“When is he supposed to get home?”

I glance at the clock on my nightstand. “Any time now.”

“Really?” Kelsey jumps off the bed. “Then I should get going. I don’t want to be the one who interrupts a special homecoming.” She snags her purse and then snatches me into a hug. “I’m happy for you. Huxley is a good guy; I’ve said it from the beginning. You both are lucky to have stumbled upon each other.” She chuckles. “Still can’t believe you went looking for a rich husband and actually found one.” With that, she gives me one last hug and then takes off.

I take another look at myself in the mirror. There’s no doubt this is the dress I should be wearing. Huxley is going to love it. The only question is—do I pair it with shoes or do I go barefoot?

Knowing Huxley, he’d want heels.

I walk into the expansive closet and try on a few pairs before settling on a pair of strappy black heels I know he’ll love. I walk over to my dresser where I keep my perfume and spritz myself a few times. I hear the front door open and close.

He’s home.

Butterflies erupt in my stomach, knowing this is a huge step for me. I’ve never told a guy I loved him before, let alone be the first to acknowledge feelings. But there’s something about the way Huxley talks to me with such honesty. He instills confidence . . . comfort, a safe place to be able to express myself. And I don’t think there’s a chance in hell I’ll be able to go another day without telling him how I feel. Lord knows I told the man I hated him several times.

It’s about time I told him I love him.

I head down the stairs, being careful not to slip in these heels, and work my way to the entryway, where I catch Huxley staring down at his phone.

“Hey, you,” I say, walking up to him. I place my hand on his chest and curl against him as I press a kiss to his jaw.

Instead of wrapping his arm around my waist like he normally would, or forcing me to kiss him on the lips, he stands there stiff, almost unwelcoming.

Nervous, I pull away and ask, “Is everything okay?”

Slowly, he lifts his head until his eyes connect with mine, and that’s when I see it: the disconnect in his gaze. The same disconnect I saw early on, when he barely talked to me, when he wanted nothing to do with me.

This is not the man I left this morning.

This is not the man who texted me this morning saying how he wished he didn’t have to go into work.

And this is not the man I planned on telling I love him.

“Huxley,” I whisper. “What’s . . . what’s going on?”

He stuffs his phone in his pants pocket, and I watch as the muscle in his jaw tenses as his eyes narrow on me.

“What did you say to her?”

“Say to who?” I ask, completely confused. “Say to Kelsey?”

Oh God, she didn’t tell him anything we talked about, did she?

No, she’d never say anything.

“No, to Ellie.”

“To Ellie?” I feel my face contort with complete confusion. What on earth is he talking about?

Growling, he says, “Yes, Lottie. What the fuck did you say to Ellie?” His voice sounds like venom, lashing out at me, spitting in my direction.

This was not what I was expecting when Huxley came home. Honestly, if he hadn’t been looking down at his phone when I saw him, I would’ve leapt into his arms, so excited to see him. But the anger vibrating off him, the hostility . . . I have no idea what’s happening.

“I . . . I don’t know,” I answer, my voice stumbling with nerves.

“You must have said something,” he yells, pushing past me while gripping the back of his head. “Because Dave knows.”

Dave knows . . .

“As in, he knows about us?” I ask.

“Yeah, he fucking knows, and guess who told him? Ellie. So, tell me what the fuck you said to her, because whatever it was, I need to know so I can assess damage control.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Huxley. I didn’t say anything to her about us.”

“Don’t fucking bullshit me, Lottie,” he yells. His eyes are devoid of any loving tenderness toward me. They’re empty, as if . . . as if he’s already written me off. “You’re the only one who’s been alone with Ellie. You’re the one who hated me so much at the beginning of all of this, so I wouldn’t put it past you to say something to her in confidence.”

Wait . . .

Wait a goddamn second.

Is he actually accusing me of telling Ellie our entire engagement is a hoax? He can’t possibly be doing that.

But when I look him in the eyes, take in his heavy breaths, the steeliness of his jaw, the emptiness of his eyes . . . I see that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“You think I said something to Ellie?” I ask, just needing to confirm his assumption.

“Yes,” he says in an exasperated tone. “Dave is telling people about our fake engagement, ruining my reputation, and I want to know what you told Ellie so I can see how fucked I really am.”

Yup, he’s blaming me.

He thinks I’d go behind his back. He thinks I’d so easily betray him like that.

After all of those conversations about the contract, after all those threats, he really believes I wouldn’t care, that I’d say something anyway.

Not only does that make me incredibly angry, but . . . a wave of emotion clogs my throat, because that breaks my heart. That he’d think so lowly of me.

Unable to muster up the courage to have this conversation with him, I turn on my heels and walk away. The early signs of a panic attack start to surface as my breath shortens and my chest tightens.

I can’t believe that he thinks I’d say something. That he doesn’t trust me.

I stalk up the stairs.

I hear him call out, “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

I don’t stop, I don’t even stumble as my feet move faster than my body.

Instead, I propel myself forward, and when I reach my room, I slam my door and reach behind my back for the zipper of my dress. I struggle to reach it for a few seconds, and just as I grab it and pull down, unzipping my dress, the door to my bedroom flings open.

“Are you going to answer me?” Huxley asks as I step out of the dress and heels, leaving them on the floor.

I turn to the closet and throw on a pair of jean shorts and the only simple T-shirt in there, which is the Fleetwood Mac shirt he got me. It’ll have to do. I slip on a pair of my sandals and grab my phone from my nightstand. I’m about to storm past him when he blocks the door.

“Lottie, I need to fucking know.”

“Why do you need to know?” I ask him. “It seems to me as though you’ve already made up your mind.”

“Are you saying you didn’t say anything?”

“The fact that you even have to ask that is so incredibly insulting.”

“That’s not an answer,” he says.

“You want an answer?” I reply, trying to hold on to my composure as best as I can. “Fine, here’s your answer. No, I didn’t say anything to Ellie, because, despite what you might think of me, despite how horribly you treated me in the beginning of all of this, I still found it within myself to be loyal and keep our secret just that . . . our secret.”

I go to move past him, but he stops me. His facial features have softened now, and so has his voice. “You . . . you really didn’t say anything, Lottie?”

“No. I didn’t.”

His eyes search mine and his expression slowly turns to one of regret.

“Shit, Lottie. I’m—”

“Don’t,” I say, holding up my hand. “Don’t even bother.” Able to catch him off guard, I slip past him and head down the stairs, him trailing behind me.

I barely register his pleading for me to stop over the pounding of my own heart, over the sound of it cracking, shattering.

I thought we trusted each other. I thought we’d established a connection, a bond so strong that nothing could penetrate it. I thought we were moving toward more, but apparently, I was wrong, because, with the flip of a switch, he turned on me.