Chapter 4

The bed dipped beside me in the dead of night, pulling me from the murky depths of sleep. A warm weight settled against my back, an arm wrapping possessively around my waist.

"You're a handful, you know that?" Karson mumbled against my hair, his voice thick with sleep and irritation. "Always jealous. Always making a scene."

He shifted, pulling me closer. "But you're so peaceful when you're asleep. Like an angel. You just wanted attention, didn't you? You didn't want Fannie to stay."

He sighed, a long-suffering sound. "And that mug... it was ugly anyway. What was the big deal? It' s not like it was a priceless antique. Just some handmade junk."

A sickening jolt went through me. He was right. It wasn' t a priceless antique. It was something infinitely more valuable. It was the last tangible link to Aidan, a small, painted piece of pottery that held a lifetime of unspoken love.

I flinched, my stomach churning. I remembered painting it, painstakingly adding every detail, thinking of Aidan's easy smile, the warmth in his eyes. Karson's face, his smile, had been such a cruel, beautiful imitation. A constant reminder, a constant wound.

I instinctively recoiled. My brow furrowed, a silent protest.

Without a word, I reached down, unwrapped his arm from my waist, and pushed it away. It fell to the mattress with a soft thud.

My voice, when it came, was flat, devoid of any warmth. "My bank accounts are frozen, Karson."

The air in the room thickened, became heavy and still.

"I can't pay for your studio anymore," I continued, my voice barely a whisper, yet it cut through the silence like a knife. "I can't pay for your loft, or your exhibitions, or your lavish dinners. I can't pay for anything."

A rustling sound filled the room as he sat up abruptly.

"What are you talking about?" His voice was sharp, a sudden shift from his sleepy murmur.

"The London transfer," I explained, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. "It comes with a complete severance from the family trust. Effective immediately."

Silence again, more deafening than before. Then, the distinct sounds of him scrambling out of bed, pulling on his clothes in the darkness. Each rustle of fabric was a testament to his rising panic, his barely concealed fury.

The bedroom door slammed shut, rattling the frame. The sound echoed through the apartment, a final, definitive period at the end of a very long, very painful sentence.

I lay there, staring up at the dark ceiling. In the past, I would have gotten up, chased after him, pleaded with him. I would have found a way to apologize, to make him smile again. Because his smile, his fleeting resemblance to Aidan, was all I had left.

People used to call me desperate, pathetic. They said I was a fool for letting him treat me the way he did. They were right. I was.

But I loved to see him happy. I told myself it was because I loved him. The truth was, his happiness was a broken mirror reflecting a past joy. A pale imitation of the man I truly loved, the man who was gone forever.