CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
NATHANIEL
I emptied myself into her as her almost lifeless body slummed into my hands. I am sure she will be sore down there tomorrow. That will be my parting gift to her.
I can't wait for the morning to come.
I would have loved to leave now but I couldn't, I had to finish this properly.
I place her body gently on the bed and crawl out of the narrow space.
One glance around tells me everything I need to know—she isn't doing well at all.
Disappointment hits hard. When I walked in, I had to school my expression; years of business taught me the value of an unreadable face. People lie with smiles just as easily as they do with words.
The place is a far cry from the image she sells online. People really do build whole illusions out of filtered pictures. I expected the elegant apartment she posed in—turns out that, like everything else about her, it was borrowed light.
I pick up the tissue she left on the DVD player, clean myself, then return to wipe her gently before letting her sleep. She doesn't stir. For a moment I just watch her. She looks breakable. I hate that the sight twists something in me.
Cursing under my breath, I lie down beside her. The mattress is so thin it might as well be the floor. No wonder she looks tired all the time. A life like this would drain anyone. Still, none of that excuses her lies.
I tell myself again why I came: to finish what I started. To make her feel what I once felt when she threw my love aside. But the longer I look at her, the harder it is to believe she's the same girl who laughed at my heart and called me poor.
I force myself up, dress, and pull out my phone. Her Facebook profile glows on the screen—nothing new for a year, only recycled memories. I should have seen it earlier. So this is how bad it is.
I could have paid her off, ended this quickly. Instead, I wasted dinners and effort treating a façade like a queen.
My chest tightens as I watch her sleep. Something reckless in me wants to protect her. I shut it down fast. She's a hustler, I remind myself, willing to sell affection for comfort. If she gets hurt, that's on her.
Still, I can't leave just yet. I want her awake when she sees who I really am.
I slip out quietly, head to my car, open the trunk, and pull out the box that holds my things. Makeup remover, wipes, a clean shirt—tools of my second face. In the rear-view mirror, I strip away every trace of disguise until the man who once loved her stares back. Satisfied, I lean the seat and let exhaustion drag me under.
A blaring horn jerks me awake. Morning light floods the street. Panic flares—Caroline. I rush to her door. It's still unlocked. Inside, she's exactly where I left her, breathing softly. Relief washes through me.
I undress again and slip beside her. The warmth of her skin tempts me, but I push the urge away. "No, man. We've had our fun. Time to finish this."
She stirs, blinking at me in confusion.
"Do you still remember me?" I ask, rolling out of her embrace.
Silence. Her eyes widen, then narrow as recognition dawns.
"I don't date paupers," I mock, my voice turning hard. "People with nothing going for them. Surrounded by poverty—family, friends, all the same. You can never have me." I mimic her tone from years ago, every word I've replayed in my head since she humiliated me.
"It's you," she whispers, pale.
"Yes, it's me. Who else? The man you wrote off as useless. Guess what, Caroline? I'm not so useless anymore."
Tears spill down her cheeks, and my chest tightens again. I hate that it hurts. I grab my phone and head for the door before that weakness grows roots.
"Phillip," she calls softly.
I stop. "Nathaniel Phillip," I correct, meeting her eyes one last time. "Remember the name next time you think of who you turned down."
Her mouth opens—maybe to beg, maybe to explain—but I can't hear it. If I stay, I'll ruin everything. I step outside and slam the door behind me. Her cry follows me down the hall, but I don't look back.
By the time I reach the car, I'm breathing like I've outrun the devil. Maybe I have.
But the sound of her sobs keeps echoing in my mind, steady as a heartbeat. I grip the steering wheel and close my eyes. This was supposed to feel satisfying. It was supposed to end the ache I'd carried for years. Instead, it burns worse.
I see her face again—the disbelief, the tears that slid down without resistance. The Caroline in my memories was proud, sharp-tongued, unbending. The woman in that bed looked like life had already broken her before I ever showed up. What did I really win?
My hands tremble. I tell myself it's anger, but deep down I know it's something else. Pity. Regret. Maybe both. I pound the wheel once, hard enough to sting. "She deserves it," I mutter. "She made her choice." Yet my voice doesn't carry conviction.
I remember how it used to be—the shy messages, the laughter, the way she said my name like it mattered. Then the day she turned her back on me, mocking the little I had. That pain carved itself into me. Every success I've had since then came with that echo behind it: She'll see me one day. She'll know what she lost.
And now she's seen me. But instead of triumph, all I feel is exhaustion. The victory tastes like dust.
I lean my head against the seat. Through the windshield, dawn stretches across the sky, soft and golden—the kind of morning that belongs to new beginnings. Yet here I am, chained to an old wound I thought I'd buried.
Maybe revenge isn't closure. Maybe it's just another kind of prison.
A bitter laugh escapes me. I can almost hear my father's voice telling me that power means control, that emotions make men weak. I used to believe him. Now I'm not so sure.
I start the car and let the engine idle. The hum fills the silence where her sobs used to be. I tell myself I'll never see her again, that this chapter is done. But even as I pull into the street, her voice clings to me like a ghost.
"Please…" That single word haunts the air.
I drive faster, as if I can outrun the guilt clawing its way up my throat. Yet deep down, I know I'm not running from her—I'm running from the man I've become.