Replacing the Replacement Goodbye, Heartbreaker

Prologue I chased Julian for five whole years, gladly putting up with his coldness just because I thought he was the guy who jumped into the water and saved my life. Until our anniversary, when I saw him kneeling in the underground garage, tenderly tending to another woman. The gift I spent half a month hunting down sat alone on my passenger seat. And the moment I saw her face, it hit me: the entire time, I was merely her stand-in. That very night, I handed off everything at my company and booked a one-way ticket abroad. When we crossed paths again, Julian begged for me back, his eyes bloodshot. A handsome man stepped in front of me, cutting him off: "Julian, let go of my wife, unless you want that wrist snapped in half." Chloe's POV I chased Julian for five full years. I swallowed all his coldness and refused to walk away, solely convinced he was the hero who jumped into the water to drag me out of drowning years ago. Until tonight, on our anniversary, when I caught him half-kneeling on the concrete floor of the parking garage. Slumped in the backseat was a woman, dead drunk. It was Tara. Tara had thrown up all over herself. Julian pulled out a thick wad of napkins, tilting his head down as he wiped her face. After cleaning her up, he pushed back her tangled hair and wiped each of his soiled fingers clean, one by one. He twisted open a bottle of water, gently cradling the back of Tara's head to help her rinse her mouth. When water trickled down the side of Tara’s lips, Julian caught it with his bare hand. I sat in my car not far away, the engine still humming. On my passenger seat sat the gift I had spent half a month tracking down, scouring three different warehouses just to pick it up. Right now, the silk ribbon on the box was crushed beneath my white-knuckled grip. A janitor holding a mop stepped forward to offer a hand, but Julian looked up, his glare freezing the man in his tracks and forcing him three steps back. My younger brother, Lucas, rushed over and reached out to support Tara. "Don't touch her." Julian didn't even look up as he snapped the command. In the five years I'd known him, I had never seen Julian bend down for anyone. He wouldn't even let another living soul touch his pool cues. Back then, I always thought it was just the proud arrogance of a genius, and my heart constantly ached for him. Turns out, his spine wasn't too stiff to bend. He just refused to bend it for me. Lucas stood by the car door, his voice hushed and urgent. "Let's get her upstairs first. What you're doing isn't right." Julian didn't move. With one knee planted on the hard concrete, he crumpled the dirty napkins into a ball. "I gave it to you straight," Julian murmured, his eyes locked on Tara, his tone dead flat. "The only reason I kept Chloe around is because her face looks just like Tara's." Sitting in the shadows, my nails bit deep into the meat of my palms. Lucas cursed under his breath. "Chloe is my sister! Who the hell actually has your heart?" "I know." Julian stood up, brushing the gray dust off his knee. "Not a word of tonight goes to her." Julian bent down, scooped Tara into his arms, supported her neck, and slid her into the passenger seat before buckling her in. His car pulled out of the garage, sliding right past mine. Julian stared dead ahead, never glancing in my direction once. The garage fell dead quiet. I looked down at the gift on my passenger seat. For tonight, I had deliberately worn a dress Julian had looked at twice before. I used to think he was just emotionally detached by nature. It turned out I had just been making excuses for him all along. All he ever wanted was a face. Even more sickening, he immediately moved to shut Lucas up, fully intending to keep using me as a replica. I slammed the shifter into reverse and backed out of the garage. I was done playing along. Stopped at a red light, I stared at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Everyone on the outside said I was out of my damn mind, leaving my own company to run itself while I spun circles around a professional pool player day in and day out. Just because Julian called me "Ms. Vance" when we met, I dedicated five whole years to him. I swallowed all that disrespect because I believed I owed him my life. The guy who dragged me onto the riverbank had left a metal-cased zippo lighter on the rocks before disappearing. Later on, at a pool hall, I saw Julian holding the exact same lighter, with identical wear on the corners. I thought Julian was my savior. I pulled up beneath my apartment building. Lucas was leaning against the entrance door, smoking, with two butts already crushed beneath his sneakers. "Owen asked me to give this to you." Lucas handed over a paper bag, his eyes shifting away, keeping quiet about what went down in the garage. I took the bag and turned to head upstairs. "Chloe." Lucas called after me, running a hand through his hair. "The guy who jumped into the water to drag you out back then... it wasn't Julian." I froze, my hand hovering mid-air over the door handle. Lucas didn't have the guts to meet my gaze. "It was Owen." "He bought matching lighters with Julian." "Chloe, you had the wrong guy the whole time." The motion-sensor light clicked off, plunging the hallway into pitch darkness. I stood on the concrete steps gripping the paper bag, completely still, without making a sound. Owing Julian my life was the only reason I put up with his bullshit for five years. Turns out, I didn't owe him a single damn thing.Chloe's POV The next morning, I called Lucas down to the coffee shop beneath my office building. I pushed my iced Americano aside and cut straight to the chase: "Where's Owen?" Lucas froze with his cup halfway to his mouth. "Chloe, why are you asking about him now?" "Where is he right now?" I skipped the small talk and repeated the question. Lucas stirred his cup with a spoon, hesitating for a long moment before muttering, "He's overseas doing a degree in sports management. He left nearly two years ago. He sent an email last year asking how you were holding up, but I didn't dare reply." "Why didn't you?" "Back then, you only had eyes for Julian. You'd lose your temper on anyone who even brought Owen up." I didn't answer. I had wasted five years glued to Julian, effectively shutting out the person who had actually saved me from drowning. "Which city, exactly?" Lucas gave me the location. I pulled out my phone and typed it into my notes, not missing a single letter. Once saved, I slid the manila folder across the table to Lucas. "Take charge of the company for now. I'm heading out of the country." Lucas pulled out the paperwork and scanned it. It was a power of attorney, signed with last night's date. Right underneath were the progress reports on three major client projects. "You pulled an all-nighter for this?" Lucas's eyes went wide. "Just over what happened last night? No matter how awful Julian is, you don't have to just up and leave the country!" "It's not about him." I cut him off, pocketing my phone without any emotion on my face. "It's for myself. I gave all my devotion to the wrong person for years. I need to look Owen in the eye and set the record straight." Lucas looked at my face and ended up keeping his mouth shut. After all, I practically raised him. He knew that when I wore this expression, my mind was made up. Leaving the coffee shop, I headed back to the apartment I shared with Julian. I pulled open the lowest storage bin in the walk-in closet, dragging the contents out piece by piece. To track down the custom pool cue Julian liked, I had pulled every string I had. Julian's worn-out leather gloves with frayed stitching—I had hand-washed and carefully conditioned them myself. And a limited-edition tournament box set Julian offhandedly mentioned—I had hired a personal shopper who waited in line for three whole days to snag it, its seals still untouched. I used to keep all this crap around, hoping that one day Julian would finally let me into his real life and introduce me to his friends. Looking back, every single drop of my effort was a complete and utter joke. I found a large cardboard box, shoved every single item inside, and slapped a sticky note on top: For Lucas. Then I opened the closet, pulled down a row of his hanging jerseys, and stacked them neatly next to the box. That evening, the front door lock clicked open. Julian walked in. Spotting the box on the floor, his brow twitched slightly, but he smoothed it out just as fast. "Last night was my bad." Julian walked over, reaching out to take my hand. "I missed our anniversary, so I'm making it up to you tonight. I got us a table at that Michelin-starred spot you’ve been dying to try." I casually pulled my hand back, sliding it straight into my trench coat pocket. "Sure," I said, meeting his eyes. "Let's go." Julian didn't even bother asking why I drew my hand away. During the drive, all Julian talked about was the upcoming tour for the second half of the year, obsessed with locking in his world ranking by December. I rested my temple against the passenger window, silent the entire ride. Julian freed a hand to tousle my hair. I leaned away to dodge it, and he just chuckled, assuming I was burnt out from work lately. We settled into the private dining room at the restaurant, but barely a minute after sitting down, the door swung open. Tara walked in arm-in-arm with a female friend. She spotted Julian immediately. "Julian? What are the odds!" Tara strolled over with a smile, holding a glass of wine to toast him. Julian stood up, clinking his glass against hers, acting as completely unbothered as if last night had never happened. Tara's eyes dragged across me. "And this lovely lady is...?" Tara asked, smiling sweetly. Julian rested an arm against his chair, his tone breezy. "Lucas's older sister. Ms. Vance." I used to beg Julian to make our relationship public—even if he just introduced me as his girlfriend to close friends. He always shut me down. Tonight, with only a handful of people in the room, my identity was still reduced to "Lucas's sister." Tara let out a drawn-out "Oh," sizing up my face. "Ms. Vance looks unfamiliar. I guess you don't hang out with Julian's circle much?" Julian idly flicked his lighter, offering nothing. I took a slow sip of hot tea, looking up. "Busy with work. No time." Tara gave a polite laugh, dismissing me entirely as she turned and guided her friend to the adjacent table. Julian's gaze tracked Tara's back for a solid couple of seconds before pulling away. I held my teacup tight, the scalding porcelain burning my palm crimson, but I didn't even flinch. Whatever pathetic shred of hope I had left was wiped completely clean the second "Lucas's sister" rolled off his tongue. Throughout dinner, Julian droned on about his tournament schedule, and I hummed along on cue, giving him nothing out of the ordinary. Back at the apartment garage, I got out of the car. Without waiting for Julian, I hit the elevator button and headed up alone. My suitcase still lay wide open on the living room rug. I had to finish sorting out my travel documents before the sun came up.Chloe's POV Tara invited me to a private VIP lounge at the city's most exclusive club. I went. I used to despise these networking parties, but tonight I dressed to the nines. From the moment I stepped through the door, I greeted the crowd with a warm smile, chatting effortlessly with whoever crossed my path. In the past, I sat at events like this like an out-of-place statue, intimidating and aloof. Back then, I poured all my warmth into one single man, terrified that if I said the wrong thing in public, it would somehow embarrass him. Tonight, I held nothing back. I walked right up to a group talking sports, breaking down last month's semifinal point spreads sharper than the pro players in the room. Then I moved to another circle to talk business, effortlessly dropping details about commercial zoning rights and which real estate firms were behind on payments. When people offered their business cards, I took them with both hands and slipped them into my clutch. Julian sat in the corner the entire night, clutching his tumbler, his eyes glued to my every move. Every time I wrapped up a conversation and glanced back, his heavy gaze was still pinned squarely on me. Across the lounge, a rowdy group started up a drinking game. The empty bottle spun across the mahogany table, coming to a dead stop right in Tara's direction. "Truth or Dare!" someone whistled. "Tara, pick your poison!" Every pair of eyes in the room zeroed in on her. Tara elegantly smoothed her hair, but the corner of her eye flicked toward Julian sitting across from her. "Dare," Tara said smoothly. Someone hollered, "Take a shot with the third guy to your right!" The third guy to her right was a total stranger. Tara stood up, glass in hand, and sauntered over. She perched on the armrest right against the guy's thigh, draped an arm around his neck, and whispered something in his ear. Then she threw her head back into his chest, letting the liquor spill over and soak the guy's hand. The room erupted into cheers, howling and slamming the tables. I nursed my drink, watching the circus unfold in silence. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Julian's knuckles turn white around his glass, release, and clench tight again. Julian’s face went completely dark. He shot up, marched over, and seized Tara by the wrist, ripping her away from the guy with enough force to make Tara gasp. "Outside. Now," he gritted out, his voice dangerously low. Tara twisted against his grip, but couldn't break free as he dragged her out into the hallway. The room’s laughter died in an instant. People traded awkward glances, nobody daring to make a peep. I set my glass down and followed. At the far end of the corridor, Tara wrenched her wrist away, rubbing the red mark. "You're hurting me!" "You did that on purpose," Julian snarled, towering over her. "In front of everyone." "So what if I did?" Tara tilted her chin, unapologetic. "Julian, I'm giving you a shot here. Getting back together isn't out of the question, but why should I come crawling back? You know damn well how you treated me over the years. I need to see exactly how far you'll go for me." Julian kept silent, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Aren't you utterly obsessed with that first championship trophy of yours?" Tara let out a soft, cruel laugh. "You wouldn't even let another living soul dust it, right? Go on then. Smash it. Shatter it right in front of everyone, and maybe I'll believe you actually love me." "You've lost your mind," Julian said, his tone dropping an octave. "I've lost my mind?" Tara took half a step back, folding her arms. "Too scared? Fine, forget it. And here I thought you'd do anything for me." I stood around the corner, watching in total silence. That trophy was the first piece of gold he ever brought home from the pro circuit. He had guarded it like a sacred relic for years, displaying it in prime position. If dust settled on the base, he cleaned it with his own hands; no one else was even allowed to lay a finger on it. I had spent years using that very trophy to make excuses for him: He’s just emotionally distant, but he has things he truly cherishes. He's a man who keeps everything locked down tight, and he treats everyone that way. Julian stood paralyzed for what felt like forever. Guests from the VIP room were slowly poking their heads into the corridor. No one said a word. Tara didn't budge, just smirking and waiting. Then, Julian turned on his heel and walked toward the trophy display at the end of the lounge. Lined up along the shelving were all the hardware and awards he had racked up over his career, crowded together under spotlight glass. I stepped out toward the corner just in time to see him pull out that weathered, original trophy with the buffed base. "Julian," I called out on pure instinct. He didn't even flinch, as if he hadn't heard me. He weighed the trophy in his hands, gripped the stem with both palms, raised it over his head, and brought it slamming down onto the solid marble counter. The first strike split the metal right down the middle. The second strike bent the chalice completely out of shape. On the third strike, the metal sheared off its base, shattering into jagged pieces that bounced and skittered violently across the polished stone with an ear-splitting shriek. Shards nicked his trousers. A sharp cut opened across the back of his right hand, crimson droplets rolling down his knuckles to splash over the brass wreckage. The engraved nameplate bearing the year and tournament title broke loose, sliding all the way to the center of the hallway before coming to a halt. He stared down at the carnage beneath his feet, then lifted his eyes to Tara, completely unblinking. Tara’s smug smirk vanished. She stumbled half a step back, shifting her wine glass to her other hand. I stood by the corner wall, my feet glued to the floorboards. The one thing I had used to excuse his coldness for years had just been smashed into scrap metal with three swings of his own arms. Turns out, he could part with anything. He could throw away his trophies, throw away the legacy he traded blood and sweat to build—it just depended on who asked. He could go completely unhinged for that woman, yet I had spent five years begging him just to acknowledge my existence, and failed every single time. Deep down, he must care about me at least a little bit. I had whispered that lie to myself for half a decade. Tonight, reality hit me right in the teeth. Shards littered the floor. Julian stood among the ruins, blood dripping from his hand, not even caring to wipe it away. I pressed my palm against the hallway wall, my fingernails digging a groove into the wallpaper. I didn't call his name a second time. I turned back into the lounge, grabbed my purse, got into my car, and drove home to finish compiling my visa application paperwork.Chloe's POV Word got out that Julian needed seven stitches on the hand he used to shatter the trophy, spending four days in the hospital. I didn't visit him once. During those four days, I didn't even bother shooting him a text, let alone making a call. Lucas dropped by my apartment once, looking uneasy. He mentioned the stitches and asked if I planned to check in on Julian. I sat at my laptop reviewing the orientation schedule for the university abroad, not even looking up. "No." "He's in a hospital bed!" Lucas blurted out, getting anxious. "Chloe, just go see him once." "He sliced his hand open for another woman," I muttered, scrolling down the page. "Why would I go? To watch him act lovesick for someone else?" Lucas went quiet. He stood by the doorway gripping the handle, giving up on trying to sway me. I locked myself away from the drama, working at the firm by day and spending my nights packing, hunting for flights, and securing my student visa. There were eight required visa documents. I listed them out one by one, crossing off each line item as the approvals came through. I emailed the university to confirm my arrival dates. The admissions office responded fast, attaching a course syllabus that I combed through with absolute precision. My affairs at the company were handled too; I delegated the critical milestones for three major contracts to trusted team leads. The closer my departure date crept, the calmer my mind became. I used to mistake this quiet focus for waiting on someone to change their mind. Now I knew I was simply crossing off an exit checklist. The day Julian was discharged, he let himself into the apartment. Pushing the door open, he found me crouched on the rug, organizing a storage crate packed with men's pool cues, gloves, and jerseys. The tension on his tired face relaxed slightly. "All this..." He walked over, his voice still a little raspy. "You bought this for me?" I didn't bother looking up. "No." "Then who's it for?" he pressed. "For Lucas," I said, snapping the lid shut. "I have no use for your gear." Julian's hand paused in the air, but then a small smile returned to his lips. I knew exactly what was running through his head: he figured I was just throwing another temper tantrum. He knelt down beside me, softening his voice. "Early next month, there's the finals for the world rankings. If I take this last match, I lock down the world number one spot for good." "Cool," I replied flatly. "Come sit in my corner," he coaxed. "I know you're still pissed at me. But if you show up and sit where I can see you, I'll know you've forgiven me." I tilted my head to look at him. There was something flicking across his eyes that I hadn't seen in a very long time. Desperation. He was practically begging. I had begged him to spend my birthdays with me. I had begged him to introduce me to his inner circle. He had turned me down every single time. And now, the tables had turned. "That West End commercial development project of yours," he paused, as if making a massive concession, "I'll hand it to you. I'll talk to my dad and get the board to sign off. You've been trying to land that contract for ages, haven't you?" The West End development was a bid I had chased for two straight years. Across three rounds of bidding, my firm had been pushed out every time, missing only the backing of the Vance Corporation's partner networks. I had only ever brought it up to him once in passing. He was busy chalking his cue, gave a noncommittal "uh-huh" without glancing up, and I assumed it went in one ear and out the other. Turns out, he heard every word. Not only had he heard it, he kept it in his back pocket all this time, saving it as bargaining chip for a rainy day. The cold, hollow space in my chest twitched with bitter irony. Everything I had ever done for him was unconditional, free of charge. Yet here he was, pulling out a multi-million dollar business asset just to bribe me into sitting in the stands. "Deal," I said. "I'll be there." After I agreed, Julian rode a high for the next few days. He came back to the apartment earlier than usual, talked more than he ever had, and occasionally asked what I wanted for dinner. I played along with pleasant nods, but my mind was crystal clear: every ounce of this newfound kindness was purely aimed at that upcoming tournament. He was only putting on a performance because he needed me in that seat. I simply watched him enjoy the illusion.Chloe's POV On the day of the finals, the arena was packed to the rafters. Julian was on the verge of claiming the world number one ranking. Winning this match would push his career to its absolute summit—he would conquer the mountaintop that none of the legends before him could reach. In the entire history of the championship, no homegrown player had ever hoisted the trophy. He was the first to ever make the final stage. The turnout was insane. Even after they set up two extra rows of folding chairs along the aisles, it wasn't enough. Red recording lights blinked across a sea of broadcast cameras. I sat in the outermost seat of the bleachers, clutching the ticket he had sent over until the edges curled tight against my fingers. During the opening frames, his play was clinical. I didn't know much about pool, but I watched him sink shot after shot while his opponent scrambled to close the gap point by point. I couldn't read the scoreboards, but I could read his eyes. There was a borderline obsessive glint in them, like he was locked in a bitter grudge match against someone. Back then, I actually felt a quiet swell of pride: I was sitting courtside, witnessing his crowning glory. During halftime, Julian left his phone behind on his seat. The screen lit up with a pop-up notification from Tara. I didn't intend to snoop, but the words slammed into my eyes before I could look away. “If you're a real man, throw this match to him. Win, and I'll know you never loved me. Hand it over, and I'll believe you.” I stared at that sentence for a long, suffocating moment. The screen dimmed. I tapped it again to wake it up; the text was still burning there. Resting on my lap, my fingers bunched my skirt into a tight ball. I finally understood who that obsessive fire in his eyes was meant for. He begged me to show up just so someone would sit here as an audience, watching him deliver this grand sacrifice for another woman. All those last-minute flaked plans, all those secrets—they had nothing to do with him being "too busy." He always had time. He just never spared any for me. I gently set the phone back down, face down, exactly where he left it, pretending I hadn't seen a single thing. When Julian returned, all I said was, "Good luck." Julian glanced at me, nodded, and stepped back up to the table. In the second half, his run was pure magic. The score had been neck-and-neck earlier, but he transformed into a machine. Shot after shot, ball after ball dropped into the pockets, sending deafening roars through the stands. Even with zero knowledge of the sport, I could tell he was standing at the brightest pinnacle of his entire life. By the final frame, he led by over fifty points. The remaining balls on the felt were an easy clearance to seal the championship. His opponent was slumped in his chair, rubbing his cue with a towel, not even bothering to look at the table anymore—the universal posture of surrender. The entire arena surged to their feet. The announcers were shouting over their headsets, and the main camera zoomed straight in on Julian's face. I saw Julian's agent half-standing from the VIP box, his fists clenched tight. I saw several retired legends leaning forward in the front row—men I recognized, veterans who had spent their whole lives chasing this exact glory and falling short. Julian bent down, bridging his fingers to line up the cue. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the championship shot. Then, he suddenly straightened his spine. He didn't take the shot. He tossed his cue—the one he had wielded for over a decade—onto the felt with a dull thud. Then he stripped off his glove, flung it to the side, turned around, and walked down the steps, one deliberate stride at a time. The whole arena went dead silent. A heartbeat later, absolute chaos erupted. The referee chased after him, calling out his name. His opponent froze beside the table, completely stunned. Up in the booth, the commentator yelled "He's forfeiting!" three times until his voice cracked. Fans in the stands began screaming curses, others clapped in utter bewilderment, and some hurled trash onto the floor. The old veterans in the front row stood up, only to sink back into their seats with hollow faces. The championship was handed on a silver platter to an opponent who hadn't even processed what just happened. I sat in the stands, watching the whole circus from start to finish without blinking once. My grip on the seat back loosened. He traded the defining achievement of his entire life, leaving it broken on the green felt, just to win that woman's trust. He bribed me with the West End contract just to get me in the bleachers for one single purpose: to watch him surrender everything he owned to someone else. All those years tracking his tour schedules, hand-washing his leather gloves, pulling strings for that custom cue—it all went up in smoke alongside the shot he refused to take. I felt zero lingering attachment. On the abandoned table under the harsh spotlights, the balls rolled lazily across the felt, untouched. I didn't move until the arena lights clicked off one by one, until every last spectator had cleared out. Only then did I brace against the seat and slowly push myself up. I didn't bother going backstage. I walked down the concrete steps, pushed open the arena exit, and stepped out into the pitch-black night illuminated by yellow streetlamps. As the chilly night wind whipped around me, I quietly unbuttoned the top button of my coat.Chloe's POV Outside the venue, it was an absolute riot. The winner's camp was screaming in celebration, the losing side was smashing gear, reporters swarmed the gates, and security guards shouted their lungs out trying to hold the barricades. Nobody gave a damn where the player who threw down his stick had disappeared to. Or rather, everyone already knew where he ran off to. As I exited the complex, I spotted Julian. I couldn't stop myself from walking a little closer. Julian had pulled Tara into a secluded corner at the end of the breezeway, leaning down to comfort her. He smoothed back her windblown hair, leaned down to straighten the hem of her skirt, and murmured soft reassurances, asking if she was frightened. His hands stayed glued to her shoulders the entire time, terrified she might slip, his voice dripping with tenderness. I stood behind a concrete pillar a short distance away, watching him coddle her for ages. I watched him delicately dab the corner of her lips with a napkin, and I watched him slip off his designer coat to wrap it around her shoulders. He had never once shown that kind of gentleness to me. Suddenly, a bloodshot-eyed lunatic broke through the crowd, swinging an empty liquor bottle while screaming incoherent curses, charging straight for Tara. "Look out!" someone shrieked. Julian lunged forward instantly, dragging Tara hard against his chest and using his broad back as a human shield against the glass bottle. “Smash!” The bottle detonated across his shoulder blade, sending razor-sharp shards spraying everywhere. I was standing barely two feet away. A jagged fragment of glass sliced clean across my forearm. A flash of coldness hit me first, followed immediately by searing pain. Blood welled up and ran down my wrist, staining my white cuff a sickening red. When Julian shoved himself up, his very first reaction was checking on Tara in his arms, frantically asking over and over if she was hurt, his hands trembling harder than hers. He checked every inch of her arms and her face, letting out a ragged sigh of relief only after confirming not a single strand of her hair was touched. He never spared a single glance toward the side. I stood literally one step away from him, watching my blood drip onto the concrete. Those violently shaking hands were trembling for someone else. Later on, I found out the attacker was a sports gambler who had bet his entire life savings on Julian taking the title, losing every dime he owned in an instant. Someone eventually helped me into an ambulance and to the ER. Julian rushed over once, glancing down at my wound. Treating it as nothing more than bad luck, he frowned, immediately pulling strings for the top specialist and checking me into the most expensive private suite. He sat by the edge of my bed and asked, "Does it hurt?" Before I could even open my mouth, his phone buzzed. He glanced down at the screen. It was a message from Tara. The second he read it, his face shifted. He stood up, throwing out, "Something happened on her end, I'll be right back," before marching toward the door. "Julian," I called out. He stopped at the doorway, glancing back. "What is it?" I looked at him. My arm was wrapped thick in sterile gauze, throbbing with intense pain. What I wanted to say was: “Can you stay by my side for just a minute? I'm the one who actually bled tonight.” Looking at the raw panic in his eyes, I swallowed every single word back down. Even if I begged, he might stay for a second, but he'd still take off right after, leaving behind some outrageously expensive perks to compensate for it. I didn't want any more of his transactional pity. "Never mind," I said quietly. He nodded, pulled the door shut, and vanished. I leaned back against the hospital pillows, staring at the closed door, and never called his name again. He never came back. The next afternoon, Lucas dropped by the room carrying a basket of fruit. He pulled up a chair, hesitated for a long time, and finally found his voice: "Chloe, there are things I should've told you a long time ago." I stayed silent, waiting. "Over the years, Julian did so many insane, humiliating things for Tara," Lucas murmured, his voice dropping lower with every word. "Back when he first started on the pro circuit, someone made a dirty joke about Tara at an afterparty. Julian beat the guy half to death and ended up in the hospital for two weeks." "Whenever she texted him in the middle of the night saying she missed him, he'd drop every major sponsor meeting, catch the earliest redeye flight across the country, just to grab lunch with her." Lucas stopped, looking pained. "He never did a single thing like that for you." I listened quietly, the gash on my forearm still pulsing with pain. "You're the one taking the hits," Lucas muttered softly, "yet she's the only one he sees. Chloe, wake the hell up." I stared out the window into the gray sky, silent for a long time. In the past, I blamed myself for his coldness: Maybe I'm not good enough, maybe I'm too pushy, maybe I'm picking the wrong moments. Every crazy thing Lucas just listed sounded wildly desperate, and not one of them had ever been offered to me. He knew how to treat someone like royalty—he could blow prize money, shatter his own body, and waste sleepless nights for love. I just never qualified for a single piece of it. I reached out and pulled the blinds shut, plunging the hospital room into twilight. I didn't turn on the lights. The wound on my arm still stung like hell, but the faint spark of warmth I had kept alive for him over the years was officially snuffed out for good.