Chapter 20
“The cat hates me,” I stated.
I had been taking refuge in Felicity’s apartment for two days, and in that time, I had finally made the acquaintance of the famous Mr. Fitzherbert.
For forty-eight hours, the creature had monitored my every move from various high perches, his fluffy orange face a monument to feline disapproval. He didn’t blink. He judged.
“Oh, no,” Felicity said, setting a bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. “That look? It means he likes you. A lot.”
I raised a brow. “Really? Then this”—I held up my hand, displaying the three parallel scratches across the back of it, a little ‘gift’ from Mr. Fitzherbert when I’d attempted to refill his water bowl—“must mean he loves me.”
Felicity blinked. A faint, guilty flush crept up her neck.
“Uh-huh,” she muttered, suddenly fascinated by a speck of dust on the windowsill before making a swift exit from the room.
I shook my head at her retreating figure just as Naija walked in, a bottle of wine tucked under one arm and three glasses balanced in her hands.
She set everything on the table beside the cake I’d baked, then took the seat beside me.
A moment later, Felicity drifted back in, her arms laden with more snacks.
For the last two days, I’d done nothing. I hadn’t gone to work. Hadn’t answered emails. Hadn’t made a single decision more complicated than deciding what to stare at next. I had simply… existed in Felicity’s guest room, watching the light crawl across the wall as the hours bled into one another.
Seeing my state, Felicity and Naija had announced a mandatory movie night. They’d also mentioned, casually, that they were craving one of my cakes.
I didn’t bake often. I reserved it for two distinct occasions: true celebrations, or moments when the world felt so weightless and pointless that the precise measurement of flour and the steady rhythm of mixing became the only anchors I had left.
Naturally, I’d baked the cake.
Felicity took her seat, and she and Naija shared a look heavy with unspoken conversation.
My eyes narrowed. “What?”
They looked at me, then at each other, offering synchronized, innocent shrugs. “Nothing.”
I let out a slow breath. “Just say it.”
Felicity’s words came in a rushed, earnest tumble. “I need to apologize. For what happened with your mother.”
My brow furrowed. “Why? That had nothing to do with you.”
Felicity’s brow shot up, incredulous. “Are you kidding me? The only reason she was at your place was because of me.” She held my gaze, her expression full of regret.
“She showed up here after the divorce news broke. She wasn’t…
pressuring me. She was just standing in the hallway, looking completely lost. She asked if you were okay. Not about the divorce, just… you.”
Felicity shook her head, replaying the memory. “When I told her about the accident, she… broke. I mean, she physically collapsed against the wall. She was hysterical. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk, just this raw, gut-wrenching sobbing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
She rubbed her temple. “My brain short-circuited. All I could think was, get this woman water, get her to sit down. I left her in the living room for thirty seconds. I was frazzled. I didn’t think she’d… I didn’t think about the spare key on the hook by the door. I didn’t think she’d take it.”
Naija placed a hand on Felicity’s arm. “She’s been wrecked about it,” she said softly.
Felicity’s eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I am so sorry, Alessia. I feel like I unleashed her on you.”
I leaned forward and took her hand. “It’s not your fault.” I gave it a small squeeze. “She would have gotten a key somehow. You know her. It’s not your fault.” I settled back into the couch, the last of my energy draining away. “If anything, it’s my fault for even opening the door.”
That thought had been my constant companion for the last two days.
Felicity shook her head, her eyes still too bright. “Shut up. It’s not.” She held my gaze, willing me to understand. “You just wanted her to be your mom. For once. You can’t blame yourself for wanting that.”
Naija picked up the wine bottle, examining the label with unnatural intensity.
“Okay. Blame time is over.” She poured three generous glasses, the rich, glugging sound cutting through the heavy air.
She passed them out. “New rule: we drink, we watch something fun, and the word ‘mother’ is banned for the rest of the night.”
Felicity sniffed, a small, grateful smile touching her lips as she took her glass. “Deal.”
“Deal,” I echoed.
We clinked.
I took a sip, the wine a sharp, welcome bite on my tongue.
The doorbell rang.
Three heads swiveled toward the foyer.
I set my glass down on the table. “I’ll get it.”
I opened the door and came face-to-face with Cassian.
He was leaning slightly against the doorframe, one hand braced on it. His hair was disheveled, and his chest rose and fell with deep, measured breaths.
My eyes narrowed as I took in his state. “Why are you panting?”
He inhaled deeply, the sound loud in the quiet hallway. “The elevator’s out of service,” he managed, gesturing vaguely behind him with his thumb.
I glanced back over my shoulder toward Naija and raised a brow.
She paused, wine glass halfway to her lips. “I didn’t do anything,” she said, deadpan. “The elevator was like that when I got here, too.”
Felicity nodded, grabbing a handful of popcorn. “Yeah, the elevator’s been out of service for the last two days. You’d know that if you’d left the apartment once in the last forty-eight hours.”
I ignored her and turned my attention back to Cassian, who was still trying to regulate his breathing. I inclined my head toward the living room. “Follow me.”
I walked into the kitchen, pulled a cold bottle of water from the fridge, and handed it to him.
He took it with a murmured “Thanks.” He drank half of it in one go.
I leaned back against the counter, slipping my hands into my pockets, and waited.
He screwed the cap back on, set the bottle down, and then his eyes found mine. Dark and intent, all traces of his earlier breathlessness gone.
I opened my mouth to ask why he was here, but he spoke first.
“You shouldn’t feel guilty.”
I went still. “What?”
He took a single step forward, closing the distance by a fraction. His gaze never wavered. “You did nothing wrong. It needed to happen. She needed to hear everything. You needed to say it. You did the right thing. So don’t feel bad.”
My jaw tightened. “I’m not.”
But my hands curled deeper into my pockets.
He gave me a knowing look. “You are. Deep down, you’re thinking maybe you shouldn’t have said anything. Maybe you should have just swallowed it, like you always do. That it didn’t change the past, so what was the point?”
He took another half-step, his hands lifting slightly, instinctively, as if to take mine. He caught himself, fingers curling inward, and let them fall back to his sides. “But it did matter. You finally told her how much she hurt you. You gave the wound a voice. It needed to come out.”
A faint smile touched his lips then. “You did good.”
Deep inside, in a locked, tangled place I rarely acknowledged, something loosened. A single, clenched knot gave way. My hands uncurled. My shoulders dropped an inch.
In my mind, I knew I wasn’t wrong. I had the arguments, the evidence, the cold logic.
But hearing it said out loud—hearing someone else say it, without hesitation—shifted something fundamental.
It mattered more than I wanted to admit.
I cleared my throat, breaking the fragile spell of understanding, and looked away from his intense gaze. “How did you even know all this?”
“Your mother called me earlier today,” he said, the words tinged with sheepishness.
My brows shot up. I turned my gaze back to him. “I wasn’t aware you two were in contact.”
He gave a slight, helpless shrug. “I mean… you and I are married. She had my number.”
“Were,” I corrected.
He looked down, his fingers giving a soft, reflexive tap against the granite countertop. “Right,” he murmured, the word almost lost in the quiet of the kitchen.
He glanced at me, a flicker of concern in his eyes. “Don’t stress yourself, okay?”
I gave him a polished, empty smile. “I’m perfectly fine.”
He narrowed his eyes, scanning the kitchen before landing back on me. “Did you bake?”
I narrowed mine right back. “I don’t think I like you knowing things about me.”
A genuine, boyish grin broke across his face. “Too bad. You can’t do anything about it.”
My gaze drifted slowly, pointedly, to the knife block on the counter, then back to him.
The smile vanished. He took a deliberate step back. “I should… probably get going.”
I let my own smile return, all sweet. “You should.”
He moved toward the door when a low, rumbling meow cut through the quiet. The cat padded over, stopped at Cassian’s feet, and looked up at him.
Cassian stopped and scooped the cat up without hesitation. “Hello, Mr. Fitzherbert. How are you holding up?”
The cat offered a lengthy, conversational meow.
Cassian nodded solemnly. “That tough, huh?”
In response, Mr. Fitzherbert extended a single, deliberate paw and swiped it across the back of Cassian’s hand, leaving three fine red lines. Cassian set him down gently, and the cat sauntered away, tail held high.
I stepped to Cassian’s side, inspecting the faint red lines. “Aww, he scratched you. Felicity says if he scratches you, it means he loves you.”
Cassian examined his hand, then looked down the hall where the cat had disappeared. A deep frown creased his brow. “Is that why he’s always done that? I always thought it was because he wanted me to put him down.”
I pressed a hand to my chest in mock horror. “He’s loved you for years. He’s your one true love.” I shook my head with sorrow. “And to think you wasted all that time with me.”
His eyes snapped to mine, the humor draining away, replaced by something stark and earnest. “The time I spent away from you is what was wasted, Alessia.”
I tilted my head. “Did you steal that line from a movie or a book?”