Wicked Heart (Starcrossed #3)(38)

As he presses the card into my hand, humiliation sinks into my bones.

He said he loved me. That he missed me. That some actors might fall for their leading ladies, but he never would. And I believed him.

I bought every single line he fed me and begged for more. I really am a special breed of idiot.

Part of me is blindsided, but another part is completely unsurprised it’s happened again. Of course it has.

I look back at Liam and Angel, still groping each other for the camera. Liam’s eyes flicker to me, and I see it—the exact moment he realizes I know. His face drops and clouds with guilt, and then a look of indescribable sadness settles on his features. The photographer barks something at him and Liam glances at him briefly before turning back to me.

As I stare at him, my eyes prickle with hot tears, but I refuse to let them fall. I’m filled with so much rage, I’m shaking. More than anything, I’m angry with myself. I knew the risks of falling for him, and I let it happen anyway.

I deserve this. It’s as much my fault as it is his.

When I can’t bear to look at him anymore, I turn and walk away. I hear him yell my name, but I don’t stop. What would be the point?

Everything hurts as I walk, and I curse myself for wanting to run back and beg him to change his mind.

What the hell is wrong with me? Am I really that unlovable?

Tears well up again, and I tense every muscle to stop the emotion from overwhelming me.

Maybe I’m just supposed to live out my days with Josh and have casual sex with others. Maybe there isn’t a man out there who loves me enough to want my body and heart.

I want to deny that I love Liam so it won’t hurt so much, but I can’t. I don’t think I really loved the other guys who dumped me, but him . . . For all my ranting about fate, it felt like he was meant for me. Why couldn’t the only one I really wanted want me back?

I wipe my eyes in frustration. My face is hot with shame and embarrassment, and I’m so weary all I want to do is curl into a ball and close my eyes.

I’m almost to the subway station when my phone buzzes with a message. I stop dead when I see it’s from Liam. I stare at it for a long time.

I expected him to roll out the usual shtick: “It’s not you, it’s me.” Or, “We want different things.” Or my personal favorite: “I think we’re better as friends.”

The message I’m staring at is none of those things. It simply says, “I’m sorry.”

No denial. No excuses.

I don’t know why those two words crack my self-control, but they do. I break down in the middle of the pavement and cry in a way I’ve never cried before. It’s ugly, and every sob shoots pain through my chest. And even though I know people are staring, I can’t stop.

Years ago I saw a magazine article that claimed everyone should have their heart broken at least once in order to become a better person. It said that the pain of losing someone you love will teach you about yourself. Develop your strength and resilience.

Whoever wrote that article can go fuck themselves.

Heartache doesn’t teach you to be resilient. It teaches you to protect your fragility. It teaches you to fear love. And it draws a bright red circle around all the ways you’ve failed as a person and laughs while you cry.

I don’t know how long I stand there and sob, but after a while, all my tears are gone, and I collapse onto a nearby bench as I try to pull myself together. There’s a deep, angry pain in my chest, and I wonder how long I’ll have to live with it.

When the shadows start to lengthen and the streetlights flicker on, I stand and slowly head toward home.

At least having my heart broken by Liam Quinn taught me one thing. It’s taught me that I never want to feel this way about a man ever again.





NINE


PRESENT TENSE


Present Day

Pier 23 Rehearsal Rooms

New York City

The morning after I spill the beans about Liam to Josh, I feel better. Until then, I’d never let myself mourn losing Liam, and maybe that’s why I couldn’t let him go. Perhaps Josh was right. I should have confided in him about all of this years ago. He remains dubious about my ability to keep my personal and professional lives separate, but I reassure him I’ve been subjected to countless pictures of Liam and Angel over the years. I’m practically desensitized to their coupledom by now.

I’m still setting up the rehearsal room when noise from the fans downstairs escalates. Just like yesterday, the golden couple’s arrival is heralded by a cavalcade of earsplitting screams. The difference is that when they stride into the room today, they’re accompanied by a whole slew of extra people. Two camera crews, a sound guy, a pimply production runner, and a hassled female producer who looks like she hasn’t slept in three days trail after them. They circle the stars like anxious human planets. Marco hurries over to the production desk, followed closely by our publicist, Mary. The tiny Botoxed woman looks like the cat who swallowed the canary, while Marco looks like a serial killer who’s about to flay people alive.

“Great news, team!” Mary says with her trademark enthusiasm. “As previously discussed, from today until the show opens, Liam and Angel will be filming their upcoming reality show, Angeliam: A Fairy Tale Romance.”

I cringe over the hideous moniker the pulp media have named them. Angeliam? Is that necessary? It sounds like an antifungal cream: “My crotch rot used to get super-itchy, but now, with a generous application of Angeliam, I barely notice it.”