To Nicholas

FRANCE I had been staring into his eyes for quite some time now. I knew I shouldn't be looking at him, much less letting our eyes meet. But somehow, I couldn't help myself. Why are you such a fool, France? I turned toward a passing waiter and took a glass of wine from his tray. Then I faced the opposite direction, making a silent promise to myself that I wouldn't look at him again. "France! So, this is where you've been. I've been looking for you everywhere!" I turned to Venice. And I would like to congratulate myself for holding back my tears, for managing to look composed when all I wanted was to fall apart. If there was ever a time I wished I could feel absolutely nothing, it was tonight. "Are you okay?" Her eyes searched mine. I gave her a smile, but no words came out. Instead, I took a sip of wine and let the alcohol burn its way down my throat, hoping it could somehow burn away everything I was feeling, too. "Just ignore them, Franceska." I remained silent. I honestly didn't know what to say, much less what to do, when you found yourself in the same room as the man who had been your boyfriend for five years—only now, he was standing beside someone else. Even people who had been in relationships for barely two months acted as though their entire worlds had ended when they broke up. So how were you supposed to face someone who had been part of your life for five freaking years? Were you supposed to smile? Were you supposed to raise your glass and congratulate them for making your life miserable? I squeezed my eyes shut when Venice wrapped her arms around me. Am I really hurting this much? "France, I know it's hard, but you have to get through this. You loved him. You gave your heart to him, and maybe you even lost yourself along the way. But it's over now. Please don't give your sadness a second chapter. You've learned how to love, so now you have to learn how to let go. You have to learn how to free yourself from the pain of loving someone who simply isn't yours anymore." "I'm trying." My voice nearly cracked on the last word. Venice gently rubbed my back, just as she always did whenever she wanted me to calm down. It was a small gesture, but somehow, it made the lump in my throat even harder to ignore. "I know." She paused before adding, "And, by the way, you look absolutely stunning tonight." I let out a small laugh. "I have no money." She shot me a playful glare. "There! Smile, will you? You looked so depressed earlier that you've been wasting all the handsome men in this room. They've been staring at you for ages. The only reason they haven't approached you is that you look like you're about to burst into tears." I playfully pinched her arm. God, she was so skinny. There was barely anything to pinch. She grabbed another glass of wine from a passing waiter and handed it to me. "Here. Drink this. Colum is here anyway, so you can drink as much as you want. Someone can take you home." "As if. Kuya will probably leave me stranded on the road." I took another sip of my wine. "Venice!" We both turned toward the voice calling her. It was her mother. "Momshie, stay here for a while, okay? Mother Earth is calling." She winked before leaving me alone. I couldn't help laughing at the way she walked away. She had to hold up her gown because it was too long. I'd told her that if she insisted on wearing that particular dress, she should at least wear six-inch heels. Otherwise, she'd look like a toddler struggling to walk. Still, she looked stunning in that pastel-green tube gown, decorated with beads around the bust and flowing elegantly down to the floor. She glanced back at me and waved. I waved in return, then sighed as I turned my attention to my drink. At least the wine would keep me company tonight. Every year, a gathering was held for people in the fashion industry. Models, designers, fashion enthusiasts, artists, and practically everyone who belonged to that glamorous world was invited to this prestigious event. And, of course, they were all here tonight. I took another sip of wine, my eyes wandering across the crowded ballroom until they landed on Tasha. She was an elegant woman in a figure-hugging maroon gown. The color was a striking contrast to her innocent-looking face, giving her an air of sophistication and quiet sensuality. The dress accentuated her graceful silhouette, and everything about her seemed perfectly put together. She looked like she belonged here. Then I caught my own reflection in the mirror behind the bar. A devastated girl stared back at me, looking utterly pathetic in her black off-the-shoulder dress, one of its long sleeves sprinkled with silver embellishments. If George hadn't practically forced me to put on makeup, I would've looked like a lunatic who had somehow wandered into an elephant's gathering. My makeup was the complete opposite of Tasha's. While hers was almost natural, mine was painted in fierce, smoky shades. Apparently, George had decided that if I was going to look like crap on the inside, I wasn't going to look like it on the outside. Unfortunately, my face seemed determined to contradict all her hard work. My hair was tied into a messy bun. Not that I disliked it, but paired with my dark lipstick, I looked like a woman in mourning. A woman who had lost something precious. Well, technically, I had. I chuckled at the realization that I would never argue with George again about my makeup. At least, not tonight. I looked like a batshit-crazy widow. What the hell was I thinking when I assumed Tristan Ken would bring Ursula to an event like this? What made you think that, France? Have you finally lost your mind? You could never compete with Tasha's angelic looks. And don't even try to argue about attitude, because you, my dear, are nothing but a brokenhearted b***h tonight. I took another sip of wine and ordered something stronger. If only hating the other woman were easier. If only she were mean and ugly, the kind of woman you could slap across the face, drag into a catfight, and leave with a few scratches. Then, with a little persuasion, maybe—just maybe—he would come crawling back to you. But no. Of course not. Because life was never that generous. Tasha wasn't ugly. She didn't look cruel. She wasn't someone I could easily convince myself to hate. And that made everything so much worse. "Dumb girl," I muttered under my breath before gulping down the brandy the bartender had just served me. "Are you planning to get drunk?" I froze. For a moment, I felt as though the ice in my glass had lodged itself in my lungs, sending a shiver through every fiber of my body until I couldn't move. Was that an apparition? Or had I finally reached the point where I was hallucinating the voice of my ex-boyfriend simply because I missed him too much? "Hey, get me a bottle of this," I told the bartender. I placed my glass on the counter without looking in any direction. I didn't want to turn my head toward a familiar voice, only to find empty air waiting for me. "I am talking to you, France." My eyebrow shot up. I turned sharply toward the man standing beside me. Tristan. Of course, it was Tristan. "Well, look who it is!" I said with exaggerated surprise. "I thought we weren't on speaking terms. Go away." I grabbed my bottle of brandy and tried to stand, only to nearly crash face-first onto the floor. Strong, warm hands caught me before I could fall. I looked up. And there they were. Those deep blue eyes, staring at me with an intensity that made my heart forget how to behave. His hair was styled with wax, something he rarely bothered doing before. His lips were pressed into a thin line, and his jaw looked more defined than I remembered. A faint stubble shadowed his chin. And damn him, he still smelled exactly the same. The same scent I had once associated with home. I remembered how his stubble used to tickle my skin whenever he kissed me. He was still the same man I had loved for five years. The only difference was that he wasn't mine anymore. "Easy, woman," he muttered as he helped me regain my balance. "Seriously, Tristan? Get away from me, you jerk!" I tried to sound angry, to hide the ridiculous little spark of hope that had awakened inside me the moment he caught me. Maybe he still cared. Maybe our breakup had hurt him, too. Maybe— God, France. Stop it. "I was trying to help." "And do you think this helps?" I snapped. "Do you think you can just walk up to me, act like you still care, and expect me to be okay with it? Go back to your girlfriend. Hold on to her, cling to her, do whatever the hell you want with her. Just stay out of my way!" I could feel people's eyes on us. The last thing I wanted was for this scene to reach my brother or, worse, my father. "France, wait!" I turned and hurried away as soon as I heard him call after me. What the hell does he want from me? He caught up with me and grabbed my arm. I spun around and slapped him across the face. Hard. For one foolish second, I wished he would disappear like a ghost in a movie—vanishing into thin air the moment someone struck him, leaving me to wonder whether he had ever been there at all. But he didn't disappear. He stood right in front of me, as real as the pain twisting inside my chest. "How dare you!" I shouted. "How dare you even talk to me?" My voice trembled, but I couldn't stop the words from spilling out. "You said you didn't want me anymore, didn't you? You said we should stop. You said we were done, Tristan! So why? Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to deserve this, huh?" My vision blurred. "Do you want to see me miserable? Was leaving me not enough? Was it not enough that you broke my heart? That after five years together, you suddenly decided you didn't want me in your life anymore?" My voice cracked. "Where were you, Tristan? Where were you when I needed you?" I swallowed hard, trying desperately to keep the tears from falling. "All I ever did wrong was dream." But my tears betrayed me. They streamed down my cheeks before I could stop them, ruining whatever remained of my composure. "All I did was dream of becoming someone on my own. I wanted to reach my goals, to build something for myself. Why does that deserve this kind of punishment?" I wiped my cheeks with the back of my hand, probably smearing my makeup in the process. "The pain is unbearable. It's too much, Tristan. It's just too damn much." "I'm sorry." I stared at him, momentarily stunned. "Sorry?" I let out a bitter laugh. "Wow. That's a big word, dude!" I shook my head, unable to believe what I was hearing. "I thought I was the one who was supposed to apologize. Remember? I was the one who kept making you wait. I was the one who kept refusing whenever you wanted to put a ring on my finger." My throat tightened, but I forced myself to continue. "Because I was selfish, right? Because I kept putting my career first. Because I wanted to build a life for myself before committing to you. Because I didn't want to spend the rest of my life hiding behind my father's name." I looked straight into his eyes, searching for something—anything—that could explain how we had ended up here. "So, wasn't that what you wanted me to apologize for? Weren't you the one who made me feel like I was the problem? That I deserved all the misery, all the guilt, all the pain, because I was too busy thinking about myself?" I laughed again, but there was nothing remotely funny about it. "So, no. Don't apologize to me, Tristan. Why would you? I'm the one who should be sorry, right? I'm the one who should be begging for forgiveness." I took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry I wanted to build myself up before committing my life to you. I'm sorry I wanted to become someone beyond my father's shadow. I'm sorry I had dreams that didn't always include putting you first." My voice softened, and for a moment, the anger gave way to something far more painful. "But don't you think it was unfair to me, too?" He said nothing. I stared at him, desperately wishing he would say something that would make all of this hurt a little less. "Before you were my boyfriend, you were my best friend, Tristan." My lips trembled. "And that's the part that hurts the most." I looked away, unable to bear the sight of him any longer. "Knowing that I didn't just lose the man I loved. I lost my best friend, too." "France, I never left." He reached for my hand. I stepped back before he could touch me, desperately trying to silence the foolish part of my heart that still wanted to believe he had come back for me. "You already did, Tristan." I wiped away my tears, straightened my dress, and gathered whatever remained of my dignity. Then I turned and walked away. Away from him. Away from the memories. Away from the miserable little hole I'd spent so long trying to escape. I didn't know where I was going, or how I would ever find my way out of the past. But I kept walking. My fingers tightened around the bottle of brandy. And for tonight, that was all I could manage.