Page 35 of The Wreckage Of Us
Jasper’s face softens, and he kneels beside the bed, resting his forehead against the edge. “I’m sorry, Brit. I’m so damn sorry for everything. For not seeing it sooner. For not protecting you.”
A tear slips down my cheek. “It’s not your fault.”
His arms wrap around me, tight and warm, and for the first time in days, I let myself cry. Really cry.
Through the haze of my sobs, I hear him whisper, “I swear to you, he’s gone now. Young’s in jail. He’s never coming near you again.”
I grip his shirt like a lifeline. “Promise?”
“I promise, kiddo. With everything I have.”
When I finally drift to sleep, it’s to the sound of Jasper humming some old song from when we were kids, his hand brushing softly over my hair.
What I don’t know is that a week ago, while I was unconscious in the hospital, Ace sat beside me every night. That he whispered apologies into the dark, that he kissed my forehead and begged for forgiveness I never even knew he owed me.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s the only reason I made it through.
But for now, all I know is the quiet ache in my chest, the weight of too many secrets, and the long, long road ahead.
Tomorrow, I’ll try to eat.
Tomorrow, I’ll try to talk in therapy.
Tomorrow, I’ll try to be Brittany Ashford again.
But tonight, I’ll just let myself be broken.
Chapter 13
Brittany
The Past – Age 20
The camera flashes were blinding. Even after a year, I still hadn’t gotten used to them.
“Brit! Over here! Brit, smile!”
I flashed a practiced grin, the kind that didn’t reach my eyes, the kind I had perfected over endless red carpets and magazine shoots. My dress was a shimmering gold slip, clinging to my body like a second skin, showing just enough without giving too much — because naked photoshoots were out of the question now. The scar on my hip, a bitter souvenir from the accident, had made sure of that.
I clutched the champagne glass tighter in my hand as I sashayed past the reporters and into the VIP lounge of the club.
Inside, the air was thick with perfume, sweat, and desperation. Bodies pressed against each other, laughter floated up to the mirrored ceilings, and music pulsed through the floor, vibrating straight into my bones. I downed the champagne in one gulp, barely tasting the bitter fizz, and reached for another.
“Slow down, princess,” a smooth voice drew beside me.
I turned, meeting the amused gaze of Marcus — or was it Daniel? No, it was Marcus tonight. He was tall, dark-haired, and forgettable in the way most men in this scene were.
“I’m fine,” I said with a tilt of my head, forcing a playful smirk. “You’re cute when you pretend to care, Marcus.”
He chuckled and slid his arm around my waist, pulling me toward the dance floor. I let him. Why not? It was easier this way — easier to feel something, or better yet, feel nothing.
The night blurred after that — sweaty bodies, lips brushing my neck, alcohol burning down my throat.
It was nearly 4 a.m. when I stumbled into Jasper’s house in Montecito, heels in hand, mascara smudged beneath my eyes. The mansion was dark and quiet, except for the soft glow coming from the kitchen.
I froze.
Jasper’s voice drifted toward me, low and tender.
