Page 116 of Manhattan Secret

There’s nothing. Just anger.

I can argue that in anger there’s love.

That much passion doesn’t die so quickly.

I fortify my lungs and watch him yank the door open, the noise of the party floods in and he leaves me there.

My shoulders fall, running a hand through my hair I follow, intent on getting him to listen to me now he’s had his little tantrum or whatever it is.

I’m in time to see him walking up the stairs, his eyes meeting mine.

Dark impenetrable, void of any care whatsoever.

It’s like looking at a stranger.

A stranger who hates me.

Behind him the two girls follow. Giggling, excited to be going upstairs with the great Lachlan Fierro, no doubt.

Okay.

Okay.

Swallowing the lump of emotion, rooted to the floor, I force myself to watch until he’s out of sight and then I somehow get myself out of there, staggering down the hallway and out of the door, nearly tripping up on the steps outside—blind with tears racking my body.

I wish now I’d brought my car instead of walking from the motel.

I don’t make it even a few steps before I rush to the edge of the curb, doubling over onto my knees and I throw up into the gutter.

I’ve gone over this scenario so many times and never factoring in how badly I’ll feel watching Lachlan dismiss me like I’m nothing and taking off with someone else. Two someone else’s.

C H A P T E R 30

Delaney

Just two minutes for me to regroup—for my lungs to fill with air, I tell myself, letting the pain crush through my chest. I’ll get up, go back to the motel, pack and ... I don’t have a house or job to go back to in Manhattan.

My intent was to go all balls in by coming here.

In my plan, I had me looking for an apartment, Lachie would live in with me eventually. I’d find a job; we’d stay here until his four years of college are completed and then we could go anywhere. The world our playground.

It all shot down in misery.

I can’t back up the tide of despair and loss.

And there’s no one to blame but myself.

I’ve done this to us.

We’d been so happy.So happy.

It might have been seconds or minutes, down on the ground trying to regroup, retching and crying, before two large hands pluck me up.

“The fuck, Laney!” hisses my beautiful man-boy, with his eyes on fire and his lips so kissable. He swings me up into his arms.

“Put me down,” I cry, scrubbing at my face.

“Where the hell is your car?”

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