Page 170 of Hate You More

His gaze sharpens.

“It was always going to be temporary. You have what you need. We’re just prolonging the agony at this point.” I inhale and press my palm to the table as I stand. “I’m going away for a while. Europe, I think. Paris. Maybe Florence. Or both. It’s been a minute since I had a vacation.”

“What about your impact fund?”

“It’s not going anywhere,” I say, folding my fingers around the back of the chair. “I am.”

“So it’s just a project to you. Not really a calling?”

“Does it matter what it is, provided it improves lives?”

“It matters,” he retorts. “It’ll matter to Sue Vergara. She won’t wait around for a flake.”

Good one, Troy. “There’ll be another Sue. I’m grateful for your help, but my plans haven’t changed. Only the timeline.” He visibly bristles. “The original reasons for this marriage no longer exist.” I hold his gaze. “There’s no strategic advantage to continuing.”

“Strategy,” he repeats. His version sounds like a finality. “Not feelings.”

“There will always be feelings,” I answer quietly. “And that’s the problem. I want the best for you.” My sidestepping of the truth feels almost elegant.

“Well, that just gets me in my warm and fuzzies.” He gives a disparaging huff of a laugh as he shakes his head. “If this is what you want.” His jaw flexes, but he says nothing else.

Want. It’s such a tiny word full of complicated meaning. “It’s what makes sense,” I say instead. I won’t allow this moment to undo me. What I want is irrelevant. And no good for him.

“That wasn’t what I asked.”

“Did you ask something?” My tone turns spiky. “Look, this doesn’t have to be dramatic. We both knew this had an expiration date.”

“Clara,” he begins, and there’s something in the way he says my name that makes my throat tighten. “If you’re doing this because you think you—”

“It’s over,” I cut in forcefully. “I don’t owe you more explanation than that.”

He watches me for a long moment, but I don’t flinch. Maybe because it feels like my hand has fused to the back of the chair, like I’m part of the furniture. But I can’t be a chair, solid and sturdy. I’m more like a glass vase, because if he asks one more question, I will shatter to a million pieces. Scatter across the floor.

“It’s for the best.” I give a decisive nod and make for the office to get the small case I’d packed earlier. It’s for the best, I remind myself. This protects him. I backtrack across the floor.

“Where will you go? Now, I mean.”

“A hotel. The airport.”

“Let me call you a car.”

I shake my head. “No. I’ll . . . send for my other things.” Bumpy and ugly, I don’t mean for the words to sound so hard. I pause, and look back at him, though not long enough for my sadness to be noticeable. It flickers through me anyway. Sadness for what could’ve been. In a different world, a different time, maybe.

The bar I’ve set for future me is certainly high.

I pull his key and elevator fob from my pocket, then grab the handle of my case. The wheels roll unevenly behind me.

He deserves better than a repeat, I tell myself as I round the corner. Into the hallway, and out of sight, everything within me gathered tight so he won’t see me break.

Chapter 49

Troy

Past

I get there in under ten minutes, though I don’t remember the drive. Just the way my hands shake on the wheel and the sound of my heart in my ears and her voice in my head saying my name over and over again.

And then I spot it. Clara’s car halfway up the curb, the front crushed, and glass everywhere. The car’s hazard lights blink like it’s stunned—like it can’t believe its bad luck.