My 'Cruel' Breakup, His Lifelong Regret

Chapter 2

He hung up and looked out at the rain. It was coming down harder now.

Suddenly, he was twenty-two again, standing in a downpour in the mountains.

I had dragged him by the wrist through the mud, laughing like we were invincible.

I'd been soaked to the bone, my eyes glowing like starlight when I looked at him.

"Robb, you're the first person who's ever been crazy enough to follow me out here. I like you so much."

The rain hammered harder against the awning.

A restless, ugly irritation coiled in Robb's chest.

He sighed and texted his former roommate.

Robb: Something came up. I'm leaving.

His driver was waiting out front.

Robb slid into the backseat and spoke flatly. "Home."

The rain swallowed the city. As the car wound through the streets, a familiar villa came into view.

If I'd been there, I'd have recognized it instantly.

It was the house I'd rented back in college.

Now it belonged to Robb Bramwell.

He pushed open the front door. Irene Sorrel was there, in loungewear, coming out of the kitchen.

She held out a mug to him, her voice soft and sweet.

"It's pouring out there. Drink this. You'll warm up."

Robb took it. The cloying, sharp-sweet stench of spiced ginger hit him full in the face, and his jaw tightened.

Irene had chased him for years before he'd finally caved.

She saw his expression and tensed up at once.

"What's wrong? I saw your old post once—you said rainy days were perfect for this. I thought you'd like it."

Robb didn't answer. The old restlessness coiled tighter in his chest.

He remembered that post. He remembered everything.

Back in college, he'd come home soaked through after a brutal meeting with investors that had gone up in smoke.

He hadn't said a word. He'd just stood there, dripping, furious and broken.

I'd hated seeing him like that.

So I'd made him ginger tea, all gentle and stubborn, and made him drink every drop.

"Robb, I know you're gonna make it. Drink this, and everything's gonna get better. I promise."

I'd known him. I'd known exactly how to pull him out of the dark.

That night, he'd taken a photo of the empty mug and posted it, giddy and lovesick.

Robb: Ginger tea tastes better on rainy days.

Robb closed his eyes. He gently pushed the mug back toward Irene.

"I don't like it anymore. Don't bother making it again."

Irene hesitated, then smiled. "Okay. Hey, I wanted to ask you something.

"I was thinking of turning the basement into my studio. Would that be okay?"

The word "basement" caught him off guard, a small sharp jab out of nowhere.

His fingers tightened around his mug until his knuckles whitened.

The basement had been my favorite place in the whole house.

He'd bought the villa, and he'd never once set foot down there.

He looked at Irene, his voice softening into something polite and distant.

"Do whatever you want. I'll have workers come by tomorrow."

Irene beamed up at him. "Robb, you're the best."

Robb nodded and turned for the stairs. "Get some sleep. I have work to finish."

Irene watched his back, her eyes dark with hungry obsession.

She murmured quietly,

"Sienna… if you could do it, so can I…"

The next morning, Robb walked out of his study to find Irene already gone.

He stared at the empty villa, then called his assistant.

"Send over the top design team. I want the basement redone."

He hung up. He stared at the basement door for a long, long time.

Then, against every better judgment, he walked over and opened it.

The walls were spattered with paint, faded and dull with age.

The corner of a canvas case peeked out from a crate—he recognized my handwriting on the label instantly.

Robb's sharp gaze raked over every inch of the room.

We'd wasted hours down here. We'd fought, we'd laughed, we'd whispered promises we'd never keep.

All the memories he'd spent five years shoving down came roaring back, making his hands shake.

He clenched his fists. Then he grabbed a sledgehammer from the corner and swung.

Glass shattered. Wood splintered. Within minutes, the basement was a wreck.

Then a leather-bound sketchbook skittered across the floor and flipped open.

The drawings inside were clumsy, amateurish, almost laughably bad.

In the bottom right corner, the name Sienna was shaded over and over in pencil.

It was his handwriting.

Back then, he'd wanted to keep up with me. He'd taught himself to draw, just to be closer to the thing I loved.

I'd found out and laughed, wrapping my arms around him.

"Robb, when you've drawn me a hundred times, I'll marry you. Deal?"

And he'd gotten to ninety-nine.

Then... I'd left.

Robb's jaw ached. His breath came fast and ragged. His whole world tilted.

He knelt and picked up the sketchbook.

The hurt in his eyes slowly iced over into something cold and cruel.

A flame flickered to life from his lighter.

He touched it to the corner of the page.

Fire ate through the paper, and with it, every trace of softness he'd let himself feel for me.

"Sienna," he said, quiet and deadly.

"I'll wait. And when we meet again, we'll settle this. For good."

The charred sketchbook hit the floor with a dull, heavy thud.

It sounded like a goodbye. Five years too late.