Stupid. That’s the only word running through my mind, over and over, as the tears stream down my face. My chest aches with every sob that escapes, but I can’t stop crying. How could I have been so foolish to believe—if only for a moment—that I mattered to Taylor Black? I should’ve known better. Men like him don’t see women like me, not beyond a fleeting glance or a temporary convenience. Yet, somehow, I let myself hope, and now it’s all crumbling.
Natasha moves quietly around the apartment, her presence a comfort even though I know she can’t fix what’s broken inside me. She helps me to the sofa, fluffing a pillow behind my back like I’m something fragile, something on the verge of breaking apart. And maybe I am. The pain inside feels unbearable, as if my heart is splintering into a billio
