“What are you talking about?”

“The club. I did some quick calculations. It’ll take two months to clean up the damage, which throws off your initial design timeline, but if we scale back the interiors and focus on the experience, it’s doable.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “We’re not scaling back anything because the club is done. It’s not happening.”

Shock registered on Sloane’s face. “Xavier, the vault is salvageable. It—”

“No, it isn’t.” The loosened knot from earlier twisted into an unbreakable coil. “I gave it my best shot, and this is what happened.” I gestured around us. “If this isn’t a fucking sign to quit, I don’t know what is.”

“This isn’t a sign of anything.” If I was stubborn, she was unyielding. “It’ll be harder, but if—”

“Dammit, Sloane!” A torrent of pent-up emotions punched through my numbness. Pain, fury, frustration, regret—they all poured out, eating away at my rationality and restraint until I was nothing but pure, unadulterated instinct.

And right now, my instinct was to lash out at the closest target. “I don’t give a shit about the club or its design,” I said, low and vicious. “People almost died because of me. Because of my oversight and decisions I made. I survived a fucking fire this morning, and you think I want to plan a fucking party? That’s the last thing on my mind.”

Sloane’s mouth trembled for a split second before she squared her shoulders and raised her chin. “I understand you’re upset, and you’re right,” she said with infuriating calm. “Now isn’t the time to discuss business. We can do it later, after we get you—”

“We aren’t discussing it later or ever.” I couldn’t breathe past the pressure choking me. “I told you, the club is done. Do you hear me? As in, it’s never happening. Why don’t you get it?”

“Because I know this is your emotions talking!” Her composure finally snapped. “You went through a lot today, and I’m not trying to downplay that. But you can’t make a decision about your entire future based on—”

“Yes, I can!” I stood, needing to move, needing to do something to feed the ugly beast prowling inside me. “Trying to secure my fucking ‘future’ almost got people killed. This project was impossible from the start, and I can’t sit here and run business calculations when there are men lying hurt in a hospital because of me. Not all of us can go through life pretending they don’t feel, Sloane!”

Unlike you.

I didn’t say it, but I didn’t need to; that was the problem with us knowing each other so well.

Sloane’s skin leeched of color. She’d taken a step back when I stood, and she stared up at me with something I’d never seen from her before: raw, undisguised hurt.

Hurt I’d put there—intentionally, callously, and maliciously. I knew her weak spot, and I’d attacked it without thought.

Emptied of fuel, the beast inside me deflated, leaving only regret in its wake.

Fuck. I reached for her, my throat clogged with the bitter residue of my words. “Luna...”

“You’re right.” She shied away from my touch, her eyes still glossy with hurt. “Not everyone can.”

“I didn’t—”

“I have to go.” Sloane turned away, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. “We’ll talk after things have calmed down.”

Don’t go. I’m sorry. I love you.

Words I should’ve said but didn’t. Couldn’t.

The only thing I could do was watch her walk away as my world went down in flames for the second time that day.

CHAPTER 39

Sloane

He hadn’t meant it.

I knew he hadn’t meant it because at his core, Xavier wasn’t cruel or malicious. He’d been upset about the fire and lashed out. In hindsight, I shouldn’t have pushed him so hard about rebuilding the club after the fire. It’d been the wrong time, but when I saw him sitting there, looking like a shell of himself, I’d panicked and defaulted to what I did best—solving crises. I hadn’t known how to assuage his guilt, so I’d tackled the concrete issue of his club instead.

Logically, I understood all that, but emotionally, I couldn’t dig out the barbs of his words. They’d embedded themselves in old wounds, tearing through scabs and sutures to pour salt into raw flesh.

Not all of us can go through life pretending they don’t feel, Sloane!

If anyone else had said what Xavier said, it would’ve stung, but I would’ve brushed it off in short order. After all, I’d been accused of worse over the years.

But coming from him, the sentiment devastated me. He wasn’t entirely wrong, which was why it hurt so much. No one liked hearing the sting of truth from the person they cared about most, especially when it was delivered in anger.

Even a week later, even knowing he hadn’t meant it, it hurt so much I couldn’t breathe. That was what terrified me the most— the fact someone else had that much power over me.

“More popcorn?” Alessandra nudged the bowl into my lap.

I shook my head, watching our fourth holiday rom-com of the day without really seeing it. My review notebook lay empty in my lap; every time I tried to write something, I pictured Xavier playfully teasing me about it, and I lost my words.

“This movie is boring.” Isabella yawned. “Maybe we should switch genres. Watch a thriller instead.”

“That’s fine,” I said without enthusiasm. I wasn’t in the mood to see fictional couples get their happily ever afters anyway. The concept of a happily ever after was a total scam.

My friends exchanged glances. It was the day after Christmas and a full week after the fire. The accident had made headlines, but everyone had been distracted by the holidays, and it hadn’t generated the same media storm it would’ve had it happened any other week of the year.

I’d told my friends what happened and declined Alessandra’s offer to spend Christmas with her and Dominic. The only thing worse than being alone on Christmas was being a third wheel.

Isabella and Kai had been in London, and Vivian, Dante, and Josie had gone to Boston to visit Vivian’s mother, so the last thing I’d expected when my doorbell rang that afternoon was to see my three best friends crowded in the doorway, armed with enough popcorn and wine to fell an elephant.

It’d been the only bright spot of my week.

While Isabella searched for a new movie, Vivian regarded me with quiet concern. “Have you talked to Xavier since Saturday?” she asked gently.

The question scraped against exposed wounds, and I shook my head, refusing to meet her eyes.

“Do you want to talk to him?”

Again, I shook my head, this time with less conviction.

Xavier and I hadn’t talked or messaged since I walked away after the fire, not even to wish each other a merry Christmas. Part of me had been tempted to reach out first, make sure he was okay, and apologize for overstepping, but pride and self-preservation stopped me every time I picked up my phone.

Maybe our not talking was for the best. Obviously, I didn’t know how to comfort him properly, and my presence made things worse instead of better.

“You have to talk to him eventually.” This time, Alessandra was the one who spoke. “Your dating trial is expiring soon.”

Pain cleaved through me. “I know.”