Page 8 of Mistletoe and Mayday
“To get caught?” Ice fills my veins. The familiar comfort of cold control. “That’s the only thing you didn’t mean, isn’t it? Everything else was perfectly calculated.”
Her lower lip trembles. Another perfectly timed performance. “You’re never here. Always working, always planning. I needed?—”
“What you needed was honesty. What you needed was to tell me it was over before fucking someone else.”
The tears flow faster now. Right on cue. Like everything else about Rebecca Ward has always been perfectly on cue.
The strange thing isn’t the betrayal. It’s how empty I feel watching Rebecca cry. My pride bleeds, yes. But where’s the soul-crushing agony I expected? The devastating pain of lost love?
Instead, I find myself cataloging details with cold precision. The way her lips quiver in a practiced tremble. How her fingers clutch the sheet with just enough force to appear vulnerable, but not enough to wrinkle the fabric. Even now, she’s performing.
“Sebastian, please say something.” Her voice hits that perfect note of desperation.
“I’m saying plenty. You’re just not listening. As usual.”
The man shifts his weight, creating a soft whisper of bare feet on carpet. My brain analyzes that too. Italian leather shoesby the bed. At least she kept her standards high while falling so low.
“You’re being cruel.” Rebecca’s voice cracks on the last word.
“Cruel? No, darling. Cruel would be telling you how I spent four months preparing for this. Cruel would be describing the Christmas Eve proposal I had planned.”
Something’s wrong with me. Where’s the crushing pain? The rage that should be tearing through my chest? Four years together, and my breathing remains steady, my mind clear.
My fingers trace the edge of the ring box. I search for the appropriate emotion—something befitting a man whose future has just shattered. But all I find is a hollow space where devastation should be.
The wedding venues Mother scouted. The merger possibilities Father discussed over brandy. The honeymoon properties I’ve been quietly acquiring. All those perfect plans feel more meaningful to mourn than the woman crying before me.
I study Rebecca’s tear-streaked face—the face that’s been on my arm at every important function, the face I’ve woken up to on three continents. The face that photographs so perfectly for press releases.
My stomach tightens. Not with heartbreak, but with something closer to...inconvenience.
“You know what’s truly cruel?” My voice comes out soft. “I’m standing here, watching you cry, and all I can think is how much time I’ve wasted planning a future with someone I barely know.”
The room suddenly seems too small. Too hot. The Christmas lights outside strobe against my retinas, making my head pound. Every breath tastes like her perfume mixed with his cologne. A combination that turns my stomach.
“Sebastian, please, let me explain?—”
“Explain what?” My hand freezes on the door handle as Rebecca’s voice follows me. “How to ruin a perfectly planned evening?”
The metal feels cool against my palm. Grounding. Real. Unlike everything else in this twisted scene.
I need air. Need space. Need to be anywhere but in this room, watching Rebecca perfect her wounded dove routine while her lover skulks in the shadows.
The hallway beckons—its generic hotel carpet and bland walls suddenly the most appealing sight I’ve ever seen. Just a few steps and I can escape this tableau of betrayal.
My fingers tighten on the door handle. One turn. One step. That’s all it would take.
“You’re not even going to listen?”
“I’ve listened to enough performances tonight.” The words taste bitter. “I think I’ll skip the encore.”
My hands won’t stop shaking, so I shove them in my pockets. “Was anything real?” The ring box’s edges dig into my palm, a sharp reminder of my own stupidity.
Rebecca’s lips part. Perfect, glossy pink even now. “Of course it was real. Everything we shared?—”
“Actually, don’t finish that. Your acting skills are impressive enough already.” I turn the box over in my hands. “Tell me, was the environmental research real? Or just a convenient excuse?”
Her face pales. The sheets rustle as she shifts, and I catch a glimpse of lace. Expensive lace. The kind I bought her last Christmas.
