Chapter 17: Did she hate him?
The day that was supposed to be hers—a day she had carefully carved out to enjoy alone, to treat herself, to breathe freely without anyone else's shadow—was shattered the moment she laid eyes on William.
She had told herself she was fine. She had ended the conversation, walked away first, kept her dignity intact. But even so, the damage was done. Her mood collapsed in on itself like paper burning from the edges inward. She no longer felt like lingering outside. She no longer felt like pretending to enjoy the city or her coffee. She just wanted to disappear.
So she went home.
The house felt empty, quiet in a way that pressed against her ears. She slipped into the living room, settled on the couch, and flicked on a movie—not because she cared to watch it, but because she needed something, anything, to fill the silence. The glow of the screen danced faintly across her face, but her eyes were hollow.
She stared at the movie, yet saw nothing. Her gaze was fixed, but her mind was miles away.
She was thinking of him.
William.
He had changed. That much was undeniable. Taller, sharper, more defined than the boy she once knew. He looked… perfect. Too perfect. His English rolled off his tongue with smooth precision, his voice carried a weight that hadn't been there before, and his hair—God, his hair—looked effortlessly good. Everything about him seemed designed to make her heart ache. His entire existence demanded to be noticed.
And she hated that she noticed.
She hated that she loved the way he looked.
If only she didn't hate him.
If only she could separate who he was now from what he had done.
But did she really hate him? The question dug into her like a thorn. She didn't know anymore. She told herself she was supposed to hate him. After what he had done—after what happened eight years ago—how could she feel anything else? That betrayal was carved into her memory like stone. She could never forget it.
No, she wasn't confused. She had to hate him.
And she was never going to speak to William again. That was final.
Time passed, heavy and unkind. Hours slipped away as she sat there, doing absolutely nothing, letting her thoughts chase themselves in circles.
Her phone buzzed.
Matthew Joseph.
Matthew: Hey, what are you doing? You busy?
She blinked at the screen, sighed, and typed back.
Daisy: No, I'm not busy. Just watching a movie.
A pause, then another message.
Matthew: Wanna talk? I'm outside, close to your house in case you want to talk.
Her throat tightened. She loved that he cared, loved that he reached out when she needed it most—but she couldn't. Not now. She needed space.
Daisy: No, I want to be alone. Thanks for checking on me though.
The conversation ended there, short and simple. The silence rushed back in. Daisy dropped her phone onto the bed, then let herself fall against it too, her body sinking into the mattress with a weight that felt impossible to carry.
It was going to be a long wait.
She had been waiting for Isabella for what felt like forever. Each minute dragged, stretching painfully slow. Damn this date is long, she thought, staring at the ceiling, feeling the hollow ache of being alone with her thoughts.
Finally—finally—the door opened.
Isabella walked in, light radiating from her like sunshine after storm clouds. She looked happy, flushed with excitement. Her cheeks were pink, glowing with the unmistakable bloom of someone who had just spent hours in the warmth of romance. She was blushing hard, grinning without even realizing it.
But it didn't take her long to notice the contrast. To notice Daisy.
After a few moments, Isabella's eyes narrowed slightly, her expression softening with concern. Something was wrong. Clearly wrong.
And so she asked.
"What happened?"