“One day you’re going to let me love you, and I'm going to hold you so tight I’ll never let you go. I'm going to love you as if it were the one thing I was meant to do. As if it were my purpose in life. Don’t you see it, Blaire? Don’t you get it? You’re in me. In everything I see. In everything I touch. You’re in the air I breathe, in the water I drink, and in every dream I dream. I want to tell you so much more, but I know that you’re not ready to hear it.”

Listening to his words, wanting to believe them, wanting to make them real is what makes me realize that it’s over. I can’t. These feelings will destroy me. They already have. I’m numb from the inside out as I recognize that our halcyon days have come to an end.

Ronan cups my face in his hands. “We’ll be okay. I promise you, Blaire.” He seals the space between us with the first of our last kisses. However, this time I don’t get lost in the dance of our tongues and the feel of his hands gliding across my skin. This time, when he guides me to his bed and we become one on top of his sheets, I fake my climax. It’s like my body knows what my conscience hasn’t admitted yet. It feels … final.

And as he comes inside me, his body shaking on top of mine, it’s not the words he whispers in my ear that I hear. They aren’t the ones spinning inside my head—they are Lawrence’s.

He was right.

Later that night …

LIKE THE COWARD I AM, I WAIT UNTIL I’m sure that Ronan has fallen asleep to get out of bed and put my clothes on.

The numbness remains. There are no tears to be shed. I’m cold to the bone, but I’m finally at peace. I thought that I wouldn’t be able to tear myself away from Ronan, but oddly enough, it’s quite easy. I went from feeling so much, to feeling nothing at all.

I’m empty. Hollow.

After I grab my bag, I walk toward the bed and stop to watch him sleep, his brown hair partially covering his eyes. A part of me wants to lie down next to him and hold onto his body as if it were my anchor and get lost in his beauty. I want to run my fingers across his hair, feeling its softness one last time, but I don’t. I’ve lost that right.

And isn’t that how life works, after all? All good things in life never last. Like a good high, at some point you must come down and crash and burn. Things end. People break unspoken promises. People break hearts. People move on and forget.

After a while, I put my bag down by the foot of the bed and remove his gift from my wrist. As I take off the watch, I feel as though I’m ripping my heart out from my chest.

I place the watch on his nightstand, lean down and give him one last kiss. “Good-bye, my sweet, sweet boy.”

Straightening, I pick up my bag and run my hands over my wrinkled skirt. Dispassionately, I notice my hands shaking, but I still turn on my heel and walk out of his room, his apartment.

Out of his life.

Fear is a prison. A feeling of crippling power that spreads darkness within. It blinds. It questions. It takes over every decision we make, coloring it with doubt. Fear, for most of us, rules our lives, and it’s only when you conquer it that you can truly live your life to the fullest.

However, fear isn’t a bad thing. Because fear prevents me from getting hurt over and over again—from being careless with my emotions. And it’s the same fear that propels me to ignore Ronan’s calls and not answer his texts for the next two days. I delete every single text and voice message without opening them.

And it’s that same fear that drives me to walk over to my vanity, grab the business card propped against a perfume bottle, pick up my phone and give Lawrence a call. Dismissing Ronan and memories of our halcyon days once and for all.

Yes, fear is not all that bad.

WORRYING MY LIP AND CHIPPING away the gunmetal polish from my nails, I wait for the man who has been in the periphery of my thoughts to answer the call. I feel short of breath. My hands are sweating. The beating of my heart escalates with each ring of the connecting call, bringing him closer to me, but there’s no dread, no panic—just acceptance.

With Ronan, I thought happiness could be attainable, almost within my grasp. And it was for a while. But love is never enough, is it? And really, what did I expect? A tiger can’t change its stripes. Even if I hadn’t ended it, how long before the reality of who I am, of what I want in a man—what I seek—became a burden? How long would it be before Ronan realized I was just a beautiful shell with nothing inside but an echo of my former self? I don’t want love since I have no need for it. I don’t want to feel. I want everything that money can buy, even if it’s at the expense of my soul, or whatever is left of it anyway.

A memory of a smiling Ronan on our first date flashes through my mind.

“Go out with me, Blaire.”

I shake my head, fighting a smile. “I know I’m going to regret this.”

“Maybe … but why not? Live a little.”

“I don’t want to. I like my life to be planned and uncomplicated.”

“It’s better to live a life full of regrets than not live at all.” Lowering his voice, he adds huskily, “Let me show you how it’s done.”

I close my eyes and tighten my hold on the cell. No. No. No. I won’t let him do this to me. I won’t let him and the memory of his sweet words prevent me from reaching my goals. If I’ve had any small and lingering doubt that I made the wrong choice by leaving him, this reinforces my decision.

After five or six rings without an answer, I’m about to hang up when he picks up. “Hello,” is all he says in that toe curling and delicious voice of his.

I grip the phone harder. “It’s me. Tell me when to meet you and I’ll be there.”

“Good girl. You won’t regret it.”

“Wait!”

“Yes?” He sounds amused.

“I want a lot of money.”

“That’s fine. I have more than enough.”

After he tells me to expect a call from his assistant, Gina, to finalize the details of the date, I hang up without saying another word. There’s no need. I’ve already made up my mind, and once I do, I never change it.

I’m about to put my phone away when I see an alert for a new message from Ronan. Without bothering to open and read it, I reply.

B: I don’t want complicated. Please don’t contact me again.

And he doesn’t.

AM I REALLY GOING TO DO IT?

Can I possibly go through with this?

I step closer to the mirror and grab a chunk of my black hair. I tug. Hard. As hard as the men who fuck me pull it. It makes me want to throw up. But I like this, right? I watch the way my blue eyes sparkle feverishly as I pull harder, making myself wince, and think to myself that there is no difference. Well … yes. There is one. Instead of gifts or living rent free for a couple of months because the guy I’m screwing has it covered, I’m going to actually get paid for my services and then ta-ta, see you never.

And that’s exactly what I want.

Especially after …

I can’t even bring myself to say his name.

I watch indecision reflect in my eyes, but I shake it off like I’ve shaken off every single kind of emotion that comes close to making me feel. I don’t want to feel anything. I can’t. Feeling is bad. It leaves you vulnerable. And I don’t have time for emotions like guilt or shame.