James is drunk. Or drugged. Or both.

For three days now, he hasn't been

properly responsive. He does nothing but host a kind of continuous party
in our living room, emptying one bottle of alcohol after another and
pretending as if nothing has happened. I don't understand how he can be
like this. Apparently, he couldn't care less that our family is now
completely shattered.

"I think that's his way of grieving," Cyril says.

I glance sideways at Cyril. He's the only one who knows what happened.
I told him that evening when James got himself drugged at his party and
made out with Elaine in front of Ruby. Someone had to help me get
James home without Percy or Dad noticing what state he was in. Since
our families have been close friends for years, Cy and I have known
each other since childhood. And even though Dad made me promise not
to tell anyone about Mum until the official press release, I know I can
trust him to keep the secret – even from Wren, Keshav, and Alistair.

I couldn't have gotten through the last few days without his help. He
convinced Dad to leave James alone for a few days, and he made it clear
to the other guys not to ask any questions for now. They're holding back,
although I feel like with each passing day, it's getting harder for them to
watch James destroy himself.
While my brother does everything to cloud his mind, all I can think
about is what's next for me. My mum is dead. Graham's mum died seven
years ago. The little one growing inside me won't have a grandmother.

Seriously. That's what's looping through my head. Instead of grieving,

I'm brooding over the fact that my baby will never experience the
embrace of a loving grandmother. What's wrong with me?

But I can't help it. The thoughts in my head spiral out of control – one
follows the other until I sink into horror scenarios and become so afraid
of the future that I can't think of anything else. It's as if I've been in
shock for three days. Probably something terrible broke in both James
and me when Dad told us what had happened.

"I don't know how to help him," I whisper as I watch James tilt his head
back again and empty his glass. It hurts to see how much he's suffering.
He can't keep going like this forever. Eventually, he'll have to face
reality. And in my opinion, there's only one person in the world who can
help him with that.

Once again, I take out my phone and dial Ruby's number, but she still
doesn't pick up. I want to be mad at her, but I can't. If I had caught
Graham with someone else, I wouldn't want anything to do with him or
anyone in his circle either.

"Are you calling her again?" Cy asks, looking skeptical at my phone.

When I nod, he frowns disapprovingly. His reaction doesn't surprise me.
Cyril thinks Ruby is nothing but a gold digger after James's inheritance.
I know that's not true, but once Cyril has formed an opinion about
someone, it's hard to convince him otherwise. And as frustrated as that
makes me, I can't blame him. It's just his way of taking care of his
friends.

"He won't listen to any of us. I think she could prevent him from
completely losing it." My voice sounds strange to my own ears. So cold
and toneless – whereas inside me, it's completely different.

I can hardly stand up straight from the pain. It's as if someone has tied
me up and I can't untangle the knots of the ropes for days. It's like my
thoughts are on a carousel that won't stop, and I just can't get off.
Nothing seems to make sense anymore, and the more I fight against the
growing helplessness inside me, the more comprehensive it becomes.

I've lost one of the most important people in my life. I don't know how
I'm going to get through this alone. I need my twin brother. But James
does nothing but numb himself and destroy everything in his path. I saw
my father for the last time on Wednesday. He's on the road, meeting
with lawyers and advisors to settle the future of the Beaufort Companies.
He doesn't have a minute to spare for Mum's funeral – instead, he hired a
planner named Julia, who has been coming and going over the last few
days as if she were part of the family.

The thought of Mum's funeral tightens my throat. I can't breathe, my

eyes start to burn. I quickly turn away, but Cyril notices.

"Lydia..." he whispers, gently reaching for my hand.

I pull it away and leave the room without another word. I don't want the
guys to see me cry. Eventually, they won't be able to hold back either
and will start asking questions despite Cyril's warning. None of them are
stupid. James has never behaved like this. Even though he occasionally
crosses the line, he usually knows where his limits are. The fact that this
is not the case right now has long been apparent to the others. The fact
that Keshav has started making one bottle of liquor after another
disappear from the bar and Alistair accidentally flushed down the few
grams of cocaine James had left in the toilet speaks for itself.
I can't wait for the secrecy to finally end. In a few minutes, exactly at
three o'clock, the news of Mum's death will go public, and then not only
the guys will know about it – but the whole world. In my mind's eye, I
can already see the headlines and the reporters in front of our door and
the school. Nausea overwhelms me, and I stagger down the hallway until
I reach the library.

The dim light of the lamps illuminates the countless shelves, on which
venerable, leather-bound books stand. I lean against the shelves as I
traverse the room with trembling knees. At the very back, next to the
window, is an armchair covered in dark red velvet.

As a child, this was my favorite place in our house. I would retreat here
when I wanted peace – from the guys, from my dad, from the
expectations that come with the name Beaufort.

The sight of this little reading corner causes my tears to flow even more
heavily. I collapse into the armchair, pull my legs up, and wrap my arms
around them. Then I bury my face in my knees and cry softly.

Everything around me feels so unreal. As if it were a bad dream from

which I can wake up if I just try hard enough. I wish myself back to the
summer a year and a half ago, to a world where my mom is still alive
and Graham can hold me when I'm feeling down.

As I wipe my eyes with one hand, I pull out my phone from my pocket
with the other. When I unlock the screen, I discover on the back of my
hand all the black mascara stains.

I go to my contacts. Graham is still right below James in my favorites,

even though I haven't spoken to him in months. He knows nothing about
our baby, let alone that my mom has died. I've kept to his wish and
haven't called him anymore. Never in my life has anything been so
difficult for me. For over two years, we had almost daily contact – and
then it suddenly stopped, from one day to the next. Back then, it felt like
a cold withdrawal.

And now... I'm relapsing. Almost automatically, I dial his number and
listen anxiously to the dial tone. After a moment, it disappears. I close
my eyes and strain to hear whether he picked up or not. At that moment,
I feel like I could drown in the lonely helplessness I've been feeling for
days.
"No more calls. That's what we agreed on," he says softly. The sound of
his gentle, scratchy voice breaks me. My body is shaken by violent sobs.
I press my free hand against my mouth so that Graham won't hear it.

But it's too late. "Lydia?"

I sense the panic in his voice, but I can't say anything, just shake my
head. My breathing is uncontrollable and much too fast.

Graham doesn't hang up. He stays on the line and makes soft, soothing
noises. On one hand, hearing him upsets me, but on the other hand, it
feels incredibly familiar, and I press the phone even tighter against my
ear. I think his voice was one of the reasons I fell in love with him –
long before I even saw him for the first time. I remember the hours-long
phone calls, my hot, aching ear, waking up and Graham still being on
the line. His voice gentle and soft, deep and at least as penetrating as his
golden-brown eyes.

With Graham, I always felt safe. For a long time, he was my rock. I owe
it to him that I was eventually able to move on from the thing with
Gregg and look forward again.
And even though I'm completely at the end, this feeling of security is
fighting its way back up. Just hearing his voice helps me to come to
some sort of consciousness. I don't know how long I sit there like this,
but gradually my tears dry up.

"What's wrong?" he whispers finally.

I can't answer. All I can manage is a helpless sound.

He remains silent for a minute. I can hear him inhale a few times, as if
he wanted to say something, but he always holds back at the last
moment. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft and filled with pain:
"There's nothing I'd rather do right now than come to you and be there
for you."

I close my eyes and imagine him sitting in his apartment, at the old
wooden table that looks like it could collapse at any moment. Graham
calls it "antique," but in truth, he just picked it up from the junkyard and
repainted it.

"I know," I whisper.

"But you also know that I can't, don't you?"

Something breaks in the living room. I hear the sound of glass
shattering, followed by someone yelling loudly. Whether it's from pain
or amusement, I can't tell, but nonetheless, I sit up immediately. I can't
let James physically hurt himself now too.

"I'm sorry I called," I whisper with a broken voice and end the call.

My heart stings as I rise and leave the sheltered little corner to check on
my brother.

Ember

My sister is sick.
Under normal circumstances, I'd say that's nothing out of the ordinary -
after all, it's December, temperatures are below freezing outside, and no
matter where you go, there's sniffling and coughing. It's only a matter of
time before you catch something.
But - my sister is never sick. Truly never.
When Ruby came home three days ago late at night and went straight to
bed without saying a word, I didn't think much of it. After all, she had
just gone through a marathon of applications in Oxford, which was
certainly exhausting not only mentally but also physically. But when she
claimed the next day that she had a cold and couldn't go to school, I
became skeptical. Anyone who knows Ruby knows perfectly well that
she would drag herself to class even with a fever, afraid of missing
something important.
Today is Saturday, and I'm really worried now. Ruby has hardly left her
room. She lies in her bed, reading one book after another, pretending
that a cold is to blame for her red eyes. But she can't fool me. Something
bad has happened, and it's driving me crazy that she won't tell me what it
is.
Right now, I'm watching her through the crack in the door as she stirs
her soup without eating any of it. I can't remember ever seeing her like
this before. Her face is pale, and there are bluish rings under her eyes
that are getting darker every day. Her hair is greasy and hangs uncombed
on either side of her face, and she's wearing the same baggy clothes as
yesterday and the day before. Normally, Ruby is the definition of
"organized." Not only when it comes to her planner or school, but also in
her appearance. I didn't even know she owned baggy clothes.
"Stop lurking outside my door," she suddenly says, and I'm caught off
guard. I pretend I was going to enter her room anyway and push through
the door.
Ruby looks at me with a raised eyebrow. Then she sets the soup on the
tray next to the bed that I brought her. I suppress a sigh.
"If you don't eat it, I will," I threaten with a nod towards the soup, but
unfortunately, it doesn't have the desired effect. Ruby just makes a vague
gesture.
"Feel free."
With a frustrated sound, I sit down on the edge of her bed. "I've left you
alone for the past few days because I noticed you weren't particularly
keen on talking, but ... I'm really worried about you."
Ruby pulls her blanket up to her chin, leaving only her head sticking out.
Her gaze is cloudy and sad, as if what happened is catching up to her
with full force in this moment. But then she blinks and she's back - or at
least pretends to be. Since last Wednesday, there's been a strange look in
her eyes. It seems to me like she's only physically present, but mentally
elsewhere.
"I'm just a bit under the weather. It'll pass soon," she says tonelessly,
sounding almost like one of those dead computer voices you hear on
announcements for waiting loops and hotlines, as if she's been replaced
by a robot.
Ruby turns to face the wall and pulls the blanket even higher - a clear
indication that the conversation is over for her. I sigh and am about to
get up again when her brightly lit phone on the nightstand catches my
attention. I lean forward a bit to see the display.
"Lin's calling you," I murmur.
"Don't care," comes the muffled reply.
Frowning, I watch as the call ends and shortly after, the number of
missed calls appears on the display. It's in the double digits. "She's
called you more than ten times, Ruby. Whatever happened, you won't be
able to hide forever."
My sister just grunts.

Mom said I should give her time, but with each passing day, it's getting
harder for me to watch Ruby suffer. You don't have to be a genius to put
two and two together and conclude that probably James Beaufort and his
stupid friends have something to do with the whole thing.
However, I thought Ruby had already moved on from the Beaufort issue.
So what happened? And when?
I tried to analyze the situation as Ruby would in my place, and made a
mental list:
1. Ruby was in Oxford for the interviews.
2. Everything was fine when she came back.
3. Lydia Beaufort showed up at our door in the evening, and Ruby
disappeared with her.
4. After that, everything changed: Ruby retreated and has hardly spoken
a word since then. 5. Why???
Okay. Ruby's list would probably be a lot more structured, but at least
I've put things in a logical order and know: Whatever it was, it must
have happened on Wednesday evening.
But where did Lydia take her?
My gaze shifts from Ruby, who now only has her hairline peeking out
from under the covers, to the phone and back again. He won't miss it,
I'm pretty sure.
"If there's anything else you need, I'll be next door," I say, even though I
know she won't accept the offer anyway. Then I stand up with an extra
loud sigh and quickly grab the phone. I slip it into the sleeve of my
loose-knit sweater and tiptoe back to my own room.
As I close the door softly behind me, I breathe a sigh of relief - and
instantly feel guilty. My eyes dart to the wall, as if Ruby could see me
from her bed. She'll probably never speak to me again if she finds out
I've violated her privacy like this. At the same time, as her sister, it's also
my duty to find out how I can help her. Right?
I go to my desk and sit down on the creaky chair. Then I take the phone
out of my sleeve. My sister makes a huge secret out of what's going on
at her school, but of course, I know what kind of people she goes to
Maxton Hall with: boys and girls whose parents are nobles, actors,
politicians, or entrepreneurs and have so much influence in our country
that they often make the news. I've been following a few of Ruby's
classmates on Instagram for a while now and I'm also aware of the
rumors circulating about them. Just the thought of what these people
could have done to Ruby turns my stomach.
I hesitate for only a moment, then I unlock Ruby's phone and tap on the
call log. Not only has Lin contacted her, but also a number that isn't
saved in her phone appears multiple times. Without further ado, I call
Lin's contact - after all, she's the only person from Ruby's mysterious
school that I know personally. I hesitantly put the receiver to my ear.
The dial tone sounds only once before someone picks up.

"Ruby," I hear Lin say breathlessly. "Finally. How are you?"

"Lin - it's me, Ember," I interrupt her before she can continue.
"Ember? What..."
"Ruby's not doing too well."
Lin falls silent for a moment. Then she says slowly, "That's
understandable, after what happened."
"What happened?" I blurt out. "What the hell happened, Lin? Ruby
won't talk to me, and I'm incredibly worried. Did Beaufort do something
to her? If so, I'll..."
"Ember." Now she's the one interrupting me. "What are you talking
about?"
I furrow my brow. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about the fact that Ruby messaged me on Wednesday saying
she made up with James Beaufort, and today I find out that his mother
died the Monday before that."
Ruby
2
Ember is knocking on my door again.
I wish I had the energy to send her away. I understand she's worried, but
I just don't feel capable of mustering up the energy to do anything or talk
to anyone right now. Even if that someone is my sister.
"Ruby, Lin is on the phone."
Furrowing my brow, I pull the blanket from my face and turn around.
Ember is standing by my bed, holding a phone out in her outstretched
hand. I squint. That's my phone. And Lin's name is lighting up on the
display.
"You took my phone?" I ask wearily. I feel a surge of indignation deep
within me, but the feeling disappears as quickly as it came. In the past
few days, my body has felt like a black hole, swallowing up any
emotions before they even had a chance to reach me.
Nothing reaches me properly anymore, I have no desire for anything.
Getting out of bed exhausts me as if I've run a marathon each time, I
haven't gone downstairs for three days. Since I started attending Maxton
Hall, I haven't missed a day of classes, but just the thought of showering,
getting dressed, and being among people for six to ten hours
overwhelms me. Not to mention, I couldn't bear to see James. I'd
probably collapse at the sight of him like a wilted flower. Or I'd burst
into tears.
"Tell her I'll call her back," I murmur. My voice is hoarse from speaking
so little in the past few days.
Ember doesn't budge. "But you should talk to her now."
"But I don't want to talk to her now." What I want is some time to get
back on my feet. Three days aren't enough to face Lin and her questions.
I only sent her a short message on Wednesday. She doesn't know exactly
what happened between me and James in Oxford, and I don't have the
strength to tell her right now. Or what happened afterward. I'd rather
forget the whole past week and pretend everything's normal.
Unfortunately, that's not possible as long as I can't even manage to get
out of bed.

"Please, Ruby," Ember says, looking at me intently. "I don't know why
you're so sad and why you won't talk to me about it, but... Lin just told
me something. And I think you really should talk to her."
I glare at Ember darkly, but when I see her determined expression, I
know I've lost. She won't leave my room until I've talked to Lin. In some
things, we're just too similar, and stubbornness is definitely one of them.
Resignedly, I reach out my hand and take the phone. "Lin?"
"Ruby, honey, we really need to talk," her tone tells me she knows.
She knows what James did.
She knows he ripped my heart out with both hands just to throw it on the
ground and trample on it.
And if Lin knows, the rest of the school certainly knows too.
"I don't want to talk about James," I croak. "I never want to talk about
him again, okay?"
Lin is silent for a moment. Then she takes a deep breath. "Ember told me
you went away with Lydia on Wednesday evening."
I say nothing, just fumble with the edge of my blanket with my free
hand.
"Did you find out then?"
I let out a soundless laugh. "What do you mean? That he's an asshole?"
Lin sighs. "Did Lydia really tell you nothing?"
"What was she supposed to tell me?" I ask hesitantly. "Ruby... did you
see my message earlier?"
Lin's tone is so cautious that I suddenly feel cold and hot at the same
time. I swallow dryly. "No... I haven't checked my phone since
Wednesday."
Lin takes a deep breath. "Then you really don't know."
"What don't I know?"
"Ruby, are you sitting down?"
I sit up in bed.
You don't ask someone that unless something absolutely terrible has
happened. Suddenly, the image of James with Elaine, high as a kite in
that pool, is replaced by a much more gruesome image. James, who got
into an accident and got hurt. James, lying in the hospital.
"What's wrong?" I croak.
"Cordelia Beaufort died last Monday."
It takes me a moment to realize what Lin just said.

Cordelia Beaufort died last Monday.

An unbearable silence spreads between us.
James' mother is dead. Since Monday.

I remember our intimate kisses, his hands restlessly roaming over my

naked body, the overwhelming sensation as he was inside me.

It's impossible that James knew about this on that evening - on that
night. Even he isn't that good of an actor. No, he and Lydia must have
found out on Wednesday themselves.

I hear Lin speaking, but I can't focus on her words. I'm too engrossed in
wondering if it's really possible that Mortimer Beaufort kept from his
children for two days that their mother had died. And if he did - how
terrible must James and Lydia have felt when they came home on
Wednesday and found out?

I remember Lydia's swollen, red eyes when she stood at my door and
asked if James was with me. The empty and emotionless look James
gave me. And the moment he jumped into the pool and destroyed
everything that had developed between us the night before.

A painful throbbing spreads through my body. I take the phone away

from my ear and switch on the speaker. Then I scroll through my
messages. I open the thread displayed under an unknown number. Three
unread messages appear:

Ruby. I'm so sorry. I can explain everything to you.

Please come back to Cyril or tell me where you are so Percy can pick
you up.
Our mum has died. James is completely losing it. I don't know what to
do.

"Lin," I whisper. "Is this really true?"

"Yes," Lin whispers back. "A press release went out just now, and not
half a minute later, the news was everywhere."

Silence falls between us again. Thousands of thoughts whirl through my

mind all at once. Nothing seems to make sense anymore. Nothing except
for this one feeling that suddenly and forcefully overwhelms me, causing
the next words to bubble out of me on their own: "I have to go to him."
For the first time, I see the gray stone wall surrounding the Beaufort
estate. A huge iron gate blocks the entrance, with a dozen people
holding cameras and microphones in hand gathered in front of it.

"Such rats," Lin murmurs, bringing her car to a stop a few meters in
front of them. Instantly, the reporters start moving and approach us.

Lin leans forward and presses the button to lock the car doors from the
inside. "Call Lydia to open the gate."

I'm so grateful that she's by my side in this moment, keeping a clear

head. Without hesitating for a second, she asked if she should drive me,
and not even half an hour after our phone call in front of my house, she
was standing there. Any doubt about the depth of Lin's and my
friendship evaporated in that moment.

I pull out my phone from my pocket and dial the number that has
contacted me several times in the past few days. It takes a few seconds
before Lydia picks up.

"Hello?" Her voice sounds just as nasal as it did on Wednesday evening

when we drove to Cyril's together.
"I'm standing in front of your house. Could you possibly open the gate?"
I ask, trying to cover my face with one arm at the same time. Whether it
has the desired effect, I'm not sure. The reporters are now standing right
next to Lin's car, shouting questions at us that I can't understand.

"Ruby? What...?"

Someone begins to bang on my window. Lin and I flinch violently.

"As soon as possible, maybe?"

"Just wait a moment," Lydia replies, then hangs up.

It takes about half a minute for the gate to open and someone to
approach our car. It's Percy.

The sight of the chauffeur makes my heart skip a beat. Memories flood
over me without warning. Memories of a day in London that started
beautifully but ended badly. And of a night when James took care of me
lovingly because his friends misbehaved and pushed me into a pool.
He squeezes past the reporters and gestures for Lin to roll down her
window.

"Drive through the gate up to the house, Miss. These people are
committing a crime by entering the property. They won't follow you."

Lin nods, and after Percy convinces the reporters to move aside, she
steers the car onto the spacious estate. The driveway, in terms of its
width and length, actually resembles more of a country road, surrounded
by a park-like, frost-covered green area. In the distance, I can make out a
large house: rectangular in shape, two stories high, with several gables.
The gray slate hipped roof is as bleak as the rest of the facade, which
was built of bricks but clad in granite. Despite the bleakness the house
conveys, it's immediately apparent that affluent people live there. I think
it suits Mortimer Beaufort, because it looks cold and so massively
imposing. However, I can hardly imagine Lydia and James in it.

Lin drives the car across the courtyard and stops behind a black sports
car parked sideways in front of a garage entrance at the side of the
house.

"Do you want me to come in with you?" she asks, and I nod.
The air is icy as we get out and walk briskly toward the entrance steps.
Just before the first step, I grab Lin's arm. My friend turns to me,
looking at me questioningly.

"Thank you for bringing me here," I gasp. I don't know what awaits me
in this house. Lin being with me takes away some of my fear and makes
me feel incredibly better. Three and a half months ago, this would have
been unthinkable – back then, I strictly separated my private life from
my school life and hardly told Lin anything personal. That has all
changed. Especially because of James.

"That goes without saying." She reaches for my hand and gives it a brief
squeeze.

"Thank you," I whisper again. Lin nods at me, and then we start up the
steps. Lydia opens the door before we have the chance to ring the bell.
She still looks as scattered as she did three days ago. And now I know
why.

"I'm sorry, Lydia," I manage to say.

She bites down hard on her lower lip and looks down at the ground. In
that moment, I don't care that we don't really know each other well or
are close in any way. I stumble up the last step and hug her. Her body
starts to tremble as soon as I wrap my arms around her, and I can't help
but think of Wednesday. If I had known what had happened and how
bad she was feeling, I would never have left her alone.

"I'm so sorry," I whisper again.

Lydia clings to the fabric of my sweater, burying her face against my

collarbone. I hold her tight and stroke her back as I feel her tears soaking
my sweater. I can't imagine what must be going through her mind in this
moment. If my mother were to die... I wouldn't know how to survive it.

Meanwhile, Lin quietly closes the front door. Her gaze meets mine as
she stops a few meters away from us. She looks as concerned as I feel.

Eventually, Lydia pulls away from me. Deep red patches have spread
across her cheeks, her eyes are red and glassy. I raise my hand and brush
a few wet strands of hair from her cheek.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" I ask cautiously.

She shakes her head. "Just make sure my brother gets back to himself.
He's completely out of it. I... " Her voice is hoarse and scratchy from all
the crying, and she has to clear her throat before she can continue. "I've
never seen him like this. He's destroying himself, and I just don't know
how to help him."

At her words, my heart starts to ache painfully. The need to see James
and hold him like I did Lydia is overwhelming – even though I'm afraid
of the encounter.

"Where is he?"

"Cyril and I took him to his room. He passed out earlier."

I flinch at her words.

"I can take you there if you want," she continues, nodding towards the
winding staircase leading to the upper floor. I turn to Lin, but my friend
shakes her head. "I'll wait here. Just go."

"The guys are in the back lounge if you want to sit with them. I'll be
right there," Lydia says, pointing to the other side of the foyer, where a
hallway leads to the back of the house. Only now do I notice the soft
music coming from there. Lin hesitates for a moment, but then nods.
Lydia and I walk up the wide dark brown wooden staircase together. I
notice that the Beauforts' house looks much friendlier inside than it does
from the outside. The foyer is bright and welcoming. While there are no
family photos on the walls like at our house, at least there are also no oil
paintings of long-deceased family members in golden frames like at the
Vegas'. The paintings that are hung here are colorful and impressionistic,
and even though they don't make a particularly personal impression, they
create a welcoming atmosphere.

Arriving upstairs, we turn into a corridor that is darker and so long that I
can't help but wonder what lies behind all the doors we pass and how it's
possible that only one family lives here.

"Here we are," Lydia murmurs suddenly, stopping in front of a large

door. For a moment, we both stare at it, then she turns to me. "I know it's
a lot to ask, but I feel like he really needs you right now."

I can hardly sort out my thoughts and feelings. My body seems to know
that James is behind that door – I'm drawn to him like a magnet. And
even though I'm not sure if I can help him in the way Lydia hopes, I still
want to be there for him.
Lydia briefly touches my arm. "Ruby... There was nothing between
James and Elaine except that kiss."

I stiffen.

"...he got out of the pool right after and collapsed in a chair. I know he
can be cruel, but..."

"Lydia," I interrupt her.

"...he wasn't himself."

I shake my head. "That's not why I came here."

I can't think about it right now. Because if I do – if I allow myself to

think about James and Elaine – the anger and disappointment will
outweigh everything, and then I won't be able to walk through this door.

"I can't hear that right now."

For a moment, Lydia looks like she wants to object, but eventually she
just sighs. "I just wanted you to know."
Then she turns around and walks back along the long corridor to the
staircase. I watch her until she reaches the stairs, where a long streak of
light is cast onto the expensive carpet. When she's completely out of my
sight, I turn back to the door.

I don't think anything in my life has ever felt as difficult as reaching for
this doorknob. It feels cool under my fingers, and a shiver runs down my
spine as I hesitantly turn it and open the door.

With bated breath, I stand on the threshold of James' room. The room
has high ceilings and is surely the size of the entire upper floor of our
tiny townhouse. To my right is a desk with a brown leather chair in front
of it. To my left, shelves line the wall filled with book bindings,
notebooks, and occasionally a few art figures that remind me of the ones
I saw in the Beaufort store back then. Besides the door I just entered
through, there are two more on either side of the room. They are made of
solid wood, and I suspect one leads to the bathroom while the other –
slightly smaller – leads to James' closet. In the middle of the room is a
seating area with a sofa, a coffee table on a Persian rug, and an armchair.

Carefully, I make my way through the room. A king-size bed is directly

opposite the door on the other side of the room. There are large windows
on both sides of the bed, but the curtains are almost completely drawn,
allowing only two narrow strips of light to fall on the floor.

I spot James immediately.

He's lying in bed, a dark gray blanket covering most of his body. I
approach cautiously until I can see his face.

I gasp for breath.

I thought James was asleep... but his eyes are open. And his gaze sends a
chilling shiver down my spine.

James' eyes – usually so expressive – are lifeless. His face is completely

blank.

I take another step towards him. He doesn't react, gives no sign that he's
noticed my presence. Instead, he stares right through me. His pupils are
unnaturally dilated, and the smell of alcohol hangs heavily in the air.
Involuntarily, I think of Wednesday night, but I push the memory back. I
didn't come here to dwell on my hurt feelings. I came because James lost
his mom. No one should go through something like that alone.
Especially not someone who, despite everything, means so much to me.
Without further ado, I bridge the last distance between us and gently sit
down on the edge of the bed.

"Hey, James," I whisper.

He flinches as if he's fallen in a dream and painfully landed. In the next

moment, he turns his head slightly towards me. Dark circles are under
his eyes, his hair hangs stringy on his forehead. His lips are dry and
cracked. He looks like he's been surviving on alcohol for days.

When he kissed Elaine – I only wished him ill. I wished someone would
hurt him as much as he hurt me. I wished for revenge for my broken
heart. But seeing him so broken now doesn't give me the satisfaction I
had hoped for. Quite the opposite. It feels like his pain is jumping onto
me and dragging me down into the depths. Desperation overwhelms me
because I don't know what I can do for him. All the words that come to
me at this moment seem meaningless.

Gently, I raise my hand and brush James' red-blond strands from his
forehead. I gently run my fingertips down his cheek and place the palm
of my hand against his cold face. It feels like I'm holding something
infinitely fragile in my hand.
Summoning all my courage, I lean down to him and press my lips to his
forehead.

James' breath catches.

For a moment, we are frozen in this position, neither of us daring to

move.

Then I sit back up and withdraw my hand.

In the next second, James grabs me by the hips. He clutches onto me

with his fingers and practically lunges forward. I'm so startled by the
sudden movement that I freeze. James envelops me in his arms and
buries his face in the hollow of my neck. His whole body is shaken by
deep sobs.

I wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. There's nothing I can
say in this moment. I can't empathize with his loss, and I don't want to
pretend that I can.

What I can do is be there for him in this moment. I can stroke his back
and share his tears. I can empathize with him and let him know that he
doesn't have to go through this alone, no matter what happened between
us.

And as James cries in my arms, I realize that I completely misjudged the

situation.

I thought that after what he did to me, I could just erase him from my
life. I had hoped to get over him as quickly as possible. But now that I
see what his pain is doing to me, I know it won't happen so quickly.
James
3
The walls are spinning. I don't know where up and down are, I can only
feel Ruby's hands there, anchoring me somewhat in reality. She's sitting
on my bed, leaning against the headboard, while I half lie on her. Her
arm is tightly wrapped around me, her hand gently stroking my head. All
I can concentrate on is the warmth of her body, her steady breath, and
her touch.

I have no idea how many days have passed by now. Whenever I try to
remember anything, there's nothing but fog. Thick gray fog and two
thoughts that penetrate through to me in brief moments of clarity, over
and over again:
First: My mom is dead.

Second: I kissed another girl in front of Ruby's eyes. No matter how

much alcohol I pour into myself or what I take – I'll never forget Ruby's
expression in that moment. She looked so unbelieving and hurt. As if I
had destroyed her world.

I bury my face against Ruby's waist again. Partly because I'm afraid
she'll get up and leave any moment. Partly because I'm afraid the tears
will come back any moment. But neither of those things happens. Ruby
stays, and obviously, I don't have any more liquid left in me that I can
spare.

I feel like there's nothing left in me at all. Maybe my soul died along
with my mother. How else could I have done that to Ruby?

How could I have done that to Ruby?

What's wrong with me?

What the hell is wrong with me?

"James, you need to breathe," Ruby whispers suddenly.

At her words, I realize that I've actually stopped breathing. I'm not sure
for how long.

I take a deep breath and slowly let it out. Not so hard, after all.

"What's happening to me?" Whispering these words is so exhausting that

it feels like I've shouted them afterward.

Ruby's hand pauses. "You're grieving," she replies just as softly. "But
why?"

Just a moment ago, I forgot to breathe – now my breath is way too fast.
Abruptly, I sit up. My chest hurts, as do my limbs, which feel like I've
been exercising too much. But in the last few days, all I've done is push
away what's happening to my life right now.

"Why what?" Her gaze is warm, and I wonder how she manages to look
at me like that.

"Why I'm sad, I mean. I didn't even like my mom that much."

Even before I've finished speaking, I freeze. Did I really just say that?
Ruby reaches for my hand and holds it tight. "You lost your mother. It's
normal to be completely wrecked when someone dies who meant so
much to you."

She doesn't sound as sure and convinced as usual. I don't think Ruby has
any idea how to behave in such a situation herself. Yet, the fact that she's
here trying, it feels almost like a dream to me.

Maybe it is one.

"What happened here?" she whispers suddenly, lifting my right hand

gently.

I follow her gaze. My knuckles, where they split open, are still bloody,
and the rest of my skin is covered in red and blue bruises.

Maybe it's not a dream after all. Or if it is, then a very realistic one.

"I hit my father." The words come out of my mouth without any
judgment. I feel nothing as I speak them. Yet another thing that's wrong
with me. After all, any half-normal person knows that you never raise
your hand against your parents. But that moment when my father
delivered the news of Mom's death to Lydia and me – so toneless and
cold – that was the moment when I just couldn't take it anymore.

Ruby lifts my hand to her mouth and presses her lips to the back of my
hand. My heart starts beating faster, and a shiver runs through my body.
Her touch feels so good, even though her gentleness is tearing me apart.
Everything about it feels both wrong and right.

My parents drilled into me as a child that I shouldn't show my emotions.

That's how people get to know you and can assess you at a certain point.
As soon as you show weakness, you become vulnerable – and as the
CEO of a large company, you can't afford that. But they didn't prepare
me for a situation like this. What do you do when you're eighteen years
old and you lose your mother? For me, there was only one answer to
that: Try to drown out the truth with alcohol and drugs and pretend that
none of it ever happened.

But now that Ruby is with me, I'm not sure if I can continue like this. I
let my gaze wander over her face: over her slightly tousled hair and
down to her neck. I remember exactly what it was like to press my lips
against the soft skin of her throat. How overwhelming it felt to hold her.
To be inside her.
Now she looks just as sad as I feel. I don't know if she's just thinking
about my mom or also about how much I hurt her.

But there's one thing I know for sure: Ruby didn't deserve my behavior.
She always made me feel like I could achieve anything. And no matter
what happened... I should never have let Elaine kiss me, just to prove to
myself and everyone else that I'm a cold-hearted asshole, unaffected
even by my own mother's death. Pushing Ruby away from me like that
was cowardly. And it was the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life.

"I'm sorry," I say hoarsely. My throat feels rusty, and it takes great effort
to speak. "I'm so sorry for what I've done."
Ruby's entire body stiffens. Minutes pass without her moving. I believe
she's even stopped breathing.

"Ruby..."

She just shakes her head. "That's not why I'm here."

"I know what a mistake I made, I—"

"James, stop," she whispers urgently.

"I know you have no reason to forgive me. But I..."

Ruby's hand trembles as she withdraws it from mine. Then she rises
from the bed. First, she smooths out her sweater, then she presses down
her bangs. It seems like she's trying to restore her tidy appearance, the
one that went unnoticed by me for two years. But too much has
happened between us for that. There's nothing that could ever make her
invisible to me again.

"I can't do this right now, James," she murmurs. "I'm sorry."

In the next moment, she crosses my room. She doesn't turn back to me,
nor does she look at me as she leaves my room and quietly closes the
door behind her.

I grit my teeth as the burning behind my eyes returns, and my shoulders

start to shake again.

I don't know how long I've been lying in my bed staring at the wall, but
eventually, I gather myself and go downstairs. It's already dark outside,
and I wonder if the guys are still here. Just before I enter the living
room, I can hear their soft voices. The door is slightly ajar, and I pause
with my hand on the knob.
"This isn't normal anymore," murmurs Alistair. "If he keeps this up, he'll
drink himself into a coma. I don't understand why he won't talk to us."

"I wouldn't feel like talking in his situation either." Keshav. It doesn't
surprise me that he's the one saying that.

"But you also know your limits. With James, I'm not so sure anymore."

"We shouldn't have let it go this far," Wren chimes in. "Until yesterday,
I really thought he just wanted to celebrate Oxford."

There's a moment of silence, then Wren continues softly, "If he doesn't

want to talk about it, we have to accept that."

Alistair snorts. "And keep watching him destroy himself? No way."

"You can take away his alcohol and drugs," murmurs Wren. "But his
mother is dead. And until he accepts that, we're powerless, as shitty as
that is."

A cold shiver runs down my spine. They already know. The thought of
having to look into their sympathetic faces in a moment twists my
stomach. I don't want to. I want everything to be like it was before. But
if Ruby's visit has shown me anything, it's that it's time to face this.

So I crack my neck, roll my aching shoulders, and enter the living room.

Alistair is about to reply, but he clamps his lips shut when he sees me. I
go straight to the drinks cart and pull out a bottle of whiskey. I can't do
what I'm about to do sober. I pour myself a glass and drink it in one go.
Then I set it down and turn to the guys. All except Cyril are present.
Alistair swirls the last bit of liquid in his glass, his gaze fixed on the
floor. Kesh looks at me with dark eyes, just like Wren. Even though they
already know, it feels important to say the following words out loud:

"My mom is dead."

It's the first time I've said it.

And it hurts even more than I expected. Alcohol can't do anything

against that. That's exactly why I've avoided talking to them. Talking
only brings more pain. I look away and stare at my shoes, not wanting to
see their reactions. I've never felt so vulnerable as I do in this moment.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps approaching me. When I look up, Wren is
already standing right in front of me. He wraps an arm around me and
pulls me close to him.

Tiredly, I let my forehead sink onto his shoulder. My arms are heavy as
lead, and I can't return the hug.

Nevertheless, Wren doesn't let go of me. Shortly after, Kesh and Alistair
join us and place their hands on my shoulders.

Words aren't necessary in this moment, especially since the lump in my

throat would have prevented me from uttering a single sound anyway. It
takes a while for me to regain some composure. Eventually, Wren starts
pushing me towards the sofa, while Alistair gets me a glass of water and
silently hands it to me.

"This is so messed up," murmurs Alistair, sitting down beside me. "And
I'm incredibly sorry, James."

I can't bring myself to meet his gaze or say anything in response, so I

just nod.

"What happened?" asks Kesh after a while.

I cautiously take a sip of my glass. The cold water feels surprisingly
good. "She... she had a stroke while we were in Oxford."

Silence. I don't think any of the guys even take a breath. They might
have known that Mum passed away, but this information is obviously
new to them.

"My dad only told us when we got back here. He didn't want us to mess
up the interviews." The memory of the conversation with Dad sends a
shiver down my spine. I look at my blue hand, clench it into a fist, and
then loosen it again.

Wren places a hand on my shoulder. "We suspected something bad must

have happened," he murmurs after a while. "I've never seen you like this.
But Lydia didn't say anything, and you were barely responsive..."

Keshav clears his throat. "There was a press release from Beaufort this
afternoon. That's how we found out."

I swallow hard. "I just didn't want to think. About... anything."

"It's okay, James," Wren says softly.

"And I was afraid that it would become real if I said it out loud."

Finally, I lift my gaze and look into the concerned faces of my friends.
Keshav's eyes are suspiciously shiny, while Alistair's cheeks have lost
all color. I hadn't even considered that my boys had known my mum
since childhood and that the news of her death would likely affect them
too. Suddenly, I realize how selfish my reaction has been. Not only did I
ignore reality and hurt Ruby, but I also pushed away my friends and
Lydia with my actions.

"You'll get through this. You'll all get through this," says Wren. I follow
his gaze and spot Cyril and Lydia standing in the doorway. Lydia's
cheeks and eyes are red. I probably look the same.

"No matter how it feels right now, you're not alone. You have us.
Okay?" Wren continues emphatically, squeezing my shoulder. The look
in his brown eyes is serious and unwavering.

"Okay," I reply, even though I have no idea if I can believe him.

Lydia
4
Percy enters the hallway as I'm about to put Mom's pearl necklace
around my neck. "Are you ready to leave, Miss?" he asks, stopping a
few steps away from me. "Mr. Beaufort and your brother are already
waiting in the car."

I don't respond. Instead, I fasten the clasp of the necklace and then give
my updo one last check. Then I slowly let my hands drop.

I look at my reflection. Dad's funeral planner not only took care of all
the organizational aspects but also made sure that Dad, James, and I
were styled by a makeup artist this morning. "Waterproof mascara – it
will help you get through the day, honey," the young woman chirped.

I briefly considered wiping both hands over my still-moist eyes to ruin

the work, but my father's stern gaze stopped me. It's only because of him
that I look presentable now. Even more than that, actually. I have more
makeup on my face than during any shoot we've ever done for a
Beaufort collection. The eyeshadow and subtle eyeliner are neatly
applied, three layers of waterproof mascara cling to my lashes, and my
face is sharply contoured. So my cheekbones stand out a bit more than
they have recently.
My dad furrowed his brow in surprise when the stylist commented on
my round face. I might be able to hide the pregnancy for another month
or two – but not much longer.

As soon as I imagine how my family will react, it feels like someone is

squeezing the air out of me. But I can't think about that now. Not today.

"No," I reply to Percy's question after what feels like an eternity, but I
still turn around and briskly walk to the exit. Percy follows me silently.
At the coat rack, he tries to help me into my coat, but I turn away from
him. His gaze is so sympathetic that I can't bear it in this moment, so I
slip into the sleeves on my own and then step outside. The entire
courtyard of our estate is covered in frost, glinting slightly in the sun.
Carefully, I descend the steps of the front staircase and approach the
black limousine parked directly in front of it. Percy opens the door for
me, and I thank him before getting in and sinking onto the back seat
beside James.

The mood in the car is somber. Neither James nor my father, who sits on
the bench beside us, acknowledge me. While I'm wearing a black sheath
dress with ruffles on the long sleeves, they're both dressed in black suits
tailored specifically for this day. The dark color of the fabric makes my
brother look even paler than he already is. Although the makeup artist
tried to give him some color in his face, it didn't really work. Dad, on the
other hand, looks transformed by the makeup: There's no trace left of the
bruises around his eye.

I shake my head as I observe the two of them. My family is a complete

mess.

The journey to the cemetery passes in a blur. I try to mentally transport

myself to another place, like my father and brother are doing, but that
becomes impossible at the latest moment we come to a stop and Percy
mutters a curse under his breath.

The entrance to the cemetery is besieged by reporters.

I glance at James, but his face is completely expressionless as he puts on

his sunglasses and waits for the car door to be opened. I swallow hard
and wrap my coat tighter around me. Then I slide my own sunglasses
onto my nose. Seeing the pushy reporters makes me feel downright sick.
I try to take deep breaths in through my nose and out through my mouth.
Two of the security men hired by Julia help us to disembark. My knees
are weak and shaky, and as we walk towards the chapel, it feels like I'm
in shock. Journalists and paparazzi call out to us, but apart from my and
James' names, I don't understand any of their words. I ignore them and
walk briskly with my shoulders squared. Upon reaching the chapel,
cemetery staff open the doors for us, allowing us to enter without
waiting.

The first thing I see is the casket set up in front of the altar. It's black,
and the smooth, lacquered surface reflects the light from the hanging
lamps attached to the high ceiling of the chapel.

The second thing I notice is the woman standing directly in front of the
casket. Her hair is as red as Mom's, but it falls in gentle curls to her
shoulders. She too wears a black coat that reaches her knees.

"Aunt Ophelia?" I croak, taking a step towards her.

She turns around. Ophelia is five years younger than Mom, and even
though her features are softer and her expression not as serious, you can
tell at first glance that she's her sister.

"Lydia." In her eyes, I can see the same deep sorrow that I've been
feeling for days.

I want to go to her and hug her, but before I can take a single step
forward, my father grabs me by the upper arm. His gaze is icy as he
looks at Ophelia and then at me. Barely perceptibly, he shakes his head.
A painful throbbing spreads through my body. This is Mom's funeral.
They might not have had the best relationship, but they were sisters. And
I'm sure Mom would have wanted us to be there for Ophelia today.

Ignoring me and my resistance, my father puts an arm around my

shoulder. It's not a loving gesture; it feels more like an unyielding vice.
As he ushers me into the reserved seating row, I turn around to look at
Ophelia one more time, but she has disappeared into the sea of black-
clad people.

The funeral procession is accompanied by over a dozen security guards

who walk beside us, ensuring that the reporters don't get too close. Most
are tactful enough to position themselves at the edge of the path, but
some hold their cameras so close to our faces that I only need to reach
out my hand to touch them.

After a while, I glance at James, who walks beside me, staring stoically
at our father's back. His expression is carved in stone, hard and
expressionless, and I wish I could look into his eyes. Then maybe I
would know what's going on in his mind. I wonder if he's snorted coke
or had a drink before we came here. In the last few days—since the
evening Ruby was with us, to be precise—he's completely withdrawn
and hasn't spoken to me or the guys. I can't blame him. In many ways,
we're alike. I could have used something to help me get through these
endlessly dreadful days.

During the never-ending eulogy in the chapel, I mentally checked out. If

I had listened to what the pastor said about Mum, I probably would have
collapsed. Instead, I erected an invisible wall between myself and my
emotions and focused only on not breaking down in tears. I can imagine
how my father would have felt about that.

I try to summon that wall again as we finally come to a stop at Mum's

grave. I stare at the black hole dug into the ground and deliberately push
away any emotion. For a moment, I think it works. The pastor begins to
speak again, but I don't listen and think of nothing.

But as the casket is lowered into the grave, I suddenly feel like I can't
breathe. It feels like something huge, dark is rising within me,
constricting my throat. All the thoughts I've been trying to suppress in
the last hour fight their way to the surface of my consciousness.

Mom's lifeless body lies in that casket.

She's not coming back.

She's dead.

I feel nauseous. Gasping quietly, I press my hand to my mouth and

stagger to the side.

"Lydia?" James' voice sounds distant.

I can only shake my head. Frantically, I try to recall what Dad drilled
into us before the funeral. Stand upright, take off the sunglasses for at
most half a minute, no tears. He didn't want to give the press any more
drama than necessary.

It takes all my strength to hold myself together. I try not to think about
Mom. About how I can never ask her for advice again. About how she'll
never bring me a cup of tea to my room when I've been studying at my
desk for too long. About how she'll never hug me again. About how
she'll never meet her grandchild. About how I'm completely alone and
afraid of losing James and Dad too, because our family is falling apart
more every day.

A soft sob escapes my throat. I press my trembling lips together tightly,

not wanting to make another sound.
"Lydia," James repeats, more insistently this time. He moves closer to
me, so our arms touch through the thick fabric of our jackets. Slowly, I
lift my gaze. James has taken off his sunglasses and looks at me with
dark eyes. In them, I see something I've desperately searched for in the
past week. Something that reminds me that he's my brother and will
always be there for me.

James hesitantly raises his hand to my face. It's cold, but it feels good as
he briefly strokes my cheek with his thumb.

"To hell with Dad," he whispers to me. "If you want to cry, then damn
well cry. Okay?"

The familiarity in his eyes and the honesty of his words finally break
down the wall within me. I allow the emotions inside me to turn into a
whirlwind, because James is there to hold me tight. He wraps an arm
around my shoulder and pulls me close to his side. I bury my face in his
chest. He feels like home, and my heavy heart becomes a little lighter.
As my tears fall uncontrollably onto his coat, we watch together as the
casket is lowered further and further until it reaches the bottom.
On Wednesday, I go back to school. I've missed over a week, and now
I'm feeling the consequences. Even though Lin provided me with her
notes over the weekend, I struggle to keep up with the lessons. Twice
I'm called on in history class and can't give a reasonable answer. While I
stare blankly at my planner, Mr. Sutton doesn't seem to notice much. He
appears as if he's completely detached, his thoughts elsewhere. I wonder
if he thinks about Lydia as often as I think about James.

By the end of the morning, I'm exhausted. I'd love to sit in the library
and review the material for the upcoming classes, but my stomach is
growling too much for me to skip lunch.

Lin links arms with me on the way to the cafeteria. "Everything okay?"
she asks, glancing at me.

"I'll never miss a single day again," I grumble as we walk towards the
cafeteria together. "It's the worst feeling in the world not knowing what
the teachers expect from you."

Lin pats my arm. "You did fine. You'll catch up by next week at the
latest."

"Mm," I mumble as we turn. "Still, it was—"

I stop dead in my tracks.

We're in the main hall of Maxton Hall. To my right is the staircase
leading to the basement.

The staircase where James first kissed me.

The memory of him wrapping his hand around my neck and pressing his
lips to mine overwhelms me without warning. It plays out like a movie
in my mind: his mouth moving over mine, his hands holding me tightly,
his confident movements making my knees weak. But suddenly, my face
begins to change—it distorts until it's completely transformed. James is
no longer holding me; he's holding Elaine in his arms, passionately
kissing her.

A sharp pain shoots through my stomach, and it takes great effort not to
double over.

Then someone jostles me from the side—and I'm back at Maxton Hall.
Instead of the kiss, I see the empty basement stairs and people moving
towards the cafeteria. Even the cramping pain in my stomach has
subsided.

I take a deep breath. This whole school day has been nothing but a
rollercoaster ride so far. Every time I start to come up and think
everything is normal and I can handle it—I suddenly see something that
reminds me of James, and I'm plunged back down, into a whirlpool of
pain.

"Ruby?" Lin says beside me, judging by her concerned expression, not
for the first time in the last few minutes. "Everything okay?"

I force a smile onto my face and nod.

Lin furrows her brow but doesn't press further. Instead, she does what
she's been trying to do all morning: distract me. As she leads me to the
entrance of the cafeteria, she tells me about the new series by Tsugumi
Ohba and Takeshi Obata that she's devoured. She's so excited about it
that I immediately pull out my bullet journal and add the manga to my
reading list.

After we finish eating, we take our trays to the dish return. Leaning
against the wall next to it is a girl I don't know. She's talking to a guy,
but she falls silent when she sees me. Her eyes widen, and she blatantly
elbows him in the side. I try to ignore them.

"Aren't you the girl who got thrown into the pool at Cyril Vegas' party?"
she asks, stepping towards me.
At her words, I flinch. That damned pool is associated with nothing but
terrible memories for me, ones I'd rather have removed from my brain
with a lobotomy.

Without answering, I wait for the line to move so I can set down my tray
and get out of here.

"James Beaufort carried you outside that night. There are rumors going
around that you're his secret girlfriend. Is that true?" she continues.

It feels like the walls of the cafeteria are slowly but surely closing in on
me. They're going to crush me any second now.

"If she were his girlfriend, she would have been at the funeral," the guy
retorts just loudly enough for me to hear.

"Well, that's why the emphasis is on secret. Maybe she's one of his dirty
little secrets. You know how many of those he has."

A loud clatter echoes.

I've dropped the tray.

Shards are scattered everywhere at my feet. I stare at a few peas rolling
across the floor, unable to move to pick them up. My body is frozen.

"Stop talking that crap," a deep voice says beside me. In the next
moment, an arm wraps around my shoulder, and I'm escorted out of the
cafeteria. Behind me, I can hear Lin calling out from what feels like a
distance, but the deep voice continues unabated, leading me away from
the cafeteria and into the stairwell. Only then does the arm release my
shoulder, and the person steps in front of me. I look up past the beige
pants to the dark blue blazer and into ... Keshav Patel's face.

I have to blink several times before I realize that it's actually him
standing in front of me. He's tied his black hair into a tight knot and is
currently brushing back a strand that's come loose. Then he directs his
dark brown, almost black eyes towards me.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly.

I think I can count on one hand how many times I've heard Keshav
speak. Among James' friends, he's the quietest one. While I've started to
get a sense of Alistair, Cyril, and Wren, he remains a mystery to me.
"Yeah," I croak finally, clearing my throat immediately after.

I look around and realize where we are. My first real encounter with
James happened here: under the stairs, hidden from prying eyes. Here,
he tried to bribe me, and I threw his stupid money back at him. I wonder
if everything in this damned school will remind me of James from now
on.

"Good," Keshav says. In the next moment, he turns around, shoves his
hands into his pockets, and walks away. I watch him until he disappears
For the rest of the meeting, I find myself repeatedly staring at the empty
chair where James sat when he served his punishment with us.
Apparently, from now on, everything would remind me of him, even
though I would prefer to forget him and what we experienced together.
Every time I think of him, it feels like someone is thrusting a hand into
my chest, wrapping their fingers around my heart, and squeezing tightly.

I am so incredibly angry with him.

How could he do this to me?

How?
While the thought of letting someone else get as close to me as he did
makes me feel nauseous, he, without hesitation, kissed someone else.

And the worst part is that it's not just anger I feel towards James right
now, but also sadness and pity. He lost his mom, and every time I'm
filled with burning hot rage towards him, I feel guilty. Even though I
know I shouldn't.

It's unfair and exhausting, and when I come home in the evening, I'm
completely exhausted from the struggle that all these conflicting feelings
inside me create. The school day has drained all my energy, and I can't
bring myself to put on a happy facade for my family. Since Mum found
out about Cordelia Beaufort's death, she's been treating me like a fragile
egg. I haven't told her what happened between James and me, but like
any mother, she has that instinct that tells her certain things. Like when
her own daughter is heartbroken.

I'm relieved when I can finally fall into bed in the evening. But even
though I'm infinitely tired, I toss and turn for over an hour. There's
nothing here to distract me. There's nothing left to do, nothing that can
come between me and my thoughts of James. I throw an arm over my
face and squeeze my eyes shut. I want to summon darkness, but the only
thing I see is James' face. His hinted, mocking smile, the lively sparkle
in his eyes, the beautiful curve of his lips.

With a curse, I throw the blanket aside and get up. It's so cold that
goosebumps crawl over my arms as I walk to the desk and grab my
laptop. I walk back to the bed and pull the blanket up as high as it goes.
With pillows propped up behind me, I open the laptop and launch the
browser.

Entering the letters into the search field almost feels forbidden.

J-a-m-e-s-B-e-a-u-f-o-r-t.

Enter.

1,930,760 results appear in 0.50 seconds.

Oh man.

Directly below the search field, images are displayed. Pictures of James
in custom Beaufort suits and of James golfing with his father and his
friends. In them, he looks neat and polished, as if the world were at his
feet.
But when I view all the image results, you can also see another, less
perfect side of him. There are a series of blurry cellphone photos
showing a younger version of James leaning over a table and a line of
white powder. Photos of him entering and leaving clubs with older
women on his arm. Photos where he looks completely distraught and
obviously drunk. The difference between this James and the one who
stands immaculately next to his parents and Lydia at some gala could
not be greater.

I click back to the normal search results. Directly below the row of
images are countless new articles, most of them about Cordelia
Beaufort's sudden death. I don't want to read them. They're none of my
business, and enough has already been reported in the news about it. I
scroll further until James' Instagram account appears in the results.
Almost as if by itself, I open the page.

His profile is a colorful mix of various photos. It shows books, the

reflective facade of a skyscraper, a close-up of a wall covered in stucco,
benches, winding stair steps, London photographed from above in an
airplane, his feet in leather shoes on a platform, a window through which
the morning sun shines. If it weren't for the occasional photos of him
with his friends or Lydia, I would have never associated this profile with
James.

In the pictures with the guys, James has that grin on his face that always
drove me crazy—the grin that is so unbelievably arrogant but at the
same time so effortlessly attractive that it just makes your stomach
flutter.

One photo catches my eye in particular. It's of James and Lydia, and
both are laughing. A rare sight. I can't remember ever hearing Lydia
laugh. With James, on the other hand, I just need to look at the picture to
have the familiar sound in my ears. The fluttering in my stomach is
replaced by a nostalgic tug. I miss James' laughter. I miss his way, his
voice, our conversations... everything.

Without a second thought, I save the picture to my desktop. I know how

stupid that is, but I don't care. I'm always deliberate and rational in all
areas of my life. This one time, I allow myself to be guided by my
feelings.

The top photos on James' profile are flooded with condolences. I skim
through the comments and swallow hard. Some of them are not just
tactless, but downright cruel. Does James even read all of this? What
does he feel about it? If I already find it horrible, then I don't want to
know what he must be going through.
One comment catches my eye in particular because it's almost
unbelievably tasteless.
xnzlg: whoever wants photos from the Beaufort funeral, check out my
profile
My finger hovers over the touchpad, and angry heat spreads across my
cheeks. I click on the profile to report it - and freeze.
The entire Instagram feed of xnzlg consists of pictures of James and
Lydia. The two, dressed in black, at the cemetery. They lean against
each other, providing mutual support. James has an arm around Lydia
and holds her close to his side, chin resting on her head.
Tears well up in my eyes.
Why would someone do something like this? Why photograph this
terrible moment in a family's life, which is already broken, just to post
these pictures on the internet? No one has the right to intrude on their
privacy in such a way.
With one hand, I wipe my eyes. I try to navigate to xnzlg's page and
report the profile. Right after that, I mark the comments under James'
pictures as spam until they disappear.
That's all I can do in this moment, but it's not enough. The photos have
stirred up all the emotions that have accumulated in me over the past
week, making them almost uncontrollable. The overwhelming pity I feel
for James and Lydia is overpowering.
I close my laptop and slide it back into its padded case, then reach for
my phone and open a new message. I decide to write to Lydia.
I don't know if she has told her family about her pregnancy by now, but
she should definitely know that nothing has changed and that I'm still
here for her if she needs me. I open a new message and type:
Lydia, my offer still stands. If you want to talk, just let me know.
After some hesitation, I send the message. Then I stare at the phone in
my hand. I know it would be the sensible decision to put it away. But I
can't help it. Almost instinctively, I open James' and my message
history.
It's hard to believe that his first message to me was just over three
months ago. It feels like years have passed since the evening when
James invited me to London to Beaufort. I remember the moment when
we were just trying on the Victorian costumes and his parents
unexpectedly showed up. My first thought when I saw Cordelia Beaufort
was, "I want to be like her."
I was impressed by the way she filled the entire room with her
personality and exuded authority and competence without having to do
or say anything. Despite Mortimer Beaufort's stern demeanor and
physical presence, there was no doubt about who was in charge at
Beaufort. Although I never really got to know her, I still mourn James'
mother.

And I mourn with James. When I was with him, he said he didn't even
really like his mother, but I know that's not true. He loved her, I could
tell very clearly when he cried in my arms.
My gaze flicks to my closet. Without further ado, I walk over to open
the door. Then I bend down. At the very bottom, in the last
compartment, hidden behind an old gym bag, lies James' sweater. The
one he put on me after Cyril's party. Carefully, I retrieve it and bury my
face in it for a moment. By now, it hardly smells like James' detergent
anymore, but still, the soft fabric brings back memories for me. I close
the closet door and return to bed. As I walk, I slip the sweater on and
pull the sleeves over my fingers.
I don't understand how it's possible that the anger towards him eats me
up inside, yet at the same time, I suffer so much with James that in some
moments, I feel like I can't bear it for another second.
Like now.
Indecisively, I pick up my phone again. I turn it over and over in my
hand. I want to text James, but at the same time, I don't. I want to
comfort him and at the same time, scream at him, hug him and at the
same time, hit him.
Finally, I type a short message.
I'm thinking of you.
I look at the words and take a deep breath. Then I press "Send". After
that, I set the phone aside. My gaze falls on the clock on my nightstand.
It's past midnight now, and I'm still wide awake. Even if I turn off the
light now, I know I won't be able to sleep, that much is certain.
I bring my backpack to my bed and take out my notes from this
morning. Just as I lean back against my pillows and start to read again,
my phone vibrates. With bated breath, I open the message.
I miss you.
Goosebumps spread across my body. I don't know what I expected.
Certainly not such a response. While I'm still staring at the three words,
a second message comes in.
I want to see you.
The words blur before my eyes, and even though I'm under the covers
wearing James' thick sweater, I feel cold. Inside me, the most different
feelings are battling each other: the longing for James, this unspeakable
anger towards him, and at the same time, a deep sorrow, as if I had also
lost someone.
I'd rather write that it's exactly the same for me. That I miss him too and
there's nothing I'd rather do than go to him and be there for him.
But I can't. Deep inside me, I feel that I'm definitely not ready for that.
Not after what happened. After what he did to me. It just hurts too much.
It takes all the strength I can muster to type the next reply.
I can't.
Ruby
6
Christmas is my favorite holiday.
I love the lavish decorations that turn the whole world into a
wonderland. I love the good food, the music, the movies – and of course,
the Christmas cookies. I love picking out or crafting gifts for my family
and then lovingly wrapping them. Usually, the time before Christmas
feels magical – as if Santa Claus, Jack Frost, or some other figure had
sprinkled magic dust on the world.
This year is different.
Well, no. This year is exactly like always. It's just me who's different. I
don't enjoy the preparations at all because my mind is constantly with
James. I try to distract myself and not think about him, but it doesn't
work. Everything that happened during the past term plays like a sad
movie over and over again in my head until I have to take a walk to clear
my mind.
There are days when I'd rather not leave my bed and wish for a way to
time travel. I want to live in a world again where nobody at Maxton Hall
knows my name, least of all James. Sometimes at night, lying in bed, I
look at the picture of him laughing, or the invitation to the Halloween
party where we're pictured together. I remember the feeling of his
fingers around mine. His kisses. His soft voice whispering my name.
The holidays couldn't come at a better time. At least I have the
opportunity to put some distance between me and Maxton Hall. Because
even though James won't return to school until next term, I still panic
every time I turn a corner or enter a room, thinking he might be there.
And I wouldn't be able to handle that. Not yet.
Luckily, my family is very good at distracting me. Mum and Dad bicker
in the kitchen and need me as a referee at least once a day to decide
whether the cookies Mum bakes taste better with or without the exotic
spice note Dad added. In previous years, I was mostly on Mum's side,
but I'm surprised to find that this time, I can also appreciate Dad's
creations.
The rest of the time, Ember ropes me into all sorts of other tasks. We do
what feels like two thousand photo shoots for her blog, even though I'm
sure half of the photos didn't turn out well because my fingers were
shaking too much from the cold. Also, she came up with the gifts for our
family this year, which is usually my favorite pre-Christmas activity.
Her ideas were great: Our grandparents get a calendar decorated with
family photos, and Mum gets a wellness basket personally put together
by us. For Dad, Ember found a pretty new spice rack from the sixties in
the classifieds, which the former owner handed over to us for just ten
pounds after a bit of bargaining.
"You're tough in negotiations," Ember says as we're hastily cleaning it in
our little garage. With a wrinkled nose, she removes the cobwebs from
the back of the shelf. "Maybe you should consider a career change."
I'm laying out newspaper on the floor to prepare for painting, and I force
a grin.
A small, pensive wrinkle forms between her brows as she looks at me
assessingly.
"Don't you want to finally talk to me?" she asks.
"About what?" I reply tonelessly.
She lets out a short laugh. "About why you're acting like a robot? About
everything that's weighing you down?"
At her words, I flinch. Until this moment, Ember hasn't addressed my
behavior, but acted as if it were normal for me not to leave my room
except in extreme emergencies and hardly speak a word to anyone. She
hasn't pressured me or asked questions, for which I'm incredibly
grateful.

Apparently, this grace period is over now.

She doesn't know what happened between James and me in Oxford, let
alone that he kissed Elaine afterward. I felt like I had to sort out this
whole thing with myself before I could talk to anyone about it. Surviving
the days at school has already drained me enough. But Ember isn't just
my sister; she's also my best friend. I know I can trust her. And maybe
it's time I didn't carry this burden all alone anymore.
I take a deep breath. "I slept with James."
That wasn't actually the first thing I wanted to say, but okay. Ember
drops the dustpan. "You did what?"
Without looking at her, I begin to take the masks out of the packaging
and lay them out. I tug at the elastic bands that will be fastened behind
the ears.
"The next day, he made out with another girl," I say with a shaky voice.
I stare at the white bands of the mask as Ember comes over and kneels
beside me on the newspaper. "Ruby," she says softly. Carefully, she
places a hand between my shoulder blades, and I feel my last bit of
resistance crumble.
Ember and I haven't always been as close as we are now. We only grew
closer after Dad's accident, when we supported each other when he was
feeling bad and angry at the world again. Even though we could
understand him, that time wasn't easy for us. Only together did we get
through it.
What connects us since then is nothing I'll ever have with another
person, and as Ember squeezes my shoulder, the words just spill out of
me. I tell her everything: about the Halloween party, about James' father
and the expectations he puts on his son, about how much James suffers
under this pressure, about Oxford and all that he and I shared. About that
night when Lydia came to us and drove with me to Cyril's. About James,
who did coke and then jumped into the pool. And about Elaine
Ellington.
As I speak, the most diverse emotions flicker across Ember's face:
compassion, outrage, skepticism, excitement, and finally, terrible anger.
After I finish, she just stares at me with wide eyes for a minute, then,
without saying a word, she envelops me in a tight hug. For the first time
in days, I don't feel the urge to cry. Instead, something warm spreads
inside me, laying over my turbulent emotions and calming them at least
a little.
"I just don't know what to do now," I murmur against Ember's shoulder.
"On one hand, I feel so terrible that this happened to him. I wish I could
be there for him. But on the other hand, I never want to see him again.
Not after what he did to me. I'd love to drive to him and yell at him, but I
can't because I know how bad he's feeling."

Ember pulls away from me and takes a deep breath. She brushes the hair
from my cheek and behind my ear. Then she gently runs her warm hand
over my head. "I'm so sorry, Ruby."

I swallow hard and summon all my courage to speak the following

words. "I hate him for it."
Ember's green eyes are full of compassion and affection. "Me too."

"At the same time, I wonder if I'm even allowed to feel that way." She
shakes her head with a frown. "It's your right to feel that way, Ruby.
You act as if there are strict rules for such situations, but there aren't.
You feel what you feel."

I grumble uncertainly.

"And if you feel like punching James on some days, that's completely
legitimate – no matter how he's feeling right now," Ember continues in
an earnest tone. "You can't let your feelings depend on his just because
he's going through a tough situation. He behaved like an asshole, and I
think you're perfectly entitled to tell him that. What am I saying – you
should tell the whole world."

It takes me a moment to process Ember's words. "I just feel," I start

slowly, "that nothing will change, no matter what feelings I allow. Either
it hurts because of his mum or because he cheated on me. That's why I'm
trying..."

"... not to feel anything at all," Ember softly finishes my sentence. I nod.
"That doesn't sound particularly healthy, Ruby."

I stare at my hands as silence spreads between us.

After a long while, Ember sighs. "I just can't believe he really did that. I
mean, I know his reputation, but..." She shakes her head.

"I really thought I was in the wrong movie. He was like... replaced."

"That just sounds terrible."

"I also don't understand why he didn't just come to me. He could have
talked to me about everything. We would have..." I shrug helplessly. I
have no idea what I would have done if James had come to me. One
thing is for sure: none of this would have happened. I'm sure of it.

"I think talking was probably not what he wanted that night," Ember
begins hesitantly. "It sounds to me more like he was trying to further
destroy his life without caring about the consequences."

I inhale sharply.
"I definitely understand why you feel this way. It's completely okay how
you feel. I hate him too for what he did to you."

Ember wraps her arms around me again, and this time I hug her back
just as tightly. "Thank you, Ember," I whisper.

After a long moment, she pushes me back and smiles warmly at me.
"Shall we start?" She gestures to the spice rack.

Glad not to have to talk more about my feelings, I nod. We put on the
masks and then look for suitable music. Ember chooses Michael Bublé's
Christmas album, and together we begin to paint the shelf.

"By the way, I've now hit six hundred," Ember says at some point.

I cheer and bow to her. "You're a queen."

"I'm considering applying to various fashion companies in London

during the summer holidays." Ember doesn't look at me when she says
this; instead, she focuses intensely on the upper corner of the shelf,
which has actually been finished painting for a long time. I can hardly
see her face because of the mask, but I'm pretty sure she's turning red.
"Should I help you with the application?"

Ember pauses and now dares to look in my direction. "So do you think
that's a good idea?"

I nod affirmatively. "You've known for years that you want to do

something with fashion. I'd say the sooner you start, the better."

She continues painting silently.

Thoughtfully, I look at her. "What's wrong?" I ask.

Ember hesitates for another moment. "I'd love to do an internship at a

company that produces socially and environmentally sustainable plus-
size fashion," she explains finally. "It's just so hard to find something
that meets all these criteria. So I'll probably have to apply to all the
companies that offer internships, whether they meet my requirements or
not. But I wonder what the point is of working for a company that
doesn't even make clothes in my size. Do you know what I mean?"

I nod. "Yes, but it's also important to gain professional experience. And
at least you can look at everything and think about how you'll do it
differently someday."
"I still have a bad feeling about it," she sighs. "I keep wondering if my
instinct is trying to warn me against it?"

"Maybe it's just the excitement. Just remember that a lot of people are
behind you. Your blog has so many readers. They all believe in you and
your vision."

"It's nice of you to say that."

"I'm not just saying it to be nice. I mean it. I firmly believe that you'll
start your own fashion empire and succeed with it."

Ember beams from ear to ear – I can see that despite the mask from her
sparkling eyes.

"We could use the holidays to make a list of English companies that
might be suitable, or what do you think?" I ask as I brush over the inner
side of the shelf with the brush.

"That's a great idea. I've even started because I wanted to write a guide
for ethically made plus-size fashion soon."
I want to reply that our agreement stands, when there's a knock on the
side garage door.

"Ruby?"

Ember and I freeze. Mum must not see what we're doing here. She can't
keep secrets to herself, especially when it comes to gifts for Dad. We've
learned that more than once over the past years.

"Don't come in!" Ember shouts in panic and quickly steps in front of the
spice rack, so Mum won't see it if she sticks her head through the door.

"I didn't intend to," we hear her muffled reply. "Ruby, you have a
visitor."

Ember and I exchange a confused look.

"Maybe Lin?" she asks.

I shake my head. "No, she's spending the Christmas holidays with her
mother in China, visiting relatives."
Ember's eyes widen. "Do you think it's...?" She doesn't say his name, but
my heart skips a beat anyway.

"Who is it, Mum?" I ask aloud.

"Could you just come out? I don't feel like talking to you through the
door," Mum replies.

I roll my eyes and pull one loop of the face mask off my ear, letting it
hang halfway down, feeling like a doctor taking a break during an
important operation. I open the door a crack and squeeze through. Mum
looks at me and the face mask with raised eyebrows, and I catch her
trying to stand on tiptoe to peek through the crack in the door. I quickly
shut the door behind me.

"Who is it?" I ask softly.

Mum's expression suddenly turns serious again. "The Beaufort girl."

My heart sinks. I have déjà vu from that evening when Lydia was
looking for James here. It can't be something bad happening again.

Not again. Please, not again.

"Where is she?" I ask.

Mum gestures towards the hallway. "In the living room. Your father and
I are in the kitchen if you need us."

I nod and take off the face mask completely. I walk cautiously through
the hallway towards the living room. This time, Ember's wise words are
fresh in my memory.

Lydia is sitting on our old floral sofa, her hands folded in her lap, her
gaze fixed on the coffee table. She's wearing a loose-fitting chiffon
blouse with a black pleated skirt and has tied her hair up in her typical
ponytail. Not a single one of her curly hairs is out of place; as always,
Lydia gives the impression that everything about her is perfectly in
order.

But the vacant look in her eyes says otherwise.

"Hi," I say softly, not wanting to startle her.

Lydia lifts her head and sees me in the doorway. She manages a tired
smile. "Hi, Ruby."
For a moment, I'm undecided about what to do, but I decide to go to her
and sit beside her on the sofa. I suppress the urge to make small talk and
ask her how she's doing or if everything is okay. Instead, I wait.

After a while, Lydia swallows heavily. "You said I should contact you if
I needed anything."

For a moment, I look at her perplexed, then I quickly nod. "Yes, of

course. Whatever it is."

She looks uncertainly towards the living room door, as if looking out for
someone. She's probably afraid that my parents or Ember might come in
or eavesdrop on us. I move a little closer to her.

"What's the matter?" I ask softly.

Lydia audibly exhales. Then she straightens her back until she sits
upright. "I have an appointment with the gynecologist tomorrow and
need someone to accompany me."

It takes a few seconds for me to realize what she just said. "You want me
to come with you?" I ask, astonished. She takes a shaky breath, presses
her lips tightly together, and nods finally. "You're the only one who
knows. "

"Is there anything wrong? Are you experiencing any discomfort or

something?"

Lydia shakes her head. "No, it's just a routine check-up. But I don't want
to... go alone."

I wonder how much courage it took her to come here and say that. Until
this moment, I wasn't aware of how lonely Lydia must really feel. I'm
the only one she can ask to accompany her to a doctor's appointment,
which surely scares her and makes her nervous.

There's only one answer to her question for me, and it comes out of me
as a matter of course:

"Of course, I'll accompany you."

The treatment room is mainly one thing: sterile. The walls are white and
except for a single painting, they're devoid of pictures. Behind the desk
on the left side of the room is a wide window with closed blinds, and to
the right of it is a corner with a light blue curtain, behind which Lydia
will undoubtedly change later.

We sit on the two chairs at the desk and watch as Dr. Hearst types
something into her computer at lightning speed.

At the beginning, it was a bit strange to come here with Lydia. But at the
latest when she was asked by a nurse to urinate in a cup, I realized that
we had both missed the right time for shame. Now Lydia is plucking
nervously at her checkered scarf while constantly glancing at the door.
Perhaps she's considering jumping up and fleeing. When her gaze meets
mine, I smile reassuringly at her—or at least I try to. I don't know
exactly what my role is here, so I'm doing what I would want from my
companion in this situation. It seems to work, as Lydia's shoulders relax
a little.

After Dr. Hearst finishes entering the data into the computer, she folds
her hands on the table in front of her and leans forward slightly. Her face
looks friendly, although her dark hair is tied back in a strict knot. She
has many laugh lines, warm brown eyes, and a pleasant, calm voice.

"Ms. Beaufort, how are you feeling?" she asks.

I look at Lydia, who in turn looks at the doctor.

Suddenly she emits a hysterically sounding sound that is probably meant

to be a laugh. However, she quickly composes herself and clears her
throat as if nothing had happened. "Quite okay, I guess."

Dr. Hearst nods understandingly. "At your last examination, you

complained about severe nausea. How are you feeling today?"

"It's gotten better. I haven't thrown up in a week. However, I sometimes

have quite severe pain when I get up after sitting for a long time. Is that
normal?"

Dr. Hearst smiles. "That's nothing to worry about. Your round ligaments
are stretching enormously right now because they need to make room for
the baby. I can prescribe you some magnesium for the pain."

"Okay, that sounds good," Lydia replies, relieved.

After the conversation, Dr. Hearst sends her behind the curtain to
undress. I stay seated on my chair and observe the painting hanging
above the desk during the examination. I try to figure out what the many
shapes and colors could represent—but no chance. It's a wild mess of
yellow, red, and blue, and probably one of the strangest paintings I've
ever seen. I wonder if maybe a child painted it.

"Everything is just as it should be," I hear Dr. Hearst say. "The cervix is
tightly closed, and as long as you haven't had
"Try it," I say with a full mouth. "The bread is really delicious."

Lydia follows my invitation reluctantly.

The bakery is small and cramped. Actually, the space isn't designed for
you to sit comfortably with a coffee here, but there are still two tables
with seating. One next to the door to the kitchen, where the dough is
prepared, and one that stands so close to the counter that customers
inevitably bump into it when it gets a bit crowded.

I gesture to the small bench and the battered wooden table in the back of
the room. As Lydia slides onto the bench, she looks around the bakery.
She doesn't seem quite sure what to make of the place. Her almost
skeptical gaze reminds me of her mother and the way she scrutinized me
when we first met.

I shake the memory out of my head. "Do you know what you'd like?" I
ask.
Lydia looks past me, examining the various cakes with her head tilted.
"What can you recommend?"

"My favorite is the Bakewell Pudding."

"Then I'll have that."

I nod with a smile and go back to the counter just as Mum comes out of
the kitchen. She beams when she sees me and wipes her hands on her
apron, which she wears over the striped shirt with the bakery logo.

"Hi, Mum, I'm here with Lydia," I say quickly, thumbing over my
shoulder to our table. "She's had a tough day, and I thought Bakewell
Pudding and a hot chocolate would definitely cheer her up," I whisper,
hoping Lydia doesn't hear me.

"There's nothing that Bakewell Pudding and a hot chocolate can't fix,"
Mum replies, giving me a conspiratorial glance.

"Thanks, Mum."
I go back to Lydia and sit on the wobbly chair opposite her. She rests her
chin on her hand. "How long has your mum been working here?"

"Since I can remember. She started right after school." She smiles
faintly. "That must have been cool as a kid."

"There were constantly cookies," I say with raised eyebrows.

Lydia's smile widens a bit more.

"Do you know what you want to do later?" I ask after a while.

Now her expression darkens. "What do you think?"

"Lydia, just because you're having a baby doesn't mean your whole
future is screwed."

She lowers her eyes and runs her finger over the dents in the tabletop.
"Babies," she murmurs after a long while.

"What?" I ask, confused.

"My future isn't screwed just because I'm having a baby. Plural." The
smile is back, narrower though, but I can't help but return it.

I don't know what happens next, but suddenly we both start laughing,
first hesitantly, then louder. Lydia covers her mouth with her hand as if
she can't quite believe what she's doing. That, in turn, turns her laughter
into a half-choked snort, and we laugh even harder.

Right at that moment, my mum comes over with a tray and sets down
the steaming mugs and then the two cake plates in front of us. "What's
so funny?" she asks.

Lydia presses her lips together and closes her eyes until she regains
control. Then she looks at Mum and says in a completely calm voice,
"Ruby and I are just laughing about the oddities of life, Mrs. Bell." She
leans forward and holds her nose over the steaming mug. "By the way,
that smells delightful."

Mum blinks, perplexed. Then she reaches out and strokes Lydia's arm.
She knows that Lydia recently lost her mother, and as I know her, she
would like to do more for her than just bring her hot chocolate and cake.
"Enjoy," she says.
Lydia watches my mum go back to the counter to serve the next
customer. Then she sighs softly, pulls the hot chocolate closer to her,
and lays both hands around it.

"I used to want to be a designer at Beaufort," she finally answers my

question.

"You can..." Still, I want to say, but a look from Lydia is enough to
silence me.

She takes the spoon and stirs in the hot chocolate for a few seconds. "I
used to imagine nothing nicer than bringing my creativity to Beaufort,
but Mum and Dad thought my ideas were too modern and not traditional
enough," she continues. "I was constantly clashing with them because I
wanted to play a bigger role than they had planned for me. Unlike
James, I would really like to take over the company. But for them, there
was always only him. That was decided from our birth. No matter what
we both want." She takes the spoon out of the mug and puts it in her
mouth. Then she sighs blissfully.

"I hate that you were subjected to that pressure. And still are. I imagine
it must be so difficult," I murmur and focus on my own chocolate. The
warmth feels incredibly good, and my cold fingers gradually thaw.
Lydia looks so sad and hopeless that I would like to hug her. "From an
outsider's perspective, it seems like Mum and Dad love us above all and
only want the best for us. Wanted. However you want to put it," she
clears her throat. "I can't complain about growing up that way. It's not
my place. I don't know how much James told you, but... there are some
things that just went wrong and can't be undone."

I inevitably wonder if she means her father. And if he only gets physical
with James when something doesn't suit him, or also towards Lydia. If
the latter is the case, I'm even more worried about her.

"He only told me a few things," I say evasively.

Although I know that Lydia knows him better than anyone else in the
world, I can't speak out what he confided in me. Even after everything
that's happened, I can't betray him in that way.

"By the way, he's doing better. He hasn't drunk anything since the
funeral. Instead, he's training like a maniac."

I remember the empty look in his eyes. James's tears. The way he clung
to me. The bruises and scrapes on his hand.
"And the thing between him and your dad?" I ask cautiously. "You know
about the fight?"

I nod.

"Dad acts like nothing happened. He's hardly ever home, and when he is,
he calls James into his office to prepare him for meetings with the
Beaufort board."

On one hand, I'm glad that the relationship between James and his father
hasn't escalated further, but on the other hand, I also know how James
feels about the company and what a burden working at Beaufort must be
for him. I feel sorry for him that it's starting earlier than he expected.

"Maybe you could get over it, Ruby."

I look into Lydia's turquoise eyes. The eyes that look exactly like
James's.

I shake my head tiredly. "I don't think so. Honestly, I don't want to
either."
It's the first time I've said it. But it's the truth. I don't believe that what
James and I have been through can ever be brushed aside. And I don't
want it to be. Especially not when I think about all that lies ahead for
me. It seems like a shadow

hangs over all my dreams, just because I entrusted them to James and
was so hurt by him afterward.

"You could try," Lydia suggests gently, but again I shake my head.
"I understand that the news of your mum's death threw him off, but..."
Helplessly, I shrug my shoulders. "It doesn't change anything. I hate him
for what he did."

"Still, you were there when he needed you. That must mean something,
right?"

I stir the chocolate and take a deep breath. "I still care about him, yes.
But at the same time, I've never been so angry at someone. And I don't
think this anger will just dissipate."

We fall silent. The oven's beeping sounds much louder than it did just a
few minutes ago, as does the small bell on the door, announcing the
coming and going of customers.
"Should I have gone to the doctor alone?" Lydia asks suddenly.

I jerk my head up. "No!"

A blush appears on Lydia's cheeks, and suddenly she seems almost shy.
I wonder what's going on in her head right now. "If I had known how
you felt about it, I wouldn't have taken you up on your offer. I..."

"Lydia," I interrupt her with a soft voice and reach across the table for
her hand. Her eyes widen, and she stares at our intertwined fingers.
"What I said to you was sincere. I want to be there for you. Our
friendship has nothing to do with James. Clear?"

She looks back at me, and I think I see a suspicious gleam in her eyes.
She doesn't respond to my words, but she briefly squeezes my hand. And
that's more than enough.
The rough guitar sounds of Rage Against The Machine have been
blasting in my ears for over an hour, and it feels like my whole body is
on fire. Yet, it's not enough.

I stand in front of the power rack, gripping the short bar attached with
carabiners at the top. I keep my elbows close to my body and raise my
forearms up, then lower them down, again and again. Sweat drips from
my forehead onto my t-shirt, and my arm muscles tremble, but I don't
care. I just keep going. Eventually, there will come a point where I'm so
exhausted that there's nothing but loud, meaningless noise in my head,
and thoughts of Beaufort, my mum, or Ruby are silenced. After
powering through the arm workout, I sit down on the bench of the power
rack. I grab the handles and slowly press it forward. As I slowly release
it, a pull is felt in my chest muscles.

I only realize that the door to the gym has opened when Lydia stands
before me with her arms crossed. My sister towers over me, and though
she says something, I can't hear her over the noise in my ears.
Undeterred, I continue with the exercise. Lydia leans down towards me,
forcing me to look up at her. Slowly, her lips form another word – and I
don't need to hear it to understand.

Idiot.

I wonder what I've done wrong again. Since the funeral, I've hardly left
the house and haven't touched a drop of alcohol. Especially in moments
when I couldn't stop the dark thoughts, it's been difficult. But I've
persevered, also because of Lydia, whose trembling body at Mum's
funeral reminded me that it's my duty as a brother to be there for her. So,
I can't explain why she's standing before me with flushed cheeks and
speaking energetically. Although I must admit, her opening and closing
mouth, combined with the booming music in my ears, actually creates
quite an amusing sight. It almost looks like she's lip-syncing.

Suddenly, Lydia takes a step forward and pulls an earbud out of my ear.
"James!"

"What's wrong?" I ask her, removing the second earbud too. The sudden
silence feels threatening. Lately, I need noise around me because
otherwise, I start to think.

"I wanted to talk to you about Ruby."

I take my hands off the bars and grab my towel. I wipe my face with it
and then my neck, where sweat has collected. I avoid looking at Lydia.

"I don't know what you..."

"Come on, James."

It feels like I'm wearing a tie that's too tight around my neck,
constricting it. I clear my throat. "I don't feel like talking about it."
Lydia looks at me shaking her head. Her mouth is turned downwards,
and she has her arms crossed over her chest. In this moment, she
reminds me so much of Mum that I have to look away briefly. I look at
the towel and wipe my hands on it, even though they're already dry.

"I really want to help you. Both of you."

I can only laugh bitterly at that. "There's no 'us,' Lydia. There never was.
I messed it up."

"If you explain to her—" Lydia starts again, but I interrupt her.

"She doesn't want to hear my explanation. And I can't blame her for that
at all."

Lydia sighs. "I still believe you have a chance. I wish you'd take it
instead of hiding here and feeling sorry for yourself."

I remember Ruby's message:

I can't.
Of course, she can't. I kissed another girl, and that's unforgivable. I've
lost Ruby forever. And Lydia coming here now, trying to convince me
otherwise, is tearing me apart. I wanted to shut down and distract
myself, but that's no longer possible. Slowly but surely, the anger returns
to my body. Anger at Mum's death, anger at my father, anger at myself –
and the whole world.

"Why do you even care?" I ask. My fingers clench the terrycloth of the
towel.

"You both matter to me. I don't want to see you suffer, damn it. Is that so
hard to imagine?"

"Ruby doesn't want me back, and I certainly won't impose myself on

her. You shouldn't either," I say coldly. I stand up and start to head
towards the two treadmills placed in front of a large panoramic window,
through which one can see the back of our estate. But I don't get far –
Lydia pulls at my elbow. I spin around and glare at her with anger.

"Don't look at me like that. It's time for you to be yourself again," she
snaps. Then she jabs a finger firmly into my chest. "You can't push
everyone and everything away."
"I'm not pushing you away," I say between clenched teeth.

"James..."

I try to summon the mask of aloofness that was always my second face
at school and at public events with my family. But this is Lydia standing
before me. I've never had to hide anything from her, and that's why I just
can't seem to do it. Frustrated, I throw the towel aside.

"What do you want to hear from me, Lydia?" I ask weakly.

"That we'll get through this together. You and I. Just like always." She
swallows and touches my arm lightly. "But if you can't speak honestly
with me and keep withdrawing like this, it won't work."

I snort contemptuously. "You act like you're open about everything with
me. Like you're the open one between us. I always had to squeeze
everything out of you. I only found out about your affair with Sutton
because you got caught. "I push her hand away and look her coldly in
the eyes. "Just because Mum's dead doesn't mean we have to conspire
with each other against the rest of the world. Don't make us something
we never were, Lydia."
She flinches and takes a step back. Without giving her another glance, I
turn around and stuff the earbuds back into my ears as I walk away. If
my sister says anything else, I won't hear it. The loud guitar riff drowns
out the ugly reality of my world.
The memory of James is still so vivid even after weeks of silence that it
feels like it all happened just yesterday. I sleep poorly. I delete his
pictures from my laptop, only to save them again a day later and run my
finger over James' smiling mouth like a psychopath. At the same time, I
feel like a liar because I told Lydia that I don't want him back, but my
body clearly disagrees.

I miss James.

It's absurd.

Absurd and insane.

And I could slap myself for it. He broke my heart, damn it. I definitely
shouldn't miss someone who does something like that. Christmas comes
and goes, and for the first time in my life, I can't enjoy the holidays at
all. The movies we watch seem colorless to me, and the songs we listen
to all sound the same. Although I know Mum and Dad put effort into
cooking, the food tastes bland. And to top it all off, my relatives keep
asking me why I'm so down and if it has something to do with the boy
who gave me this pretty bag on my birthday. Eventually, I can't take it
anymore and retreat alone to my room.

As New Year's Eve approaches, I decide that I can't go on like this for
another minute. I'm tired of feeling this way. I've always been a positive
person who looked forward to new beginnings. I refuse to let James take
that attitude away from me.

So, I spontaneously jump into the shower, put on one of my favorite

outfits – a tight checkered skirt and a loosely fitting, cream-colored
blouse – grab my new bullet journal, and head downstairs, determined to
announce my resolutions for the new year to Ember and my parents.

But as I enter the living room, I freeze.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, surprised.

Ember spins around, startled, as does Lin, who was just distributing
colorful umbrellas in glasses. Even Lydia abruptly stops in her
movement – although the streamer in her hand takes on a life of its own
and unrolls itself onto the floor in a sad little heap. Silently, we watch as
it lands on the floor.
Then Ember stands before me. "Why are you coming out of your shell
today of all days?" she asks, agitated. "You can set your watch by when
you leave your room – and now, when I'm planning a surprise girls'
night for you, you come down early. This is just ... Man, Ruby!"

I look between the three of them. Then a slow smile spreads across my
lips.

"We're celebrating New Year's Eve together?" I ask cautiously.

Lin returns my smile. "That was the plan."

As the realization sinks in, I hug Ember tightly. "Thank you," I murmur
into her shoulder. "I think this is exactly what I need right now." And the
fact that Ember knew that shows me once again that she knows me
better than anyone else in the world.

"I thought maybe I could make you a little happy with this," my sister
whispers and strokes my back.
I nod. For the first time since everything with James happened, I feel
genuine joy. "Thank you," I say to Lin and Lydia too, hugging each of
them tightly in turn. "I'm so excited."

After that, we help spread out the remaining streamers and scatter rose
gold confetti. Ember connects the two ancient speakers we bought at a
flea market to her laptop, and while she selects a suitable playlist on the
side, she tells me what the plan for the evening looks like. She has
clearly put a lot of thought into it and planned everything down to the
smallest detail, which makes me want to hug her a second time. But I
hold back and listen to her from the couch instead.

"I thought we could start by writing down our favorite moments from
last year and sharing them with each other. Then we'll watch a movie –
we'll decide which one shortly – and devour this mountain of popcorn."
She points to a huge bowl on the coffee table. Dad usually uses it to
make layered salad, which he always brings to large family gatherings.
Now it's filled to the brim with popcorn, its buttery sweet scent filling
the entire living room. My mouth waters.

"Afterwards, we'll have the main course," Ember continues. "Dad made
quiche for all of us. Then there'll be dessert, and we'll be at – what I
suspect is – Ruby's favorite part."
Lin holds up a semi-transparent bag, in which I can see small books and
some pens.

I don't even pretend to think about it. "We'll write down our resolutions
for 2018!"

Ember nods, laughing. "Once midnight strikes, we'll probably either be

in a food coma or throwing a dance party."

"One of those for sure," says Lydia, taking a handful of popcorn. She
flicks a small ball into her mouth, and a slight smile appears on her lips.
"That sounds like a nice plan, doesn't it, Ruby?"

"Nice plan? That's the best thing I've heard in a long time. Thank you,
guys."

After that, we make ourselves comfortable around the coffee table on the
floor. Lin has brought a few large sheets of paper that we use for
brainstorming in the events committee, which she smuggled out of
school secretly. While a Keaton Henson playlist plays in the
background, we spread them out in front of us.
"Okay," Ember begins. "One of my biggest highlights this year was
working on my blog and having so many new people join."

She notes it all down on her sheet.

"One of my highlights was that my mom's gallery is finally making a

profit. We're doing really well right now, and I hope it stays that way
next year," says Lin, focusing not on us, but on the pen in her hand. I'm
surprised she's sharing something so personal with us. She and Lydia
don't know each other very well, and I could understand if this situation
made them uncomfortable. However, it doesn't seem to be the case with
either of them, which makes me very happy.

"I've been to your gallery before," Lydia suddenly says. "Together with
my mom."

Lin looks surprised. "Really?"

Lydia nods. "It's really beautiful and very stylish. I wish you all the best
for next year. I know how hard it can be, especially when you have to
start from scratch."
The two exchange smiles before Lydia clears her throat. "In January, I
took a short trip to the Alps with my mom. We were in a wellness hotel
and really pampered ourselves – just the two of us. We hadn't done that
in ages. I think that's my favorite memory from this year."

"That sounds really nice," I say softly and briefly place my hand on her
knee. I don't know what else to say, but I want to show her how much I
appreciate her openness.

"And you, Ruby?" Lin asks.

For a moment, my head is empty, and I have no idea what to write on

my sheet. But then I review the year month by month and realize how
beautiful it has been overall. Although I've been sad since the thing with
James, so much has happened since September alone that I can be
grateful for.

I became the head of the events team, got great grades in school, and
was invited to Oxford. I got to know Lin better, grew closer to Ember,
and even made a new friend.
"It looked like a fairy tale there," Ember adds.
I nod, draw a small bubble, and note "Oxford trip" inside it. After that, it
seems like the ice has been broken. We share even the smallest and
strangest events we remember from this year. For example, Lin won a
bouquet of flowers in a supermarket because she was the thousandth
customer, or Lydia got a pound from an old lady to buy something
sweet.
At some point, the mood is no longer as somber as it was at the
beginning. On the contrary, we laugh together, and it feels like the four
of us have been spending time together forever. Around eight o'clock,
Dad and Mum say goodbye to us to go to their friends' place. I can see
how relieved they are that I ventured out of my room for the evening and
am spending it with my friends.
Then we watch "How to Be Single." Ember wished for the movie for
Christmas because she loves Rebel Wilson so much, and as the credits
roll two hours later, I understand why. Even Lydia had to laugh out loud
at some points, although every time she did, she looked like she could
hardly believe she made that sound herself.
Even during the credits, we dig into Dad's quiche.
"You're lucky, Ruby," Lin holds a fork loaded with quiche up to her face
and examines it closely. "Your mum works in a bakery, and your dad is
a chef. If I were you, I'd be in seventh heaven. I miss our cook."
"You guys used to have a cook?" Ember asks wide-eyed.
"Yeah," Lin says, shrugging as if it were a matter of course. "But then
everything changed for us, and I had to learn all the basics. Mum's
cooking skills were a bit rusty, but she still taught me many great
Chinese recipes that she knew from her grandma. Now we really enjoy
cooking together."
I take a bite of the quiche and let it melt on my tongue.
"The only thing I can make is scrambled eggs," Lydia says thoughtfully.
"That must have been quite an adjustment for you."
For a brief moment, Lin seems surprised by Lydia's words, then she
smiles slightly. "I've learned not to look back, but only forward," she
says, putting the fork down on the empty plate and picking up the last
crumbs on her plate with her fingers. Then she grabs one of the bags and
lifts it up. "By the way, we should do this now. It's almost ten."
"Oh, how lovely," I say as Lin distributes the little books to us. They're
simple, with a black cover with fine gold accents, dotted cream pages,
and two bookmarks—exactly how I like them.
"This will be my first bullet journal," Lydia says, looking at her book
and then at us somewhat puzzled. "What do I need to do?"
Ember stacks our empty plates and pushes them aside, then puts her
laptop in the middle of the living room table so we can all see the screen.
"It's actually quite simple," she says. "Every New Year's Eve, we write
down our resolutions." She opens her book and points to the first page.
"And first, we need to design the title."
Together, we search the internet for fonts we like and try to redraw them
or use them as a reference. We work mostly in silence, the only sounds
being our pens on the paper and the soft music in the background.
But as I focus on the final details of my title and outline the number of
the upcoming year with a light gray, suddenly my heart feels heavy
again. Next year at this time, everything will be different:
In just seven months, I will—hopefully—have my diploma from Maxton
Hall College. And then I will—hopefully—be studying at Oxford. I'll
have new professors and new classmates. A dorm room in a new
environment and new friends.
A new, exciting life.
A life without James Beaufort.
The thought comes suddenly and hurts more than I thought possible, but
I try to push it aside. I grab a pen and start writing:

Resolutions:
Get through school
Oxford
Keep close contact with Mum, Dad, and Ember
Make at least one new friend
Not to dwell so much on what others might think of me
But as I jot down one point after another, I realize that it doesn't feel
right. This list isn't honest enough, and if I listen to myself, I know why.
Last year, I fell in love for the first time—and my heart was broken in
the worst way. This can't just be brushed aside. It will take me a long
time to process this. Because heartbreak doesn't disappear just because a
new year has begun.
So far, I haven't wanted to see James. I hoped to eventually forget about
him. But now I realize that I can't write down my resolutions as long as
this thing between us remains unresolved. There's too much I want to
say to him. And I believe that as long as I haven't done that, I won't be
able to start the new year. I won't be able to start anew if James
continues to occupy such a big place in my thoughts, my feelings, and
my life.
"Ruby?" Lin's voice reaches my ears as if from a distance.
I look at her and make a decision.
But before I act on it, I'll celebrate the New Year with my friends.
James
New Year's Eve is usually legendary for us. In past years, we've either
rented a villa by a lake or attended parties in London that were booked
months in advance. We drank until the early hours and forgot everything
around us.
This year, I'm spending New Year's Eve alone at home.

Where's Dad? No idea. Our staff have the evening off, and Lydia is at a
friend's house. She didn't tell me whose. Since our argument a few days
ago, she's been ignoring me and only speaks to me when necessary.
Wren has tried to convince me several times to go away with him and
the guys this year, but I couldn't muster the energy. Just imagining
sitting in a London club with deafening music and champagne right now
makes my hair stand on end. I can't go on like I used to. Not after my
life did a complete one-eighty in the last quarter of the year. Not when
inside me, everything looks completely different than before.
I spend the evening watching documentaries about wild animals in the
savannah of Kenya on my laptop and eating fries and kebabs from
cardboard boxes delivered to me. Sometimes I manage to distract myself
for five minutes straight. But most of the time, I think about Ruby.
In recent weeks, I've realized how frustrating it is that we didn't collect
enough shared memories. There are no photos of the two of us, nothing
to remind me of what we experienced together. The only thing left is the
bag I had made for her birthday. It's still next to my desk, mocking me
every day. I've lost count of how many times I've picked it up and
checked if Ruby left something in it. A note or something that indicates
she actually used it and was happy about it.
I feel like my memories are starting to fade slowly. The feeling of
Ruby's skin against mine, our conversations, her laughter. Everything is
becoming more and more vague and elusive, even the day she was here
and comforted me. The only thing
I still vividly remember and that plays over and over again in my head
is the expression on her face when she saw me with Elaine. I'll never
forget it. And I'll never forget what it did to me—even through the cloud
of alcohol and drugs, both in that moment and in the days that followed.

Originally, the plan was to sleep into the new year, but now it's past one,
and I'm becoming more awake. So, I decide to go back to the gym.
Maybe an hour on the treadmill will not only tire out my body but also
silence my mind.
I put on my workout clothes, slip into my running shoes, and grab my
iPhone, which has been lying untouched on my desk since this
afternoon. The headphones are still plugged in, and as usual, I have to
untangle them first. Just as I'm about to put them in my ears, I hear
someone walking down the hallway.
It's probably Lydia coming home.
I open the door to wish her a happy new year—and freeze.
My sister isn't alone in the hallway.
I rub my eyes, thinking I must be dreaming—but no. After lowering my
hand, I still see two people.
Ruby is standing in our hallway.
Under her arm is a dark blue bundle. I don't have to think long to know
what it is. It's my sweater. The one I gave her after Cyril's party. The one
I didn't miss in my closet because it gave me a good feeling to know it
was with Ruby.
Ruby is speaking softly to my sister, who nods. She briefly glances at
me but immediately looks away again and disappears into her room.
Good to know that I've alienated my sister so much that she can't even
bring herself to wish me a happy new year.
"Can we talk?" Ruby finally asks.
I swallow hard. I haven't seen or heard from her in so long, and now
she's only about three meters away from me. Her proximity makes my
heart race wildly; I want nothing more than to bridge the distance
between us and hug her. But I fight against it and instead pull the desk
chair up to the couch so that I can sit facing her, and we can look at each
other.
"We wrote down our resolutions earlier," Ruby says eventually.
I wait for her to continue.
"I noticed that there are still too many things between us that are
unresolved. I can't start the new year with a clear conscience like this."
My pulse races. I definitely wasn't prepared for that. I have to clear my
throat. "Okay."
Ruby lowers her gaze to the sweater in her lap. She runs her hand over
the fabric, lost in thought. Then she picks it up and places it on the small
round table between us.
She looks up, and our eyes meet. I can see various emotions in her eyes:
sadness. Pain. And not least, a spark of anger that grows the longer her
gaze remains on me.
"I'm so incredibly disappointed in you, James," she suddenly whispers.
My chest tightens painfully. "I know," I whisper back.
She shakes her head. "No. You don't know how that felt. You ripped my
damn heart out. And I hate you for it."
"I know," I repeat with a hoarse voice.
Ruby takes a deep breath. "But I also love you, and that makes it so
much harder."
"I..." It's only after a few seconds that I realize what she just said.
Speechless, I stare at her.
But Ruby just continues speaking as if her words hadn't been significant.
"I don't think this would ever have worked between us. It was nice, even
though we only had this short time together, but now I have to..."
"You love me?" I whisper.
Ruby flinches. Then she sits up straight. "That changes nothing. The
way you treated me... You kissed someone else the day after we slept
together."
"I'm so sorry, Ruby," I say earnestly, even though I know my words
aren't enough.
"And it also doesn't change my intention to start the coming year without
you," Ruby continues.
The pain her words cause me takes my breath away. I know Ruby. When
she sets her mind to something, she pursues it and won't let anyone deter
her. She's here to close this chapter with me.
"That will never happen again... I'll never do something like that again,"
I gasp out breathlessly.
"I really hope so for your next girlfriend," she replies coolly.