Page 68 of Obsessing Over His Favorite
“You don’t need to pacify me, Lucas,” she said sharply. “There’s nothing to pacify. I’m not angry at you.”
He blinked, his hands freezing, eyes locked on her.
A flicker of hope lit up his face. “Then… if you’re not angry, will you stay with me now?”
His voice carried the beginnings of relief, of happiness, as if he believed she was softening.
But she shook her head.
“No,” she said, “I told you—I’m not angry. But that doesn’t mean I want you. I’ve broken up with you, and I meant it. You and I have nothing to do with each other anymore. I don’t want to come back. And I don’t need you to pacify me because I’mnot angry.”
Lucas pulled back slowly. Whatever hope had sparked in his expression faded. His jaw tightened. His body stiffened as he stared at her.
“Emily…” he said, quieter this time. “Do you really want to break up with me?”
He looked at her as though the realization was finally sinking in. Like it was dawning on him for the first time that this wasn’t just a moment of anger or a passing tantrum. That she truly meant it.
Emily gave him a confused look, her lips pressed into a thin, tense line.
“Yes,” she said softly but firmly. “I’m serious. I want to break up with you.” She took a slow breath, exhaustion shadowing her eyes. “You don’t really think I’m just making a scene to get your attention, do you?”
“Emily,” Lucas began, but she cut him off before he could finish.
“Lucas, I’ve had enough of this life,” she said, her voice steady but filled with pain. “I don’t want to be with you anymore. I don’t want to think about you and Amelia. I don’t want to wonder what’s going on between you two, or what people think about me. I don’t want to think about anything that involves you.”
She looked at him, her voice breaking just slightly as she added, “I just want to break up.”
Her hands pressed flat against his chest as she gave a firm push, enough to make him fall back against the pillows.
She peeled his arm off her waist, slipping free from his touch with quiet finality. Then she slid out of bed, her feet brushing the cold floor, and walked out of the room. Without a word, she headed straight for the couch in the living room.
“Emily, wait,” Lucas called after her, his voice tight with urgency as he stepped forward. But she didn’t stop. Her shoulders were tense, her back straight as she walked out of the room without looking back. The door clicked shut behind her.
Lucas stood frozen in the doorway, heart pounding. Every word they’d exchanged echoed in his mind, fear crashing over him.
‘She loves me,’ he told himself, chest heaving. ‘She is just a little angry right now. I need to give her space, time to calm down before we talk again.’
He dragged a shaky hand through his hair, trying to steady his breath.
Then he turned and retreated to his bedroom, leaving the door open—just in case. The memory of her slipping back to him after every fight still lingered. And the fragile hope that she might come to him again in the quiet hours of the night was the only thing holding him together.
***
The next morning, Emily slipped out of bed before sunrise. She crept into the guest room, her bare feet silent on the cold floor, and took a quick shower, steam fogging up the mirror as she tried to wash away the heaviness of the night before.
By the time the first hints of daylight crept through the windows, she was already heading downstairs, her footsteps light, careful. She moved quietly, hoping Lucas was still asleep—hoping she could slip out unnoticed.
But when she stepped into the dining room, she stopped short.
Lucas was already there. For once, he wasn’t seated at the table, eating in silence like he usually did. Instead, he stood by the counter, carefully plating breakfast.
When he looked up, his gaze passed right over her at first—just for a second—before it came back and landed on her. His eyes widened in brief surprise, but then he smiled and began walking toward her. He stopped at the foot of the stairs where she stood, offering his hand as he stepped closer.
“Come sit,” he said softly, his voice a low invitation that carried a hint of hope. He stepped aside, motioning toward the table behind him. “I made breakfast for you.” His eyes flickered with something like anticipation as he added, “I prepared a few dishes. Eat whatever you want. If nothing here suits you, just say the word—I’ll make something else.”
Emily didn’t move. She made no attempt to take his hand.
Her gaze dropped, fixating on the table. The usual sight of simple glasses of milk, plain bowls of porridge, and coffee was gone. Instead, a bright, unexpected spread lay before her—juicy slices of fresh fruit, eggs sprinkled with delicate herbs, warm, flaky croissants steaming gently. There were also golden hash browns, a small bowl of creamy yogurt topped with honey and crunchy granola, and thick slices of toasted artisan bread resting beside jars of jam.
