Page 193 of The Marriage Clause

I shut my eyes.

Complicated.

That is somehow worse than if he'd said none of it mattered. Because complicated means it did matter. Just not enough to keep trying.

When I open my eyes, he's still standing exactly where he was. Like if he moves an inch he won't be able to finish what he came here to do.

I hate that I can see the effort in that.

I hate it because it keeps this from being simple. If he were cold—truly cold—I could hate him cleanly. I could call Penelope and say he's a sociopath and she'd say I'll bring wine and Cammy would say something devastating about his tie and we'd turn him into a villain story over a bottle of something expensive.

But he's not cold. He's standing in front of me trying so damn hard to do this that every line of his body is fighting the words coming out of his mouth.

That's not a man who doesn't care.

That's something else entirely, and I don't know what to do with it.

"Was any of it real?" I ask.

The question comes out so quiet I almost wish I could take it back.

He looks at me for a long moment.

Then he says, carefully, "What mattered was that we both held up our end of the deal."

I try not to notice that he didn't actually answer the question.

Because that's the worst part. Not that I believe him—I don't. His body has been telling a different story since I walked downstairs. The stiffness in his shoulders. The way he won't take off his coat. The way his hand keeps flexing like he wants to reach for me and won't let himself.

Nothing about him matches what he's saying.

And Everett doesn't say things he doesn't mean. That's who he is. That has always been who he is.

So which am I supposed to believe—his mouth or the rest of him?

I nod once because I have to do something.

Then again.

Because if I don't move now I'm going to start crying in front of him, and something in me still needs to keep that much. Just that much.

"Okay," I whisper.

His brow tightens. "Aria—"

"No." I step around him. "I get it."

I don't. Not really.

Nothing about this makes sense.

But I understand enough. Enough to know that standing here asking for another explanation is only going to humiliate me further. Enough to know that whatever happened in France and in this house and in his bed lives differently in me than it does in him. Enough to know that the home I'm standing in is about to become the most beautiful severance package on earth.

I should put that on a pillow. Live, Laugh, Severance Package.

I look down at the ten million dollar wedding ring and then pull it off.

"Here, you’ll probably want this back."