Chapter 55
TJ
Cornelia never liked watching anything violent.
She used to say, The world’s already too violent—why would I spend my escape time watching more of it?
If I want violence, I can just turn on the news.
She preferred romcoms and sitcoms. I’ll admit, she had a point.
But violent movies are also, let’s face it, very entertaining.
Now that we’re not together, I can watch them. The only perk of us breaking up. One I’d happily relinquish if we ever get back together.
Weberly is sprawled beside me on the couch, though she’s not paying attention to the movie. She’s completely absorbed in whatever she’s watching on her phone.
After the whole yacht debacle in Monaco, it didn’t take much for Weberly to forgive me for ditching her to get high—just a few apologies and a promise that I would never do drugs in front of her.
If it had been Cornelia instead of her, first of all, I wouldn’t have done it.
But if, somehow, we were transported into an alternative universe—because in this one, it would never happen—she would have made me work for it.
Buying her flowers, jewellery, and banning anything remotely addictive from my life for a while.
Not because she needed those things—she’s got far more money than I do—but because she’d want to make it absolutely clear that what I did wasn’t acceptable.
Hell, she wasn’t even the one I ditched, but I still sent her flowers apologising.
But, like I’ve said a thousand times, there’s no one in the world like Cornelia.
Weberly turns her gaze from her phone to look at me and asks, “Why did you two break up?”
I’m caught off guard. I thought we had an unspoken agreement to avoid asking each other about our personal lives. And while she didn’t specify which relationship, I know exactly which one she’s asking about.
I’ve only been in three relationships in my life: the one I’m in now, the one with Cornelia, and the one with Bianca Harrison—if you can even call that a relationship. And Weberly didn’t know me back in boarding school, so she’s referring to Cornelia.
I pause the movie. I don’t know where this is going, but I have a feeling I’m not going to like it. I’d rather not be distracted, so I can squash this conversation before it even starts.
I glance at her phone and see she was looking at Cornelia’s public Instagram. That’s where all this sudden curiosity is coming from.
“Didn’t you read the tabloids? It was everywhere,” I say with a shrug.
It still is, just not front and centre like it used to be.
Now, it’s something mentioned in articles about us—like a weird fun fact.
Cornelia Monroe, whose last relationship ended because of a cheating scandal involving her boyfriend and mother.
Thanks to the planted juicier stories, good PR people, and lawyers, it’s mostly faded.
But it will probably still linger for years, popping up every once in a while.
Weberly rolls her eyes. “I mean the real reason.”
I tense and turn back to look at the TV to dissimulate it. “That was the real reason.” In a way, it is.
“I don’t believe you,” Weberly deadpans. “You’re still in love with her. I see it. There’s no way someone as pathetically in love with her as you are could have done something like that.”
“Well, it happened. So let’s not talk about it,” I snap at her—really snap, like I’ve done only a handful of times in my life. It’s sharp enough that she jumps, scared, though she’s trying to hide it. I feel bad about it, but I don’t want to think about that night.
Not that there’s much to think about. I tried to see Victoria after… it.
I—I didn’t want to, but I thought it would help fill the gaps. But she was gone. Like Cornelia.
But regardless of how much I drank, what I took, or how it happened, I can’t change that it did. And men don’t… I just want everyone to forget it. Me included. To never have to think about it again.
“Whatever,” she says, turning back to her phone. Then, she mouths, “arsehole.”
I ignore it, turn back to the TV, and press play.