Only when we burn

Chapter 7: Breaking point

Beads of sweat dotted my forehead as I gripped the bathroom sink, staring at my reflection in the mirror. My face looked pale under the harsh lighting, my eyes wide with a kind of shock that made me look fragile, breakable. I splashed cold water on my cheeks, but it did little to calm the nausea churning in my stomach—a sick, twisting sensation that seemed to reach all the way down to my bones.

Jackson was going to marry someone else. Someone he loved enough to propose to.

The thought circled in my mind relentlessly, picking at my composure like a scavenger. Each time it completed its circuit, it took another piece of me with it. Grace's revelation had cracked open a door to Jackson's past that I wasn't prepared to peer through, and now I couldn't unsee what lay beyond it. Rosie—whoever she was—had meant enough to him that he'd envisioned a lifetime together. He had chosen her, had gotten down on one knee and promised her forever. Had picked out rings, planned a wedding, and imagined growing old with her.

All the things I'd been too afraid to even dream about with him.

I pressed my palms against the cool sink, trying to push the images away, but they clung to me like smoke. My imagination, cruel as it was, filled in the gaps Grace had left: Jackson in a tuxedo, waiting at an altar. Jackson sliding a ring onto another woman's finger. Jackson saying "I do" to someone who wasn't me, would never be me.

Jealousy unfurled in my chest, hot and poisonous, threatening to consume every rational thought I had left. It was an ugly emotion, one that made me feel small and petty and ashamed, but I couldn't stop it.

My mascara had started to run, creating dark smudges beneath my eyes that made me look like I was dissolving from the inside out. I grabbed a tissue, trying to repair the damage with shaking hands, when the bathroom door creaked open.

Kristina walked in, and my heart sank. The last thing I needed right now was a confrontation with Jackson's sister, especially when I looked like I'd been crying over her brother—which, God help me, I had been.

I turned away quickly, grabbing more tissues. "Sorry, I'll be out of your way in a second."

"No, wait." Kristina's voice was surprisingly gentle as she locked the door behind her, and something in her tone made me pause. There was none of the usual edge, none of the subtle hostility I'd grown accustomed to. "What's wrong?"

I kept my back to her, frantically wiping at my face. "Nothing. I'm fine." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue, but it was easier than admitting the truth—that I was falling apart over a man who'd apparently given his whole heart to someone else years before I'd even met him.

"Bella." Her tone brooked no argument, carrying an authority that reminded me suddenly of Jackson when he was in full doctor mode. "Sit down."

Something in her voice made me obey, some part of me too raw and exhausted to fight. I perched on the edge of the vanity chair, watching warily as she opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out loose powder and lipstick with the efficiency of someone who'd done emergency makeup repairs before.

"Damn, no mascara," she muttered, then turned to me with tissues in hand. Her expression had softened into something that looked almost like concern. "Hold still. And don't cry anymore, or I can't fix this mess."

I sat in stunned silence as she dabbed at my cheeks, her touch surprisingly gentle. It was such an unexpected kindness from someone who'd made it clear she didn't particularly like me that I felt my throat tighten with fresh tears.

"You're going to make me start crying again," I managed, my voice thick.

"Don't you dare," she said, but there was something almost fond in her voice. "I'm not good at this emotional stuff, but I can fix makeup. It's easier."

We worked in silence for a few minutes, her hands steady and sure as she blended powder under my eyes and touched up my lips. It was strangely intimate, this careful tending, and I found myself thinking that this might be the longest conversation we'd ever had that hadn't involved some form of subtle warfare.

After a few minutes, she stepped back to assess her work, tilting her head critically. "There. You look human again."

"Thank you," I said, and meant it. "You didn't have to do that."

"I feel sorry for you," she said quietly, replacing the makeup in the cabinet.

The words hit like a physical blow. I frowned, my brief moment of gratitude evaporating. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I tried to warn you about picking the wrong guy, but you wouldn't listen." She turned to face me, her expression conflicted, like she was wrestling with something. "You saw them, didn't you?"

My stomach dropped. "Saw who?"

"Jackson and Rosie. That's why you're in here falling apart."

The blood drained from my face so fast I felt dizzy. The confirmation of what I'd already suspected hit me like a slap. "Rosie's here?"

Kristina's expression shifted to one of guilt, her eyes widening as she seemed to realise what she'd just revealed. "Oh. You didn't know."

The bathroom suddenly felt too small, too airless. My voice came out as barely a whisper. "Why is she here, Kristina? Do they still see each other?"

The question hung between us, loaded with all my worst fears. I watched Kristina's face, searching for answers, for some sign that would tell me this was all a misunderstanding. But she just stared at me, clearly uncomfortable, her mouth opening and closing without sound.

When she remained silent, I realised I wasn't getting answers. Not from her. Whatever was happening between Jackson and Rosie, Kristina either didn't know or wasn't willing to tell me.

I pushed past her and unlocked the door, needing to escape the suffocating bathroom, needing air, needing space to think. But mostly needing to get away from the pity in Kristina's eyes.

The hallway felt like a maze as I hurried through it, my heels clicking against the hardwood like gunshots in the relative quiet. I didn't know how to navigate this house properly.

I needed air. I needed space to think.

Then I froze.

At the end of the hallway, framed in the doorway like something from a nightmare, I saw them. A stunning blonde with tears streaming down her face had her arms around Jackson. The same blonde that Kristina had chased after when she'd arrived earlier. The pieces clicked together with sickening clarity.

This was Rosie.

She was everything I'd feared she would be: tall, elegant, with the kind of effortless beauty that came from good genes and expensive maintenance. Even crying, she looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine. Her blonde hair caught the light like spun gold, and her dress probably cost more than my monthly salary.

Jackson's arm encircled her waist, his hand moving in slow, comforting circles up and down her back in a gesture so familiar it made my heart stutter. I'd felt those same hands on my back, offering the same comfort, and seeing him touch someone else that way felt like watching him give away a piece of our intimacy.

As I watched, frozen in horror, he pressed his lips to her forehead in that tender way that I'd thought belonged only to me. It was gentle, loving, protective—everything I'd believed was mine and mine alone.

My heart shattered.

Every insecurity I'd ever had about not being enough, not being the right kind of woman for Jackson, crystallised in that single moment.

"Jackson!" Kristina's voice rang out behind me, sharp with warning.

He stiffened at the sound, his head snapping up, and his eyes found mine over Rosie's head. For a moment that stretched like eternity, we just stared at each other—he with his arms around another woman, me with my world crumbling around me.

I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The air felt too thick, like I was drowning on dry land. I pushed past them roughly, my hands shaking as I twisted the front door handle, desperate to escape before I completely fell apart in front of them.

"What the hell, Kristina? What did you tell her?" Jackson's voice followed me, and even in my devastation, I noticed that his first instinct wasn't to come after me—it was to find out how much I knew.

"I didn't tell her anything! But you sure as hell didn't help yourself!" Kristina shot back, and there was something almost protective in her voice that, in any other circumstance, might have surprised me.

I was already outside, stumbling down the front steps in my heels. Tears blurred my vision. I could hear footsteps behind me, heavy and urgent.

"Bella! Wait! It's not what it looks like!" Jackson's voice was desperate, but the words felt hollow. How could it not be what it looked like? I had eyes. I had seen him holding another woman and kissing her forehead.

"Rosie, I'll call you later, okay?" I heard him say, and even that—the casual familiarity, the promise of continued contact—felt like another knife to the chest.

I kicked off my heels without stopping, not caring that they were expensive, not caring about anything except getting away. I ran barefoot across the gravel driveway, the sharp stones biting into my feet with each step. I welcomed the pain—it was clean, honest, easier to bear than the agony in my chest.

The gate was open, thank God. I slipped through it and veered right, feeling my way along the stone wall that bordered the property. My dress caught on something, but I didn't stop. I needed to get as far away as possible before I completely lost control. Eventually, the wall ended, and I found myself stumbling through what felt like muddy vineyard grounds. The music from the party grew loude. I was behind the house now, somewhere in the extensive grounds that surrounded the Ivory estate. My bare feet sank into the soft earth with each step, and I cursed under my breath as mud squelched between my toes.

This was not how tonight was supposed to go. I was supposed to be at Jackson's side, meeting his world, being introduced as his girlfriend. Instead, I was running through a vineyard like some dramatic heroine in a romance novel, fleeing from a reality I wasn't equipped to handle.

Finally, my legs gave out. The adrenaline that had carried me this far suddenly evaporated, leaving me hollow and shaking. I collapsed onto the ground, not caring that it was damp and cold, not caring that I was ruining an expensive dress. Drawing my knees up to my chest, I buried my face and let the sobs come. All the emotions I'd been holding back—the jealousy, the hurt, the crushing insecurity—poured out of me in waves.

How could I have been so stupid? Of course, he still loved her. You don't just stop loving someone you were going to marry. Someone beautiful and polished and perfect, someone who belonged in his world in ways I never would. The worst part was that I couldn't even hate her. From the brief glimpse I'd gotten, Rosie had looked genuinely distressed, genuinely in need of comfort. And Jackson, being Jackson, had given it to her. Because that's who he was—someone who took care of people, who couldn't stand to see someone hurting.

I just hadn't realised that "people" apparently included his ex-fiancée.

I don't know how long I sat there, but eventually, my tears ran dry. The party continued behind the walls, a distant soundtrack of laughter and music that felt like it was happening in another world. I'd left my phone in my clutch back at the table. Even if I wanted to leave, I had no way to call for a ride home. I was trapped here until I could face going back, until I could pretend everything was fine long enough to collect my things and make my excuses.

The party suddenly grew quiet, the music fading to nothing, and I heard a branch snap nearby. My heart hammered as a tall figure emerged from the shadows, and even in the darkness, I recognised the familiar silhouette—the cream linen shirt, dark chinos, the way his shoulders slumped forward when he was tired or stressed.

Jackson.

He'd found me. Of course he had. He always seemed to know exactly where I was, even when I didn't want to be found. He sat down beside me without a word, not too close but close enough that I could feel his warmth. He followed my gaze up to the crescent moon above us, and we sat in silence that felt heavy with everything unsaid.

"The fireworks will start soon," he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

As if summoned by his words, the first rocket shot into the sky with a sharp whistle before exploding into cascading gold light. For twenty minutes, we sat in silence watching the display paint the night sky in brilliant colours. Despite everything, despite the anger and hurt, I couldn't help but be momentarily mesmerised by the beauty of it.

When the last firework faded and the party sounds resumed behind us, our silence felt heavy and awkward, loaded with everything we weren't saying. The beauty of the moment was gone, leaving only the stark reality of what lay between us. I could feel him watching me, waiting for me to speak first, to make the first move toward whatever came next. But I didn't know what to say.

The silence stretched on, thick with tension and unspoken words, until it felt like it might suffocate us both.