Chapter 68 #2
What happened was probably the textbook definition of female rage.
I threw paint all over the furniture—pieces that had been custom-made, brought in from all over the world.
I shattered anything breakable, knocked over anything that could fall.
I screamed. I sobbed. I destroyed. And when there was nothing left to ruin, when my voice was hoarse and my body was spent, I collapsed in exhaustion.
While I loved this house—and I still do—in that moment, I hated it with every fibre of my being. It was a monument to the life we had been trying to build, the life we could have had, but he had destroyed it. And I wanted it gone.
Ever since that day, ever since I got back, I’ve done everything I could to avoid this place. Not just the house, not just the street, but the entire Belgravia neighbourhood.
There are very few things I’m really ashamed of having done. This is probably the top one.
Now that I’m here, standing in front of the black door, bracing myself to enter the house, I fear what’s waiting behind it.
I know TJ hasn’t sold the house. When he bought it, he put both our names on the deed, and to sell it, he would need my signature.
I don’t even know if he ever found out what I did. One of the masons could have told him, or maybe he saw it himself. He used to come by often to supervise the renovations, but he never mentioned anything. That makes me think that the moment we broke up, he dropped everything related to this house.
I’m scared to face the damage and how deranged I must have acted. I know it was a lot, but I don’t remember it clearly—it’s all a blur.
The best way to take off a bandage is to rip it off. So instead of standing frozen, I take my key, slide it into the keyhole, turn it, and the lock clicks open.
It’s a good sign.
There was always the possibility TJ had changed the locks.
I take a deep breath and step inside.
As I step inside, for a second, I think I’ve walked into the wrong house.
I blink a few times.
I haven’t.
The house has changed from what it looked like when Martha and John lived here, but it still holds that cosy feeling I love.
It’s a little more modern now, but not much.
TJ designed the floor plan for the renovations.
He likes open living spaces, the kind that encourage a living-room family.
But he also likes preserving Georgian architecture—the mouldings, the pillars.
But that’s not what makes me think I’m in the wrong house.
It’s the fact that everything looks exactly as it did before I came here and destroyed it.
What the hell?
Did I hallucinate it?
I’m certain I didn’t.
I actually cut my little finger while doing it. I remember being mad about it because it made wearing rings on that finger painful, and the cut made my finger look ugly.
So, if the house is intact… what happened?
I walk around more. Perhaps it is a fluke. Perhaps someone cleaned the entrance. I didn’t damage much here. I run my hand over a mahogany consulate table that I’m sure I had broken, but it’s intact. As I move through the house, everything I thought I’d damaged remains untouched.
I make my way to the living room. That is where I had unleashed most of my anger. There has to be proof of what I did. Proof that I didn’t imagine it.
I climb the stairs to the first floor, and I glance around, searching for evidence but also admiring the decor and furniture. It doesn’t follow any specific style, though if I had to name one, maybe eclectic. But really, it’s just a mix of things TJ and I liked. We chose every piece ourselves.
Everything here was meant to be an embodiment of us.
I reach the living room, afraid of what I might see. Before, it was the most perfect room—the heart of the house. It seems like there was nothing to fear. Just like the rest of it, it’s completely intact.
The burgundy couch—the one custom-made, one of a kind, the one I’m certain I threw paint at—has no stains on it.
The lamps I remember smashing to the floor remain perfectly in place, as does the artwork and the rug.
The only difference from that night is that there aren’t any paint cans or construction materials lying around to get upstairs, but maybe they were never there.
We remodelled the house in stages, and the ground and first floors were the first to be completed.
I lie on the sofa, my mind racing. Maybe I have lost the plot.
I’m about to conclude that I have, but I hear footsteps coming down the stairs to this floor.
I’m not alone.
More people are here.
I hear them.
They’re upstairs. There are probably three or four people. I must have been too caught up in my spiralling thoughts about losing my mind to notice before.
I freeze. Losing my mind will have to wait—I need to be alert.
I take a Farb-Gel spray from my bag in case I need to use it.
I go towards the stairs, and about to step onto this floor are a man in his forties and a woman who looks like she’s in her late twenties. They both stop and look at me.
They’re dressed casually, both in jeans and T-shirts. Their clothes are a little dirty.
I hesitate for a moment, but I end up putting the Farb-Gel spray back into my bag. This whole situation is weird, but they don’t look or feel threatening.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” the man asks, firm but not unkind.
“This is my house,” I declare, though sounding less sure than I’d like. Is it still my house? “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” I echo back.
“Oh,” the man says, realisation dawning. “You’re the girlfriend.”
“Ex-girlfriend,” the woman corrects gently, offering me an apologetic smile.
“We’re masons. We work here,” the man explains. “We’re finishing up a few things on the third floor, then we’ll be done for the night.”
I’ve only met a few of the people working on the renovations—the ones in charge—probably why I didn’t recognise them.
“Third floor?”
He nods.
That probably means the second floor—where the master bedroom is—must be finished. It wasn’t the last time I was here.
“So, the second floor is done?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
“Almost, just a few minor things missing,” the man responds.
TJ and I talked about how we wanted the master bedroom, bathroom, and closet to look, but we never got around to making it happen. I’m really curious what he ended up doing.
Did he make it more his style?
A thought crosses my mind—did he keep remodelling the house, planning for a life here with someone else?
Is that why he never mentioned the house after we broke up?
Maybe I should leave, but curiosity wins over. “Can I see it?”
“Of course, it’s your house,” the woman replies, both of them moving towards the stairs, and I follow them.
As we make our way upstairs, I ask, “Was any part of downstairs, like the living room, ever destroyed?”
“Yes, the fucking bandits,” the man replies.
So, I didn’t imagine it. “They made a proper mess. Even ruined the floor with the paint.” My stomach drops.
I hadn’t realised I’d done that, but I supposed I should have—it was wood.
“And all the furniture they smashed.” He shakes his head.
“What rotten luck it was that TJ left the door unlocked, and there wasn’t a trace of evidence. ”
So that’s the explanation TJ gave for what happened. He told everyone the house had been vandalised, covering for me. There’s no way he didn’t know I was the one responsible. There are cameras in the house.
“Fortunately, he managed to replace everything. You can hardly tell, right?” He looks down at me, waiting for a response.
I force a smile and nod.
How did TJ manage to replace every single thing? Some of them were one of a kind. Others were pieces we had picked up at small markets in different countries. I don’t even remember where some of them came from.
We reach the second floor, and they continue up. I glance back at them. “We’ll be upstairs finishing up—call if you need anything,” the woman tells me.
“Thank you,” I reply as they head up the stairs.
I turn to the master bedroom. The brown doors are closed.
I take a moment before pushing open the double door and stepping inside—gasping.
This room is…
Superb.
Flawless.
Perfect.
There aren’t enough words to describe what I’m seeing.
If I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it was real.
Every single thing I once talked with TJ about wanting in a room is here.
The brown walls with mouldings, the crystal chandelier, the cream headboard and footboard, the baby blue bedside bench, the painting above the bed, the white rug beneath it, the sitting area by the windows with the brown Queen Anne chairs, the cream chaise longue in one corner of the room, and a brown vintage glass cabinet with multiple displays inside—to hold some of my jewellery.
I keep walking, reaching the bathroom. The walls are covered in green tiles, a circular bathtub sits against the wall, and a round mirror hangs above the sink. The shower and toilet each have their own separate rooms. It’s the exact bathroom I once saw on Pinterest. TJ recreated it completely.
I go to see the last part of this floor—the closet.
It’s an oval-shaped room, entirely covered in rich brown wood.
The cabinets are curved, the design more minimalist, with plenty of storage and an island in the centre for jewellery.
I can see what the man meant about a few minor things missing—the handles haven’t been installed yet—but even so, it’s perfect.
The closet, the bathroom, the bedroom—everything.
I go back to the bedroom and sit on the bed, taking it all in. The attention to detail, the care TJ put into choosing every piece. How much time he must have spent. How he remembered things I had mentioned so long ago, things I had even forgotten myself.
If to be seen is to be loved, then no one will ever love me like TJ does.
My eyes fill with tears, and before I know it, they’re slipping down my cheeks. Normally, I would wipe them away and try to compose myself, as there are other people here, and I hate the thought of anyone seeing me cry.
But right now, I don’t do it.
Right now, I want to feel everything.
I cry until there’s nothing left, until I’ve let it all out. As I finally stop, I hear someone enter the room. I get up and turn around, expecting to see one of the workers, but instead it’s TJ.
He’s dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather jacket, looking so handsome. Under one arm, he’s carrying what looks like a tube for storing blueprints.
He frowns. “What are you doing here?”
“I—” I pause, unsure how to answer, wiping away the last traces of tears. “I wanted to see the house.”
He nods, his expression softening as he takes a step closer.
“How did you manage to fix all the damage downstairs? The couch was supposed to be one of a kind,” I ask, still stunned by everything.
“I told the designer a little accident happened. I sent it back to New York, and he was kind enough to replenish it,” he explains, glancing around the room.
I take a step closer to him. “And all the other things? How did you replace everything?”
“It took a while, but I remembered where we got a lot of the stuff. And for the rest, I had photos and did a reverse Google search.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, but to me it’s everything.
“That must have been a full-time job,” I reply, awe creeping into my voice.
He smiles faintly. “I didn’t mind.”
I feel a lump forming in my throat. I’m sorry, I think. But the words don’t make it out.
“What do you think about the rest of the house?” he asks, stepping closer, closing the space between us.
I move towards him too, like we’re magnets, like we’ve always been. I’ve tried to deny the pull he has on me for so long.
I don’t now.
I could be on the other side of the galaxy from him and still feel this pull.
I don’t know how much of the upstairs is finished since I didn’t see it, but I’m certain the rest of the house is as perfect as this room. With confidence, I answer, “It’s perfect. Every single detail.”
We’re so close, we’re almost touching. I look up at him, and he looks down at me.
He lowers his head, bringing it closer to mine.
His nose brushes mine. We’re so close that the smallest movement would make our lips meet.
But then, he pulls away, looking like he hated doing it.
He shakes his head, running a hand through his brown hair.
“If I kiss you, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop. ”
With one long step—though my mind is yelling no—I listen to my heart and close the gap he put between us.
“Then don’t stop,” I murmur, pressing my lips against his.
He cups my face in his hands, letting the tube slip to the floor, and kisses me back.
I thread my fingers through his hair. It’s not gentle—it’s fierce, raw like we’ve been starving for so long and finally we’re devouring what we’ve longed for.
I love him.
I’ve been so fixated on the one bad thing he did that I forgot the million good ones.
Like how he has always been there for me.
Like how he knows all my favourite things.
Like how he does these kind things without expecting anything in return.
Like this house—he did it not to impress me or to get me back. If he had, he would have mentioned it by now. He did all of this because, while I had given up on us, he never did. This house is proof of that.