7. Lana
seven
Lana
Marx is different this morning, not cold but distracted—quiet. I've gotten to know him well enough in a week to know when something is wrong.
"Talk to me." I sit up in bed and rest a hand on his chest.
"About?" Marx looks away, unable to meet my gaze.
"Whatever is happening in your head." I place my hand against his cheek and turn his head so he’s looking at me.
"Nothing." He wraps his arms around my shoulders and pulls me close.
"Bad answer." I push against his chest, wanting a little separation, but he doesn’t budge.
"Do you regret me?" he kisses my forehead as his arms tighten around me.
"No," I say without breaking eye contact.
"Really?" His voice sounds hurt, almost lost, like it did the first night I met him, and I know something is wrong.
"Not one second."
He kisses me tenderly before saying, "I don't regret you, either Lana." And the fool that I am, I believe him. “We got carried away," he continues.
"What?" I push his chest harder this time, and he drops his arms, freeing me from his grip.
"This week." He shrugs. "It was fun, but it wasn't real."
All I can do is stare at him in utter disbelief. How could our time together have been a mistake? "What are you talking about?" I grip the blanket tighter around my naked body.
"I have to return to my life."
"What about me?" I hate how pathetic I sound.
"You go back to yours."
I can't breathe. I’m really just a rebound for him.
Each word he says pushes me further away, yet every memory from this week makes me want to stay.
"You asked me to come." I finally manage to say.
"I know."
"You asked me to stay." I poke my finger into his chest.
"I know," Marx repeats the two words I’ve come to hate.
"You told me you didn't regret me." I reach for any lifeline I can find.
"I don't."
"Then why are you doing this?" I lift my chin and hold his gaze.
His jaw tightens. "Because this ends here."
My eyes burn with unshed tears. "You don't want me?"
His eyes close for half a second, then he says, "No."
He can't look me in the eye when he says it. My heart senses the lie, but the pain is too new for me to trust myself.
“Fuck you, Marx,” I say, wanting to hurt him as much as he hurt me.
"Lana." He reaches for me, but I push his hand away and jump out of bed, clutching the blanket to my chest.
"Don't."
"I'm sorry," he starts to say, but I stop him.
"You don't get to be sorry." I reach the door and turn—some foolish part of me still waits for him to stop me. "Was any of it real?"
His silence speaks louder than words. Then he says quietly, "It shouldn't have happened." This time, his eyes stay locked on mine, and my heart breaks.
Marx throws on a T-shirt and jogging pants, then walks out of the cabin, leaving me alone to pack. It isn’t long before a driver pulls up in front of the cabin, waiting to take me back to the winery and leave Marx behind for good.
I wait for Marx to reappear, at least to say goodbye, but when he doesn’t, I climb into the car and vow never to let another man hurt me again like Marx just did.
***
Marx
I watch from the trees as Lana gets into the waiting car and closes the door. I don't chase her, even though my heart is urging me to. Instead, I call my publicist.
"Release the statement." I exhale slowly, forcing myself to stay focused.
"What statement?" The publicist pauses at the other end of the call.
"The truth. I canceled the wedding before Lana and became involved. She had nothing to do with my decision. She wasn't the other woman."
"And your relationship?" The publicist’s voice turns cautious as the silence lingers.
My throat closes. "There isn't one." I watch the car drive away, then hang up with my publicist.
After watching the woman I love drive away, I pack my bag, return to the city, and within days, the stories about Lana fade. The scandal returns to me, exactly as I intended—to protect her name.
I saved her from a headline and gave her heartbreak. The realization tastes like ash.