw another punch. Harder this time.
Then another.
And another.
Each blow becomes a word. Each word a strike against the chains binding me.
“Heartless,” I mutter.
Punch.
“Manipulative.”
The bag swings.
“Liar.”
My breath comes in irregular gasps.
The words spill out faster, louder, fueled by my rising tide of rage.
“Cheat,” I snarl, slamming my fist into the bag.
“Bastard!” I rain down a series of blows, each one punctuated by a guttural cry. “Controlling bastard!!” I scream. The sound echoes through the basement.
“Hey!” I barely register Matthew’s voice, his words lost in the roaring in my ears. “Amy!”
“This is for all the lies!” I yell, throwing a powerful right hook.
Matthew moves with sudden speed, stepping in front of me. “Not so hard. You’ll hurt yourself.”
“For all the empty promises!” I answer with a left jab.
Hot tears blur my vision, but I keep punching. My focus is solely on the bag, channeling all my pain into each blow.
“Woah!” He tries to block me, his hands hovering near my arms. “Your hands aren’t wrapped. Amy!”
I try to slide around him, my anger blinding me to everything but the need to unleash this torrent of emotions.
Matthew’s arms wrap around my waist from behind, a hold so firm I can’t break free. “Stop!” He lifts me, carrying me away from the bag. I kick empty air, my fists still trying to find their target. “Please stop,” he repeats close to my ear, his voice low and urgent.
He sets me down on the edge of the flat weight bench, keeping his arms around me effectively pinning mine to my sides. I struggle, twisting and pulling, but his grip is too strong.
“It’s okay. You’re okay,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. “Breathe.”
He holds me tighter, a solid, unyielding presence, until the fight drains out of me. My head falls back against his shoulder. My body goes limp.
He comes around to kneel before me, green eyes filled with concern.
He reaches for my hands, his touch gentle as he works my fingers free.
Slowly, deliberately, he undoes the Velcro straps.
First the right glove, then the left. He peels them off and sets them aside.
I sit motionless. My body numb, mind blank.
The only movement is the rise and fall of my chest as I struggle to catch my breath.
He lifts my hands, cradling them in his. He turns them over to examine my knuckles, thumbs tracing the delicate bones.
I wince as he presses a tender spot.
“Damn him,” he mutters, standing. “Come with me.” He grasps my hand and pulls me gently to my feet.
He leads me past the weight rack to a half-bath I hadn’t noticed.
The air inside is warm, carrying the faint scent of cedarwood.
Legs still shaky from the adrenaline, I sway, bumping against his side.
He catches me easily, wrapping his arm around my waist to steer me to the sink.
He turns on the faucet, and cold water rushes out.
Taking my hands, he holds them firmly under the icy stream.
I hiss at the shock, trying to pull away, but he holds them in place. His gaze meets mine in the mirror.
“I know,” he says, apology in his eyes. “But it’ll prevent swelling. Let it run over your knuckles for a minute. Especially your right hand.”
I catch my reflection. My face is pale, eyes red-rimmed and haunted. But my gaze is drawn to Matthew beside me. His head is bent close to mine, brow furrowed in concentration as he focuses on my hands, the water cascading over our joined fingers.
The sight of us framed in the mirror, so close, so connected, ignites a strange heat in my chest. I lower my eyes, overwhelmed by the intimacy.
Of us.
Of him.
Of this impossible situation.
“He wants me to cheat on him in front of everyone,” I choke out the confession.
Matthew’s hands tighten. “What?” he says, his voice strained, barely above a whisper.
He shakes his head, as if he misheard.
I lift my gaze, meeting his eyes, bracing myself for his judgment. “James wants me to make it look like I’m the one who broke his heart.” A bitter, humorless laugh escapes me. I bite my lip to hold back a scream.
He stares at me for a long moment. The only sound is the gentle rush of water. His eyes search mine, probing the depth of my pain. Finally, he reaches out and turns off the faucet. The sudden silence makes the tension suffocating.
I hold my breath, gaze fixed on his face.
He doesn’t release my hands. Instead, he holds them tighter. Without looking away, he lifts them and presses a kiss to my bruised knuckles. His lips are warm against my chilled skin.
Warmth spreads through my veins.
“Fuck him,” he says. His gaze flickers to my lips, then returns to my eyes. “He’s not worth this pain. Not worth any of it.”
He reaches for a towel from the rack. After shaking it out, he wraps it around my hands, still holding my gaze. His fingers linger on mine as he dries them.
I’m dazed. “Yes… but what choice do I have?”
“Of course you have a choice,” he says, steel in his tone.
“Please.” I scoff. “I don’t exactly have the upper hand here, Matt.” I yank my hands free and walk back into the main area of the basement.
“You’re not actually considering going through with it?!” He follows me out, his question sharp, almost an accusation.
“Considering?!” I retort, turning to face him, hands clenched into fists. “He’s left me no choice. It’s the only option if I want to keep my café!”
He turns away, shaking his head in disbelief and running a hand through his hair. “Fucking café!”
His words, so dismissive, cut through me. “Yeah, well, that fucking café is my livelihood,” I defend. “And it’s bad enough I have Bancroft trying to get rid of me. If I can get James and his loan off my back—”
“Amy, Amy,” Matthew interrupts, his voice quiet but insistent.
“No Matt! What don’t you get? If I can get James to stop threatening me with that loan, I might have a fighting chance.” My voice rises with desperate hope.
“No.” He shakes his head. His simple denial making my blood boil.
“Yes!” I insist. “We’ve been working so hard to stop Bancroft with the petition. I won’t let James ruin all that.”
“That’s just it,” he says hesitantly, the words heavy with regret. “It’s not looking promising with Harold. I told him about the petition. Made it sound like a huge deal. But couldn’t get him to care enough to change his mind.”
His confession hits like a physical blow.
My legs wobble, threatening to give way.
“Fuck…” He runs his fingers through his hair, eyes squeezed shut.
“Whaaat…” I can barely speak. “The lease… termination…?” My breath comes in short, shallow gasps.
“It’s only a matter of time. I’m so sorry.” Matthew looks away, his expression pained.
My knees buckle. I stumble back, hand flying to my mouth, a silent gasp escaping my lips.
“So fucking sorry,” he adds, his voice cracking.
He takes a step toward me. I recoil.
“I honestly tried…”
I nod jerkily, gaze fixed on the floor.
I can’t think.
I can’t breathe.
The basement air thins. The walls close in.
Incapable of staying a second longer, my legs carry me toward the stairs on autopilot.
I need to get out of here.
Now.
“Amy!”
Matthew is right behind me. I grip the railing, stumbling up the stairs. At the top, I rush toward the front door, desperate to escape. I hear his footsteps, heavier, closer, but I don’t look back.
“Amy, wait!” his voice echoes in the entryway.
I reach the door, fingers fumbling with the lock.
Panic claws at my throat.
I turn the knob and pull the door open a crack. A hand flies past my head and slams it shut.
“I have to go,” I whisper.
“Please,” he says, his tone softer now, but no less urgent. “Just listen to me for a second.”
I shake my head. Tears spill over, hot against my cheeks. “No,” I choke out. “I-I just need to go.”
“I know you’re upset,” he says gently. “But you have to believe me—”
“Upset?!” I laugh, a harsh, humorless sound.
I wheel around. He steps back, startled. “My life has just been blown apart.”
He flinches. “I know. Sorry,” he whispers, dropping his gaze.
“Yeah… Not as sorry as I am.” My voice is hollow. “It’s over. All of it. My engagement, my café… Nothing’s left.”
He reaches for me, eyes pleading.
I put my hand up between us. “Don’t!”
I spin around and yank the door open.
“Amy…”
I keep walking, taking rapid, desperate steps toward my car.
The world feels muted. The city lights are blurry smudges of color against the black sky.
I have no café, no fiancé, no home.
I have nothing.
I am nothing.