Page 103 of The Most Perfect Wrong

“I was.” He tilts his head. “Changed my flight after your text this morning.” His stare drills into me, and I can’t tell if it’s hurt, anger, or frustration—or maybe a mix of all three. “It was nice to finally hear from you. To know you were alive.”

My gaze drops to the floor for a moment as I gather my courage. “Yeah, I uh… I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath, making eye-contact. “I probably should’ve let you know I was okay. But you gave me no reason to respond.”

“Baby, it’s not like I didn’t have a reason to be upset.” He pauses, his jaw twisting like it always does when he’s calculating his next move. I know this look too well—it’s the one he wears before flipping the script. “So,” he starts, voice deceptively calm. “How was the work trip? Or should I ask, how was Ryan?”

He smirks. I can see the game he’s about to play, the one where he doles out just enough to wound me without going for the kill—yet. It’s all about the timing with Brad. He’s a master at this, dragging it out, making me pay. He knows exactly whichcards to play and when to hold back. He always has—he’s a lawyer, after all. He makes his living by getting what he wants.

I ignore the question, moving to the chair that sits adjacent to him on the sofa. My nerves are shot, palms damp, hands trembling. I force myself to sit, trying to project calm, even though I feel anything but. “We need to talk, Brad,” I say, my voice as steady and confident as I can manage.

He scoffs loudly. “Yeah, no shit.”

I close my eyes briefly, taking a deep, calming breath. “Brad, please, I don’t want to fight. I just want to—”

He cuts me off, standing abruptly. His movements are sharp and deliberate as he begins to pace the room.

“Oh, now you wanna talk? Where were you four fucking days ago, Cooper? Out with Ryan?” His voice rises, dripping with venom. “Went and got yourself a boyfriend while I’ve been worried sick about you?”

He paces the living room floor, running a hand through his hair with exasperation. “Well, news flash, baby. You’re already taken. You have a fiancé, remember? Or do I not matter at all? You don’t even have the decency to let me know where you are for days while you’re off fucking Ryan.”

I’m too scared to speak, my pulse racing as my breaths grow shorter and sharper. Dammit. I don’t want to be wimpy Cooper—apologizing, retreating into my shell, too afraid of what he might say or do if I stand my ground. But I can’t lose my temper, either—can’t let this devolve into screaming matches that end with our clothes on the floor and us calling it something it’s not. Like it’s some sick, twisted version of love-making.

It’s fucked up.

It’s wrong.

After being with Ryan all weekend, especially last night, it’s never been clearer. This—whatever this is—that Brad and I have? It’s not love.

It never has been.

Not even close.

I picture Ryan, the plan we came up with, his words echoing in my mind:Don’t let his words poison you. Hold your ground, Coop. I stand, refusing to let Brad cower over me.

“Brad, I understand that you’re upset. You have every right to be upset that I didn’t respond, and I’m—” I stop myself. No. I will not apologize. Not for this. Not for anything. “I should have let you know I was okay,” I say, my gaze fixed on his. “But that does not excuse the things you said to me.”

Fuck. I can feel the burn behind my eyes.

Don’t cry. Don’t let him have this power.

“This hasn’t been working for a long time,” I add, my voice steady, even as his gaze shifts past me, refusing to meet mine. There was a time when I would have walked over to him, put my arms around him, tried to kiss and fuck the problem away, like that would solve anything.

But not anymore. I cross my arms, my stance firm, every inch of my body screamingstay the fuck back.

“Brad…” I try again, but he still won’t look at me. Fine. Whatever. I shake my head, frustration bubbling over. “Okay, I don’t know an easy way to say this, so I’m just going to say it. I’m not happy. I haven’t been for a long time.”

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the engagement ring and set it on the coffee table. “I’m done trying to make this work.”

He doesn’t say anything. In fact, he looks so calm it scares the shit out of me. Still, I go on, assuming he’s hearing me, waiting for me to finish so he can retaliate with whatever plan is brewing behind that cold stare.

“I’m going to grab a few things tonight, and then I’ll come get the rest of my stuff this weekend, okay?” My voice is still steady by some miracle, but it takes every ounce of effort to keep it that way.

I exhale in frustration and turn to leave for the bedroom, but his voice cuts through the air, stopping me dead in my tracks.

“So that’s it then? You’re just going to throw away everything we’ve built for… for what? Forhim?”

His chuckle is low, menacing—fucking chilling. “God, you’re so easy—predictable, too.” He starts walking toward me, slow and deliberate.

“Let me guess,” he continues. “He says all the right things, tells you that you’re not only beautiful, but that you’re smart and funny too.”

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