The cab ride back to William's apartment was a silent funeral procession.
Eloise sat in the back, apron still knotted, hands folded in her lap like a child at church. The city lights bled across the window in watercolor streaks, but she didn't see them. She saw the oysters. She saw the diamond necklace. She saw the condoms sliding down his shirt like accusations.
She went to William's estate driven by a single, desperate, necessary urge: retrieval. She had to excise every last vestige of her presence from that space, every book, every discarded hair clip, every item brought over during their sleepovers that had signaled a hopeful, tentative claim on his life.
She needed to pack the small, insignificant belongings that suddenly felt toxic, like contaminated evidence of her own blindness.
She fumbled the key into the lock—the key he had given her, the one that had felt so heavy with trust—and shoved the door open. The apartment was still cloaked in the soft, warm light she had left hours ago. And now smelled like basil and betrayal.
She didn't expect to see anyone. Certainly not him.
Ryan Everton sat at the dining table. He was casually dressed, his elbows propped on the pristine linen tablecloth, and he was eating the lasagna. He had clearly scooped a huge, glistening portion onto one of the "good plates" she had set out for William. He chewed slowly, methodically, completely unmoved by the tableau of shattered romance surrounding him.
The sight—the sheer, domestic insolence of Ryan consuming the dish she had made with such earnest, hopeful love—was like a final, deliberate kick.
Ryan looked up from the plate as the door slammed shut behind her. He saw the white apron, the wine stains, the blotched red devastation of her face, and the tears that had finally stopped holding back in her eyes, leaving wet tracks on her cheeks.
He didn't look surprised. He looked weary.
"Well, well," he said, mouth full. "Look what the heartbreak dragged in."
Eloise's tears had almost dried somewhere between the cab and walking into the house. Now they threatened again, hot and useless. She didn't blink.
Ryan gestured with his fork toward the candles, the roses, and the perfectly set table. "Can you imagine my surprise when I let myself in and got greeted.... by this?" He took another bite, savoring the moment with infuriating concentration. "Thought I'd walked into a damn Nicholas Sparks movie."
He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Guess the cat's finally out of the bag, huh? Your golden boy's not so golden anymore."
His expression changing to something almost thoughtful. "And oh, by the way, you make the most goddamn delicious lasagna I have ever had. Truly exceptional work."
His casual consumption of her devotion was a physical affront.
Eloise felt a surge of cold, pure adrenaline-fueled clarity cut through the grief. She dropped the bin liner and glared at him, the focus of her anger transferring momentarily from William's betrayal to Ryan's knowing silence.
"You knew," she accused, the words stripped bare of inflection, just hollow conviction. "You knew about him. But you kept quiet. You protected your friend and actively stood by to hurt me, didn't you?"
Ryan stopped eating. He put his fork down precisely next to the plate. He raised his brows, a gesture of weary, practiced self-defense.
"Don't you dare turn this on me, princess," he said, his voice quiet, dangerous, finally cracking with his own anger. "You want to talk about standing by? When was the last time you looked at me without disgust in your eyes? You always looked at me like I was the villain in your little fairy tale. Like I was the one leaving stains on your perfect love story"
"Because you did," she snapped. "You do. You change women like socks, Ryan. You leave messes for someone else to clean up. You—"
Ryan threw his head back and laughed—a loud, barking, unrestrained sound that echoed off the high ceiling. It was such a sudden, violent burst of amusement that Eloise thought he must be mad, perhaps as shocked by the evening's events as she was.
"Is that what he told you?" Ryan gasped, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes from the force of his laughter. "That I'm the fuck-up? That I'm the one who seduced the interior designer while he was out of town?"
His eyes—dark, sharp, nothing like William's cold winter blue—pinned her in place. "Interesting. Not surprised."
Eloise's pulse thudded in her ears. "What are you talking about?"
Ryan stood. He was taller than she remembered, broader in the shoulders. He moved like someone who'd never asked permission for anything in his life.
"I'm not his friend, Eloise. I was just with him because I needed a very important information." He stepped closer, voice dropping. "The reason I always seem to be hanging around like a bad smell, is you, Eloise."
The complete surprise of his statement pierced through her emotional numbness. Her brain, overloaded with trauma, struggled to process the shift.
"What… what do you mean?"
He sighed, dragged a hand over his face like he was exhausted from years of being misunderstood.
"I mean the reason I'm always here is because I've been trying to warn you. To get you alone. To tell you to be careful of William, to watch your back. But every damn time I tried to get close, you flinched like I was a serial killer. You'd run straight back to him for safety."
"Can you blame me?" she retorted, clinging desperately to her last shred of anger. "Your horrible reputation speaks for itself—"
"It was all your golden boyfriend, you stupid, trusting fool!" Ryan's voice cracked like a whip. "The women? His. The interior designer? His. All of them! It was him!"
Her world lurched sideways.
Ryan's voice softened—not kind, but true in a way that sank straight into her bones.
"The night you said yes to him—two years ago, under the awning, rain hammering down—he kissed you and you looked at him like he hung the fucking moon. I walked in on him—girl bent over the couch, skirt around her waist. He didn't even stop. Told him he was scum. He laughed. Said, and I quote, 'virgins are boring. 'She's perfect. Sweet. Breakable. This one's gonna be fun.'"
Eloise's knees buckled. She caught the edge of the counter. The room tilted. The walls closed in, velvet and suffocating. Her stomach lurched violently.
"You're lying," she whispered.
He looked at her crumpled, defeated posture and his anger softened, replaced by a sudden, intense seriousness. But he didn't stop.
"Look," he said quietly. "I'm looking for someone very important. And if I ever find out somebody has hurt her like this, I'd burn the fucking world down. So I'm going to let you in on a secret, one last time, and then I'm done with this mess."
He leaned in, close enough that she smelled wine and garlic and something darker underneath.
"Had you given yourself to him tonight, he would have taken you to one of his private clubs tomorrow. Roofie your drink. Let his sick, crazy friends have a turn. Then dump you on the curb like garbage. Because, and these are his exact words, 'She's too broken to keep around after I've had her once. Too many issues.'"
Ryan paused, letting the full horror sink into her wide, glassy eyes.
"Designed it a year and a half ago, since you told him to wait and meant it. He doesn't want love, Eloise. He wants conquest. And you? You were the final boss level. He just needed the final, disgusting flourish."
Ryan walked, back to the table and picked up the napkin, wiped his hands, and tossed it onto the table. "So thank your stars you escaped the bullet, Eloise. You have no idea what you just saved yourself from."
With that, Ryan just turned, grabbed his motorcycle jacket from the chair. He walked past her, paused at the door. "For what it's worth," he said, "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve any of this."
Then he was gone, leaving her alone in the scented, horrified silence.
The sudden silence was a physical blow. The bottom dropped out of Eloise's world entirely. It wasn't just infidelity; it was a planned, depraved destruction of her soul.
The memory of William's patient hand, his gentle kisses, his whispered promises—they were all carefully deployed components of an elaborate, year-long plot to degrade her.
She didn't make it to the bathroom. Bile surged up—hot, acidic—and she crumpled to her knees beside the stainless-steel counter. She vomited what little she had eaten—if she had eaten at all—onto the spotless floor. Her body convulsed in dry heaves until her ribs ached and her chest felt scraped raw.
She felt something break in her. Not her heart, that had shattered minutes ago. This was something deeper, the core structural integrity of her soul, snapping under the weight of comprehensive malice. She was empty. Hollow. A shell.
Mechanically, she pushed herself up, stumbling toward the stairs. She went upstairs, her mind a blank, quiet scream.
The bedroom was waiting. Her temple. Her declaration.
She looked at her romantic gestures: the white roses, their petals scattered in the pathetic shape of a heart; the soft Pentatonix music still playing softly from the speaker, a mocking lullaby; the flickering peach and sandalwood candles; the empty space where the satin slip should have been.
She felt like a fool. A naive, trusting, utterly disposable idiot who had mistaken a predator's calculated patience for love.
A cold, deadly resolve settled over her. If William thought she was weak, then he had never truly seen her. He had mistaken softness for fragility. But she was done being his canvas for cruelty. She would burn his world into ashes.
She picked up one of the nightstand candles, its flame danced, small and innocent. Her hands no longer trembled. They were steady, now. Steady in a way that terrified even her.
Two years of her life, laid out like a crime scene.
She walked to the dresser and retrieved the champagne satin slip from its glossy box. It was a symbol of her trust, her femininity, her whole, hopeful heart. She held it for a moment, smelling the new fabric.
She touched the flame to the satin.
The silk caught instantly—whoosh—flames licking up the fabric like hungry tongues. She carried it to the bed, laid it gently in the center of the heart-shaped petals. The duvet ignited with a soft sigh, fire spreading in perfect, symmetrical blooms.
She turned and left the room, the flames growing and casting grotesque, dancing shadows on the walls that had once witnessed his fake tenderness. She descended the stairs, her steps silent, a wraith in her white, stained apron.
She walked into the kitchen. She bypassed the lasagna, bypassed the mess, and went straight to the sleek, stainless steel stove. She reached for the oven knob.
She turned the gas on full force. whoosh. The hiss filled the room like a lullaby.
Eloise walked to the front door, her feet silent on the floorboards. She pulled the key out of her apron pocket, looked at it—that symbol of false entry—and dropped it onto the welcome mat, a final, unceremonious discard.
She didn't take anything. Not the toothbrush. Not the sweater. Not the photo of them at the beach last summer, her head on his shoulder, his arm around her waist like she was his.
She walked out with nothing but the apron and the taste of ash in her mouth.
The door locked behind her with a final click.
She didn't look back.
She didn't need to.
Behind her, a funeral pyre rose for a love that had never lived.