Revenge Is Sweet When Love Dies

I gave up my dream art school in London for my boyfriend, Blake.

But when I was trampled by a panicked crowd, he let go of my hand to save another girl.

When our car plunged into a river, he looked me in the eyes, then turned and swam away to save her instead.

The news called him a hero, while he had me arrested based on her lies.

Five years later, I'm one of the most sought-after artists in the world, and my first seven-figure commission just came from him.

He thinks his money can buy me back.

Chapter 1

Elisabeth Hall POV:

The first time Blake Shaw chose another woman over me, I was trampled by a panicked crowd.

It was the Sun Down music festival, our bodies pressed so close together in the swaying, euphoric sea of people that I couldn't tell where I ended and he began.

Blake's arm was a familiar, solid weight around my waist, anchoring me in the chaos.

"See?" he murmured into my ear, his breath warm against my skin, smelling faintly of beer and the summer night.

"A perfect night."

It was.

It was the easy, comfortable rhythm of our love, a love so certain and deep-rooted it felt like the bedrock of my entire world.

A year ago, I'd stared at a full scholarship acceptance letter to my dream art school in London, the Slade School of Fine Art, and I had turned it down.

I turned it down for this, for him, for a future I never had to question.

Then, a fight broke out near the stage. A bottle smashed.

The crowd surged backward like a single, terrified organism, a human tidal wave, and my feet tangled beneath me. I lost my footing.

"Blake, I'm falling!" I screamed, my hand, slick with sweat, slipping from his.

His grip loosened. For a fraction of a second, he held on, but his eyes were already scanning the chaos, looking past me.

"Just a second, Lis," he said, his voice strained. "I think I see Kris."

Kris Gray. The transfer student. The living, breathing embodiment of the drama our comfortable, predictable life lacked.

Three months ago, she'd swerved her car into a ditch to avoid hitting his truck, and in that instant, she became his personal project, his exciting, broken toy that needed fixing.

His arm was gone.

He was moving away from me, a swift, decisive movement toward her. He was choosing her.

I hit the ground hard.

Pain exploded in my ankle, a sickening, grinding pop that I felt all the way up to my teeth. The world dissolved into a nightmare of stomping feet and suffocating darkness.

I curled into a ball, my arms over my head, but all I could see in my mind's eye was Blake's back as he disappeared into the throng to save someone else.

Later, in the suffocating heat of the medical tent, a paramedic wrapping my swollen ankle, I called him.

His voice was distant, distracted by Kris's soft, theatrical whimpering in the background. "Shit, Lis, I'm so sorry. I can't get there right now. Kris is having a massive panic attack."

"Blake, my ankle is broken," I choked out, the words thick with pain and disbelief. "The paramedic said it's a clean break."

"I know," he insisted, his voice impatient, "but she's really losing it."

Through the phone, I heard her pathetic, cloying whine, "Blake, please don't leave me. I can't breathe without you."

"I've got to go, Lis," he said, the finality in his tone like a slap.

The line went dead.

The next day, he showed up at my door. He wasn't holding flowers. He was holding a small, velvet box from Tiffany's. Inside was a diamond tennis bracelet that cost more than my first car.

His eyes were wide, not with guilt for my pain, but with a raw, animal panic. It was the look of a man who sees his perfectly planned future about to go up in flames.

"I'm so sorry, Lis," he said, his voice shaking as he fumbled with the clasp around my wrist. The diamonds felt cold against my skin. "It will never happen again. It's you. It's always been you. You know that, right?"

I looked at the diamonds sparkling on my wrist, a glittering apology for his abandonment. I looked at the sheer terror in his eyes.

And I chose to believe him.

I mistook his fear of losing his perfect future for a testament to his love for me.

Elisabeth Hall POV:

"You're going to marry her, right?"

The question came from Mark, Blake's best friend and the team's running back, a week later.

They were in the locker room after practice, and I was waiting outside in the hallway, my foot in a heavy cast, leaning against the cool cinderblock wall. The door was slightly ajar, and their voices carried clearly.

"Of course I'm gonna marry her," Blake said, his voice laced with an easy, unthinking arrogance. "Who else would I marry? Lis is perfect. She's smart, she's beautiful, our families love each other. She's endgame."

My heart gave a small, hopeful flutter at the word. Endgame.

"Then what's the deal with the transfer chick?" Mark pressed, his tone skeptical.

I heard Blake let out a long sigh, the sound of a man burdened by something thrilling. "Dude, Kris is... exciting. She's a mess. Every day with her is some new drama. It's like a roller coaster."

He paused, and I could practically hear the smirk in his voice. "But you don't marry a roller coaster. You marry the beautiful, safe harbor. You marry Lis. This thing with Kris is just... I don't know. A thing. It doesn't mean anything."

My blood ran cold, seeping through my veins like ice water.

I wasn't his love. I wasn't his endgame. I was his "safe harbor."

I was his sensible, boring choice for a future wife, while he was out riding roller coasters.

That night, Kris showed up at my door. She was holding a Tupperware container filled with a fragrant, steaming soup. Her eyes were wide and full of faux concern.

"My mom made her special chicken noodle soup for you," she cooed, handing it to Blake, who had opened the door. "I told her how awful I felt about what happened."

Blake, desperate to maintain the peace, to keep his two separate worlds from colliding, fawned over her. "Kris, you're too thoughtful. That's amazing."

"I'm not hungry," I said from the couch, the coldness in my heart seeping into my voice.

Blake's head whipped around, his face tight with frustration. He wasn't seeing me, the girl he supposedly loved, in pain. He was seeing a problem, an obstacle that was threatening his carefully constructed double life.

"Lis, don't be like that."

Kris's eyes immediately welled with tears, a practiced, perfect performance. "I'm always doing the wrong thing," she whispered, turning her face into Blake's chest.

"No, you're not," he said instantly, wrapping a comforting arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. "She's just in a mood."

He looked at me, his expression hardening into a command. "Lis, drink the soup. Don't make this difficult."

His words, don't make this difficult, echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of the room.

I was the difficulty. My pain was an inconvenience.

Trapped, humiliated, I took the bowl he brought me and forced down a few spoonfuls. The soup was rich, and filled with finely chopped herbs.

Later, after he walked her to her car, the tingling started in my lips. Then my tongue. A familiar, terrifying heat began to build in my throat, closing it off, stealing my air.

Parsley. A deadly allergy. An allergy Blake knew all about, one that had sent me to the ER twice in high school.

My EpiPen. It was in the glove compartment of his car.

I stumbled to the front door, my lungs on fire, my vision starting to tunnel.

I burst outside, gasping, and I saw them.

His truck was parked at the curb, the interior light casting them in a soft, intimate glow. He was in the passenger seat, and she was in the driver's, leaning over him.

Her mouth was on his neck, her hands tangled in his hair. He was completely lost in the thrill, the drama, the "roller coaster."

I was dying on my front lawn from the poison he'd commanded me to drink, while fifty feet away, he was playing a game that he thought had no consequences.

Elisabeth Hall POV:

I woke up in a hospital bed, the sterile smell of antiseptic burning my raw throat.

My aunt, who had been dropping something off, had found me collapsed on the lawn. The paramedics said another minute, and I would have been dead.

Blake was there, his face a mask of sheer, unadulterated terror.

He wasn't just guilty; he was horrified. He had almost broken his favorite, most valuable possession: his perfect future wife. The cornerstone of his perfect future.

He clung to my hand, his body wracked with sobs that seemed to tear through him. "I'm so sorry, Lis. I swear to God, I didn't see it in the soup. I would never hurt you. You're everything to me."

A part of me, the weak, stupid part that still loved him, almost believed him.

But his "everything" didn't stop him from neglecting me.

The following week, still fragile and shaken, I went to a team party with him. He vanished within minutes, drawn into a circle of jocks.

I was in the kitchen, trying to get a bottle of water, when a drunk linebacker cornered me. He was huge, and he was aggressive, his hands grabbing at my waist, pulling me against him.

I fought back, my voice catching in my throat.

"Blake!" I screamed, my voice swallowed by the pounding music.

My hands shaking, I pulled out my phone and called him. It went straight to voicemail.

I shoved my knee hard into the guy's groin, giving me the single second I needed to break free. I ran outside, gasping for air, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I found Blake in his truck in the driveway. He wasn't alone.

He was holding Kris's hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles, while she cried about a sad movie she'd just watched.

He hadn't heard my scream. He hadn't heard his phone ring. He was too engrossed in his role as her personal savior, her emotional support animal.

When I confronted him later, back at my place, his face went white. The panic was back. He saw the foundation of his perfect life cracking again.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't hear... Lis, I swear, if I had known..."

"But you didn't know," I said, my voice dead, all the emotion scoured out of me. "Because you weren't there. You're never there anymore, Blake."

To "fix it," he did what he always did. He threw money at the problem.

The next day, he showed me a confirmation email. A non-refundable, week-long trip to a private, five-star resort in Hawaii for the coming spring break.

"Just us," he promised, his eyes pleading with a desperation that was becoming all too familiar. "No distractions. I swear. We'll fix this. We're Blake and Lis. We're forever."

He was trying to patch a mortal wound with a Band-Aid.

But I was so tired, so broken down by the constant cycle of betrayal and panicked apologies, that I agreed.

One last chance.

In Hawaii, away from her, maybe I could find the boy I had given up my future for.

It was a stupid, fragile hope that would lead to my ultimate destruction.