Page 53 of Broken Desires
Once the ceremony is over, I follow Eva and Cole back into the house and turn to Poppy—I know that no contact is best, but no matter what, I want to know if he’s okay because, despite the disillusions, I do care for him.
“Hey, do you mind if I leave you in charge for a minute? I need to…” I start, gesturing vaguely toward the garden. My heart’s racing, but I’m not about to spill the entire story.
Poppy nods and gestures me away. “Of course. Go. We’ll be fine here. Everyone’s going to be caught up in hellos and congratulations for a while anyway.”
Retracing my steps to the garden, disappointment sinks in as I find his chair empty. Did he actually leave without a word? I could not really blame him—I’m the one who kept his text unanswered until he stopped completely about two weeks ago.
It has been a relief not to be tempted every few minutes, but…
Scanning the area reveals nothing but departing guests. Just as I’m about to give up, my watch buzzes.
Are you looking for me, beautiful?
His message ignites a flurry of emotions within me.
Spinning around, I spot him near an open bay window, isolated from the rest. With every step toward him, apprehension and excitement build.
This is all kinds of wrong—I’m frustrated with myself for still wanting this, for missing him so deeply. Yet, here I am, drawn to him once again, unable to stay away.
As Liam moves away from the open door, his familiar scent washes over me, reigniting memories I’ve tried to bury.
Lord, I’ve missed that smell, I think to myself as he follows me into the library and shuts the window with a quiet click.
Facing him, I instinctively take a few steps back, needing the space to maintain some semblance of control.
“You look stunning, little witch,” he remarks, his gaze sweeping over me.
“You look well,” I manage, striving for detachment as hurt and betrayal threaten to overwhelm me.
“You seem happy,” he observes, though skepticism shadows his face.
“Why shouldn’t I be?” I retort, my defenses rising.
There’s a brief pause, his features hardening. “Why did you ignore all my messages and calls? I never thought you’d be a coward.”
Anger rises, and I explode. I’m not sure if he means that or if it’s a ploy.
That comment lights a fuse inside me, whether he intended it to or not. “I’m not a coward, Your Highness,” I snap, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I curtsy? Or maybe kneel?”
“It never bothered you before,” he retorts, a comment that leaves me momentarily speechless with its boldness.
“That’s inappropriate,” I reply, struggling to maintain composure.
He arches an eyebrow. “Why?”
“You’re engaged!” The words slip out, fueled by the pain and confusion of that day in his apartment.
“To whom?” His confusion seems genuine.
I hesitate, the memory of that day piercing through. “That girl who came to tell you about…”
“Sonya?” he interrupts, shaking his head in disbelief. “Sonya is not my fiancée. I don’t have a fiancée.”
I struggle to process his denial. “But she said…” My voice trails off, the sense of betrayal still raw. “And you didn’t deny it.”
“When? When I found out my father had died?” His face is edged with a frustration that mirrors my own. “I’m sorry, Vanessa, if my mind was elsewhere.”
His use of my full name, “Vanessa,” carries a weight I can’t ignore, signaling his frustration—a feeling he has no right to feel. I’m the one who’s been misled, left to piece together the fragments of truth from a web of lies.