Page 63 of Sweet Redemption

His eyes trace every line of my face, searching for something.

Something I doubt he’ll find.

“I always loved her, Serena. But I was never in love with her.” My heart skips a beat, hearing those words I’d longed to hear for fucking years, only they’re too little, too late. “I don’t want to do this here. But if we don’t, you’re going to bolt, aren’t you?”

“Probably,” I laugh, and it’s small and weak and born of frustration and pain.

“I owe you so much, princess. But I’m so fucking tired.” And that’s when I see it, the same exhaustion that’s plaguing me reflecting back in the shadows beneath his eyes.

I fight the overwhelming urge to lean in. To give in. To ask for more.

But that won’t fix it. It won’t fix us.

We’re beyond fixing.

So why put ourselves through more pain?

“We don’t have to do this,” I whisper as I place my hands on his chest and push back, trying to push out of his arms. “I’m not sure I want to do this, to be honest. Have this fight. Know these truths.” The last words are barely a whisper in the wind, but they hurt all the same. “I’m not sure I can.”

Hendrix battles an internal war.

It’s written on every line of his handsome face.

His tense muscles and tight jaw.

The shadows in his narrowed eyes.

I may wish I didn’t, but I know this man. Every inch. Every touch. Every sound.

I knew him . . . until I didn’t.

“Bodhi’s not mine.” His words hang heavy between us as I blink, my lashes freezing against my hot cheeks while I try to process what he just said—because there’s no way I heard him right. I couldn’t have.

The pressure in my chest tightens as the anvil sitting on it presses harder.

No. That’s not possible.

“You can’t—” I shake my head, memories flooding my system.

That call.

That night.

Those words.

“You don’t get to change the narrative now to suit your needs,” I finally snap, refusing to fall into this trap where I end up back at square one, broken, with my heart crushed again. “I asked you, Hendrix. I asked you point-blank. I asked if it was true. If the baby was yours. If Bodhi was yours.” My hands shake as I rip my heels out of the sinking soft ground beneath me and step back, needing his hands off me. Desperate for control. “What the fuck? Why would you even say that?”

“Serena—”

“No. No. No . . . No. You don’t get to change the story now. You told me he was yours. You married Britt. After how many years of telling me she was just a friend, you married her. She had your baby. And you told me he was yours. You said it happened after the first round of playoffs. You⁠—”

Hendrix reaches for me, but I slap his hands away and stumble back on my damn heels.

Fuck this.

I kick them off and pick them up, not giving a shit that my feet are likely to get torn apart.

“Why?” I push against his chest. “If it’s not true, then why? Why would you say that? Why would you do this?” Each word is louder than the last until they’re bordering on a sob. Teetering on the edge of hysteria. Because if it’s true . . . If we could have worked through it but he chose to lie . . . “Why?”