Nate was making dinner when I finally arrived home, drenched in sweat and emotionally spent.
"Hey," he said, with his usual grin as he looked up from the stove. Concern immediately creased his features when he saw me. "I saw Jackson in the tearoom today. So, how did it go?"
I pulled a glass from the cupboard, my movements stiff and mechanical. "Not good."
Nate stopped chopping carrots, his knife frozen mid-slice. "What happened?"
"He broke up with me." The words came out flat, emotionless, like I was reciting a grocery list.
The knife clattered against the cutting board. "He what?" Nate turned to face me fully, his eyes flashing with immediate anger. "That bastard. After everything—"
"It doesn't matter." I cut him off, reaching for the wooden spoon to stir the pot with sharp, violent
