Page 58 of This Cruel Fate

He didn’t say anything, and silence settled between them. Her stomach somersaulted. What was she supposed to say to him? Sorry? Was she sorry? Was she not sorry? Marshall reminded her of everything she wasn’t and had tried to want to be. He reminded her of easy mornings and ignoring problems. She’d have to confront him to overcome him. “Marshall.”

“Xolia.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t slept.

“What do you want?” She leaned against the counter, running a finger along the sharp edge of the knife, the tip puncturing the pad of her finger. A drop of viscous blood beaded along the cut before it closed seamlessly.

A sigh came over the line. “Can we talk?”

She rolled her eyes. “We’re talking right now, aren’t we?”

“No. Like, in person.”

Xolia tempered her reaction. They needed to talk. The apartment would need to be cleaned out, and it would be nice if he could hear from her, not the news, that she was to be the next VC. “We can meet at Windmere.” Windmere was a spacious park in the north side of Atalia. Not far from the variant museum, it spanned over multiple city blocks and had been a significant point of interest both while Xolia was in the rebellion and after.

“By the old mausoleum?”

“Yes,” came her quiet reply. No one knew who was buried there anymore, or even if there was a body entombed in the slate-gray stone. There were no other gravestones marking the space as a cemetery, just a single shrine to a single person in the middle of a green field and ancient trees and winding sidewalks. “Two hours enough time?”

Marshall consented and ended the call. Xolia put her phone on the counter, exhaling heavily into the quiet space. So much had changed since she’d last seen Marshall, since she’d thought she would spend the rest of her life living by his side. She grimaced at the thought. Something in her would have snapped eventually. He couldn’t make her happy, any more than she could him. If she could make sure he understood that, maybe she wouldn’t feel so guilty about hurting him.

Two hours later, Xolia was standing outside in the cool autumn air, with the sun shining down over the mausoleum building. She was wearing one of her favorite coats, which Adonis had gifted her from Persion. It resembled their old uniforms, structured and with double-breasted buttons. The shoulders were square, there was nothing soft or demure about it—it was all power. She stood up straighter when she saw Marshall’s familiar and unbothered gait heading toward her.

He stopped a good distance away. With so few pedestrians out, there was nothing in between them. They regarded each other, Marshall’s eyes shadowed with distrust. Xolia clenched and unclenched her jaw. If she had changed during their short separation, so had he. Gone was the soft-eyed lover. This was a shell of a man, someone lost and barely holding onto reality. While Xolia found herself more each day, it seemed he was the opposite. His clothes were disheveled. The barest hint of facial hair contrasted with his sallow skin.

“Hello,” she said, her voice only carrying the barest hint of uncertainty. What happened to you? Is this my fault?

“Afternoon.” Marshall nodded in one quick, terse moment.

Years of history filled the twenty feet that separated them. She’d once craved the way he saw the best in her, but now the thought of him seeing her at all was almost unbearable. Xolia closed the distance between them, pausing briefly by Marshall’s side to cue that they should start walking. He followed, and they trailed through the familiar walkways, having the majority of the park mostly to themselves.

“You called me,” Xolia said, breaking the heavy silence. “What did you want to talk about?”

She turned her head to look at him, right as he furrowed his brows, hurt stretching across his features. “Does our breakup bother you at all?” he asked.

Xolia scoffed, a nervous gesture to cover up the multitude of conflicting emotions inside of her.

Before she could answer, Marshall started again. “I was ready to spend the rest of my life with you. I really didn’t think you were serious.”

“Do you think we would have been happy if we’d stayed together forever?” Xolia stopped walking, forcing Marshall to stop and look at her.

“I didn’t know you were unhappy.”

Xolia turned to face the grounds—the yellowing grass and the bare trees. Everything was either dying or dead. “It wasn’t just you. I was unhappy with everything.” Another invisible weight lifted from Xolia’s chest. The truth was setting her free.

“And you’re happy now?” he asked.

A slow smile spread across Xolia’s face. “Something like that.”

Marshall stuffed his hands into his pockets and started walking again. Xolia rushed to join him.

“Rowan’s worried about you too.”

Her smile disappeared. “I don’t care what Rowan thinks.”

“Xolia, you were friends for years. She still cares about you. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

“Marshall,” Xolia warned. Her blood burned, but she wouldn’t lash out at him again. No, she could control herself. She bit at her lip to stifle the way her blood writhed. “I will never be who you or Rowan want me to be. Who Krista wanted me to be. I’m focusing on helping Peter now.” She was afraid and thrilled at what she left unsaid—that she was still too much of Silas’s protégé to ever really move on. He’d taught her about power and without that, she was nothing remarkable. Nothing special. Nothing that she wanted to be. Even with Silas’s untimely murder, he would be remembered long past any of their lifespans.

“I didn’t want you to be anything other than who you were.”

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