Page 27 of When Forever Falls Apart

Except—I did.

I still love Nicole, I think.Fuck, I don’t know anymore.

Admitting that to her would mean surrendering to a future filled with marriage, children—all the things I dread.

“She dumped you. Cheated on you. Broke your heart?” Madelina prods, her curiosity apparent.

“Are you always this nosy?” I snap. “You’re hardly one to talk, Miss Runaway Bride.”

Dipping her head beneath the surface, she swims away. I hesitate, torn between wanting to check on her and letting her have her moment. After what feels like an eternity, she reemerges.

“So, we’re not discussing you abandoning your fiancé at the altar?” I ask, turning the tables.

She shakes her head, her expression fading to something more somber. “It’s getting cold.”

“If you’re cold, then we should get out of here,” I mutter, glad she’s stopped questioning me on my life in Paris. “I can drive you back into town.”

“Nah, it’s okay,” she replies softly, avoiding my gaze. “The walk isn’t far, and it’ll give me a chance to dry off. Besides, it’s still light out.”

“Suit yourself,” I mumble, swimming toward the deck. I don’t say anything more as I climb out and gather my belongings, the weight of unspoken words lingering between us.

As long as we avoid the shadows of our past, they remain invisible.

Yet they always seem to loom, ready to resurface at any moment.

And when you least expect it.

CHAPTER 8Madelina

“It’s a real shame the wedding didn’t go ahead.”

Billie quietly serves a coffee beside me as I navigate a well-meaning but probing inquiry about Myles. It was only a matter of time before someone pried into the details, and honestly, I’m surprised I made it five whole days in Cinnamon Springs before the subject arose.

Standing before me is Iris Bertram, an influential matriarch in Cinnamon Springs. Her family owned farms in the area well before Cinnamon Springs was founded.

My father harbored a deep dislike for the Bertrams, feeling his own wealth paled in comparison to theirs. Honestly, he is his own worst enemy, because the Bertrams are friendly folk who never once started trouble or rivalry of any sort. My father can be the most self-centered man ever to walk this earth.

And I can say that, since he still hasn’t returned any of my calls.

Across the polished, sunlit marble counter, Iris gracefully sheds her immaculate white gloves. Her driver waits outside like a vigilant guardian beside her shimmering bronze Rolls-Royce.

Iris spends her time hosting lavish soirées and curating the town’s social calendar for women. I’ve learned to walk thetightrope of conversation with her. All I need to do is share enough to keep her engaged while withholding the personal details, which are frankly none of her business.

“It just didn’t work out,” I respond calmly, forcing a delicate sigh to punctuate my words. “But let’s not talk about that. You’re positively radiant, as always. It’s hard to believe you’re now a grandmother. Didn’t your daughter, Lucy, just welcome twins? Boys, if I’m not mistaken?”

A satisfied smile spreads across her lips, the compliment sitting nicely with her. It’s a well-known fact that flattery is Iris’s preferred language. Lucy, who once drew whispers and giggles as “Juicy Lucy” back in school, has become a polished socialite married to a wealthy stockbroker.

The quintessential trophy wife.

I was too naive to understand that nickname back then, but now, years later, it makes sense. Lucy would attend all the parties, then disappear to the bedroom with some guy who would finger her. I overheard Aston and his friends talking about it since they were juniors when Lucy was a senior. It was her thing to keep her so-called virginity intact, hence the nickname.

“Madelina, you have a knack for making a lady feel truly special,” she exclaims, her voice a blend of warmth and pride.

I lean in slightly, lowering my voice as if sharing a secret. “With skin like yours, you could easily pass for Lucy’s older sister. Just don’t tell the other ladies in the bridge club I said that. Jealousy can easily get out of control.”

Billie hands Iris her drink—an espresso frappé. “Here you are, Mrs. Bertram. Enjoy the rest of your day.”

“Ladies, it’s always a pleasure,” she responds, her voice smooth as silk. “Don’t be shy. We have splendid luncheons lined up. Young ladies like yourselves bring such light, and it’s for a wonderful cause,” she adds, graciously tipping her head,before gliding out of the café, her drink perfectly balanced as she strolls to her waiting car.