23. Renee

Control Weston Scott.

Easier said than done.

But, like he recognizes from afar the kind of dilemma I’m in, he gives me a week of reprieve. I don’t get any more gifts or calls or texts.

I wonder if I can get away with just sending him a note. Something to the effect of, Go away, you big asshat. I don’t want your cars or your flowers or the notes you continue sending to my parents addressed as “my future in-laws.” I don’t want your box of sex toys, your delivered meals, or your bottles of wine I’m currently not drinking because…

Nope. Wouldn’t go further there. No need to elaborate. No need to lie, either, and say something like, I don’t want you anymore. I don’t love you anymore.

No other genius ideas are forthcoming, though. Deacon got called away to New York on business, so I’ve been wandering around the city trying to figure out how the hell I can get Weston to let me move on with my life.

I’m in a gallery in West Hollywood, perusing a new collection absent-mindedly, when I feel a presence materialize at my side.

“Miss DuBois.” The curator of the gallery comes over and presses a friendly kiss into my cheek, then steps aside to show me a tall, skinny man behind her. “This is Paul Ravaglioni. He’s the creator of this fabulous art.”

My face lights up. “Mr. Ravaglioni! What a pleasure to meet you. You’re so talented. I can’t decide which piece I like more. I’d give my pinky toe to have a showing half this good.”

He smiles pleasantly. “You paint?”

I shake my head. “If you mean ‘by numbers,’ then yes. Otherwise, definitely not. I’m a photographer. But not anywhere near your level, I’m afraid.”

He laughs, just as pleasantly as he smiles. “I do very much enjoy a person who has such appreciation for my little doodles.” He starts walking me through the exhibition, explaining the various pieces as we go. An hour passes in the blink of an eye.

I”m still deep in conversation with Paul when his name comes crackling over the loudspeaker. ”Mr. Ravaglioni, you have an urgent call. Please come to the front desk immediately.”

Paul smiles apologetically. ”Duty calls, I”m afraid. Please, feel free to keep enjoying the show. It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss DuBois.”

He hurries off toward the front of the gallery. I wander over to a striking abstract piece nearby, lost in the bursts of color and motion.

That”s when I sense a familiar presence at my back. Sure enough, none other than Weston Scott saunters up beside me, hands casually shoved in his pockets.

”Fancy running into you here,” he drawls.

I clench my jaw, fighting to keep my voice level. The last thing I want is to make a scene. ”I”m just leaving, actually.”

But as I turn to go, Weston steps smoothly into my path. ”What”s the rush? We”ve barely had a chance to chat.” His gaze sweeps over me slowly. ”You look beautiful today, Princess.”

”Don”t call me that,” I snap. I’m mortified that he might’ve overheard me gushing about wanting my own art show earlier. It”s always been a private dream. Having him witness that moment of vulnerability would make me feel more exposed than I like to be around Weston Scott.

I fold my arms tightly across my chest, trying to minimize the faint bruising on my upper arms where Deacon grabbed me. If Weston notices, he”ll lose it.

”Look, I need you to leave me alone,” I say more sharply than intended. ”This little game of yours has to stop.”

Hurt flickers across Weston”s face. ”Come on, you know this isn”t a game to me. I lo?—”

”Don”t,” I cut him off. ”Please just go. I can”t do this with you anymore.”

But rather than leaving, he moves closer. ”I”m not giving up, Renee. I was an idiot to ever let you go. Seeing you with him…” Weston”s jaw tenses. ”You deserve so much better than that sham of a life.”

I let out a bitter laugh. ”Oh, so now, you know what I deserve? That”s rich coming from the guy who threw me out on the street.”

”That was a mistake.” His eyes blaze intensely. ”The biggest goddamn mistake of my life. And I swear I”m going to spend forever making up for it, if you just give me a chance.”

I stare at the floor, emotions swirling. I want so badly to believe him. But how can I trust anything he says?

Sensing my hesitation, he lifts my chin gently. ”Look at me. Really look. And tell me you”re happy with him. That this is the life you want.”

I open my mouth but falter. The words stick in my throat. As much as I wish I could lie, I simply can”t force them out.

Weston”s jaw clenches, but he doesn”t look surprised. Just pained. ”I didn”t think so,” he says quietly. ”You deserve so much more, P. Come back with me. Let”s start over, and do this thing right.”

For one fleeting second, I”m tempted. But then doubt and fear flood back in. I twist out of his grasp. ”It”s too late for that.” Bitterness edges into my tone again. ”I”m done with love. You taught me that love makes a person weak. You might as well have it embroidered on pillows and sewn into your damn uniform. But I have had enough weakness for the rest of my life. So I need you to leave me alone. Take your gifts and your intensity and give it all to someone else. I’m done with weakness and I’m done with you.”

Weston flinches. ”Don”t say that.”

But I”m already turning away. The damage is done.

”Just stay away from me, Weston,” I say wearily. ”I can”t keep doing this with you.”

I walk away without looking back. The sound of his fading footsteps behind me echoes with finality.

It”s over between us. It has to be.

A week later, a delivery arrives directly to the pool house: an elegant, framed print of the very painting Weston and I were standing in front of at the gallery. No note, but I don”t need one to know it”s from him.

I tell myself to send it back. Instead, I hang it in the pool house where no one else will see. A private reminder of dreams.

Of heartbreak.

Of roads not taken.

Of red lines I cannot let myself cross.