Page 79 of Knotted

CHAPTER 34

Jules

“You arenotgoing to believe this,” Taylor says, practically diving onto my bed like she’s announcing the apocalypse. Or a sale on Jimmy Choos.

I groan and pull the covers tighter over my head. Whatever it is, I don’t want to know. Not today.

It’s been a week since I slipped away, leaving nothing but my wedding ring behind. No goodbye, no explanation. And since then?

Nothing.

Not a single word. No text, no call, not even a damn smoke signal. Not even a whisper of regret.

I guess I shouldn’t be shocked—fool me twice and all, but damn if it doesn’t burn.

If I had an ounce of sense—or a shred of courage—I would’ve faced him. Looked him dead in his infuriatingly handsome, smug face and said,“No, you’re not doing this to me again.”

You don’t get to wreck me twice.

But part of me feels like it’s already done. Like there’s not enough left to piece myself back together.

While you’re laughing it up with your family, mister, I’m here, shattered, dreading how I’m supposed to break the news to mine.“Yeah, Mom, Dad, Halmeoni—turns out it didn’t work out with Mr. Asshole of the Century. Guess I didn’t learn the first time when he tore my world apart.”

And the kicker? He never lied. Not once. He said it right to my face—the more I hate him, the better this works. Quick wedding. Quicker divorce.

But the real gut punch? I hate that I fell for him. Again. I wanted him. Wanted more.

And God, I hate how disappointed I am. Because somewhere, buried deep in the most vulnerable part of my heart, I actually thought he’d come after me.

Ha! Fat chance.

He told me from the start. Temporary. Torture. And damn it, he delivered. In spades.

He also promised,“Till death do us part.”

Shut up, Jules.

And now bubbly Taylor’s bouncing on the bed beside me, all sunshine and pep, promising that a little sunlight and fresh air will fix everything.

Will it?

I’m pretty sure that’s the same horseshit they sold Dracula.

Taylor might be my best friend, but she’s probably gearing up to tell me she’s following herlatest“future husband” to Scotland. Or Dubai.

And honestly? After a week of trying—and failing—to piece my heart back together, I can’t be bothered to care.

Taylor rips the comforter off my head. “Don’t make me steamroll you,” she growls, then, without warning, flings herself on top of me like some overzealous pro wrestler, rolling back and forth until laughter I didn’t ask for bursts out of me.

“Ugh,” I manage between begrudging giggles. “I give, I give.”

She releases me, victorious, as I sit up, clutching a pillow for dear life. Then, Taylor launches a full-blown assault on my hair, yanking through the tangles like a dance mom on competition day. Efficient, relentless, and completely merciless.

Her eyes catch on the shirt—worn, soft, roughly six sizes too big, with a faded Army logo that somehow still carries Brian’s scent.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Amazon,” I lie.

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