Chapter 57

CHAPTER 57

MARIGOLD

I lay there, panting and out of breath, my heart thudding in my chest. The room was dead quiet, except for Zayn's soft snoring beside me. Damn him. How was I supposed to leave when things felt this good?

I turned my head, staring at his sleeping face. He was out cold, sprawled across the blow-up mattress that was now our sorry excuse for a bed. The place was empty. Just a suitcase, a couple of flat pillows, and a pile of clothes on the floor. It looked like the remnants of a college dorm after finals, but here we were, two grown adults still tangled in whatever this was.

I sighed. I should've known better than to let him reel me back in. But here I was, once again, caught up in the whirlwind that was Zayn Bancroft.

And damn if it didn't feel amazing.

I was so tempted to call my dad and tell him I was sorry but I couldn't come home. But even thinking about doing that felt like someone was squeezing my heart.

I felt so torn. I loved my dad, and I loved Zayn. I wanted to be with him, but there was a feeling of being pulled to Wyoming. I couldn't explain it. I had dreamed about escaping Wyoming for so long and now I was itching to get back. I just wished it wasn't so far from Zayn.

I contemplated the idea of a long-distance relationship. Maybe Zayn and I could make it work. There was video chatting, texting, calling, and traveling back and forth. Yet, a small cynical voice in my head was quick to point out that we lived in the real world, and that wasn't practical.

Zayn muttered something in his sleep. His arm lazily slipped over my waist and pulled me closer to his warm body. His steady breath sent goosebumps over my naked skin. My heart ached with impending sorrow, knowing it was all coming to an end.

I slid out from under the covers, careful not to wake him. He didn't stir. Of course not. Zayn could sleep through an earthquake if he was tired enough. That was something I had learned in the few nights we actually got to sleep together.

I padded over to my suitcase and pulled on the comfy clothes I had chosen to keep back. The air in the apartment was chilly, reminding me how bare everything was. Normally, I had a rug on the floor. There was some frost on the windows, too.

I flew out tomorrow. Christmas was right around the corner. Tomorrow, I would be back in Wyoming. No more New York. No Zayn. Just me, my dad, and the small town I never thought I'd go back to.

I rubbed my arms, trying to shake off the creeping sense of reality. Why did I let myself fall into this mess again?

I glanced back at him, still dead to the world. For all the intensity of the last few days—and last night in particular—nothing had fundamentally changed. I needed to get my head on straight.

The decision was made. I had to go home.

But we could enjoy one last breakfast. Last night, he told me he wasn't working today. We were going to spend the day together. Part of me thought it might be better to just rip the bandage off and embrace the pain that was eagerly waiting to pounce.

There was a little café a couple of blocks down where I could grab us both some coffee and pastries since the fridge was as empty as my motivation to deal with real life.

As I walked, the city felt strangely still, like it was waiting for something to happen. Or maybe that was just me projecting my inner turmoil onto the world. Either way, it felt too quiet for New York, too quiet for me.

I walked into the café, noting it would be my last time for that as well. I knew that was how my day was going to be spent. Everything I did and saw would be remembered as the last time. It sounded utterly depressing.

The café was nearly empty. A few people were hunched over their drinks, minding their own business. The barista looked up as I walked in. I ordered two cappuccinos. While he worked, I wandered over to the display case by the register to eye the Danishes. One cherry. One almond. And because it was my last breakfast, I ordered two chocolate croissants as well. It was sinful, but this was a day for indulgence, for soaking up every last moment.

While the barista made our drinks, I stared out the window. I felt the weight on my shoulders growing heavier with each passing second. This was harder than I'd imagined it would be. The separation, the farewell. Was it the right thing? Or was I running away?

With my goodies in hand, I started on my way back to the apartment. I passed a magazine stand, not thinking much of it. It took me about five seconds to register what I had seen. I stepped back and did a double take, my eyes catching on a glossy cover with a photo of me and Zayn plastered across the front. I stopped dead in my tracks, heart suddenly racing for a different reason.

Dream girl or Sham girl?

The headline was clever and cruel at the same time. I grabbed the magazine, flipping through until I found the article.

"Five bucks," the man running the stand demanded.

I reached into my pocket and thrust the money at him.

My hands shook as my eyes flew over the words. An anonymous source spilled the beans that our engagement was a publicity stunt. Not only was I called a gold-digger and a fraud, but the writer had gone after Zayn, too, calling him a "Lost Boy" who would never grow up. Typical Bancroft behavior, they said. All smoke and mirrors, with no real substance.

I gasped, my stomach dropping. This wasn't just some silly gossip piece—it was vicious.

Without thinking, I hurried back to the apartment, my mind racing. How had this gotten out? We were careful, weren't we? Only a handful of people knew the truth. Who the hell would do this?

Where were Zayn's PR people? How had they let this get out of control?

When I got back, Zayn was still asleep, oblivious to the storm brewing. I didn't bother being gentle this time. I stormed over and shook him roughly, forcing him to sit up in a groggy daze. "Wake up, Lost Boy."

He blinked, squinting at me like he wasn't sure if I was real. "Huh? What's happening?"

"Read this." I tossed the magazine at him.

He rubbed his eyes and grabbed it, his confusion slowly morphing into concern as he read. I paced back and forth, wringing my hands together, watching his face. His brows furrowed as he got further into the article, and by the time he reached the end, his expression was dark.

"Who could've done this?" I demanded. "We didn't tell anyone. Who would sell us out like this? That is just so mean!"

Zayn closed the magazine and tossed it onto the floor, sighing heavily. "I don't know. Don't read that shit."

"None of your family would do this, right?" I asked. "They wouldn't want to hurt you like this."

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "No, they wouldn't. I'm sure of that."

"So who?" I demanded, my frustration bubbling over. "There aren't that many people who knew about us! This was supposed to be private. Carlos? Elaine?"

I knew they wouldn't betray us. I refused to believe they would gossip about us. They had their own lives and a lot to look forward to. I doubted they even thought about us.

Zayn looked up at me. "Would your dad?"

I stopped in my tracks, spinning around to face him. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not saying he called up the magazine," Zayn said quickly, holding his hands up defensively. "But maybe he let something slip. You know, while he was out with a friend or grabbing a beer or something."

I stared at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. "You think my dad would, what? Let something slip and ruin my life? Try and capitalize on my relationship with you?"

Zayn exhaled and reached for his boxers. He quickly pulled them on and stood up. "I'm not accusing him of anything, Marigold. But people talk. Someone might've taken advantage of him being comfortable, and they turned it into a payday."

I folded my arms over my chest, my anger rising. "My dad would never do that. He knows how damaging this could be. You're not exactly well known in Green River. You're thinking just a little too highly of yourself. People don't care about you that much."

Zayn took another step forward, trying to soften his tone. "I'm just saying we should consider every possibility. We don't know where this came from."

I shook my head, feeling the sting of betrayal cut deep. "I can't believe you'd think my dad would ever do something like this."

"Marigold, I'm not blaming him," Zayn insisted. "I'm trying to figure out who did this. We need to find the source, and we can't rule anyone out."

I scoffed, my voice rising. "Well, maybe you should look a little closer to your side of things! The Bancrofts aren't exactly strangers to bad press, are they?"

Zayn's face hardened, and I could tell I'd hit a nerve. "That's not fair."

"Fair? You think it's fair to accuse my dad?" I shot back. "Of all people, Zayn! He's done nothing but support me through all this mess, and you want to throw him under the bus because you can't deal with your own family's crap?"

He bristled, clearly biting back whatever he wanted to say. "I'm just trying to get to the bottom of this, Marigold. We're both in this together, remember?"

"No, we're not," I snapped, my voice trembling. "You have your world, and I have mine. And after all this? I don't even know if I want to be a part of yours anymore."

Zayn's eyes widened like I'd just slapped him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe it's time we stop pretending," I said, my heart racing. "Whatever this is between us, it's not real. It never has been."

"That's not true," he said, his voice low. "You know that's not true. We just talked about this."

"I don't know anything anymore." I threw my hands up in frustration. "Because right now, I feel like the only thing that's been real is the mess we've made."

Zayn stepped closer. "Marigold, don't do this. Don't shut me out because you're scared."

"I'm not scared," I shot back, though my voice betrayed me. "I'm just tired. Tired of the lies, the secrets, the fake smiles for the cameras. I can't do this anymore."

He looked at me for a long moment, his jaw clenched, before he finally spoke. "Fine. If that's what you want."

The words hit harder than I expected. I hadn't thought it would hurt this much to hear him say it. Tears burned in the back of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "I think you should leave."

Zayn's face darkened, and for a moment, I thought he might argue. But instead, he nodded slowly, grabbing his shirt from the floor and pulling it over his head.

"Alright," he said, his voice tight. "I'll go. I've told you how I feel. What happens next is up to you."

I stood there, watching him as he grabbed his things, my heart pounding in my chest. Part of me wanted to take it all back, to tell him I didn't mean it. But the other part of me knew this was the right thing to do. We couldn't keep going like this.

Zayn stopped at the door, turning to look at me one last time. "For what it's worth, Marigold, I never wanted it to end like this."

I swallowed hard, my throat tight. "Me neither."

The door clicked shut behind him, and the silence that followed was deafening. I stood there for what felt like an eternity, staring at the door, trying to process what had just happened. My heart ached like it had been run through a washing machine.

This was it. This was the end. No New York. No Zayn. No more lies.

Just me, my dad, and a small town I never thought I'd go back to.

I wiped my eyes and sat down on the deflated air mattress, feeling more alone than I ever had before.