I finished unpacking, took a shower, and returned to the bedroom.

Julian was still awake, sitting up in bed. He glanced at me and shifted, making room for me to sit behind him.

Silently, out of habit, I moved onto the bed and began to massage his shoulders.

After a moment, he turned, his expression displeased.

"Have you even eaten? Your hands are weak."

I just stared at him without a word.

He grew irritated. "Have you gone mute?"

This was his tell. He was about to lose his temper, picking a fight over something trivial until I admitted I was wrong.

I couldn't help but reply sarcastically, "How could I possibly eat? I was a little busy at JFK, waiting for Mr. Thorne to grace me with his presence."

Julian was silent for a moment, then cleared his throat.

"If you were hungry, you could have found something. Did you have to wait there like an idiot? So stupid. Forget it. Don't worry about the massage tonight. Just get some rest."

His expression suggested he was granting me some great mercy, which was fine by me. I slipped under the covers, turning my back to him. It was the first time I hadn't tried to curl into his arms. After a long moment of stillness, he sighed, and the room went dark.

…

It was late morning when I woke up and went downstairs. For once, Julian hadn't gone to the office but was sitting on the sofa, reading a financial magazine.

He wore a pair of rimless glasses, and combined with his cashmere sweater, he looked gentle and refined. He looked so much like the man I first met that for a fleeting moment, my heart ached for who he used to be.

But when he looked up and spoke, the illusion shattered.

"What are you standing there for? Can't you see I'm waiting? Hurry up."

His eyes were full of impatience and condescension.

I nodded and quickly finished the cold breakfast on the table. After clearing my plate, I went to stand beside him.

Julian looked me up and down, frowning at my simple knit top and jeans.

"If you know you have bad taste, can't you at least try to dress up? Only I would tolerate a sloppy, tasteless woman like you."

Now, freed from the fog of my love for him, I saw his critiques for the venom they were—venom I had once mistaken for a strange form of affection. I rolled my eyes internally and nodded silently.

When I didn't blush or stammer as he expected, Julian fell silent for a moment before saying, "Forget it. Since I'm making it up to you today, I'll let it slide."

We were soon in the car. A heavy silence settled between us, broken only by the incessant ringing of Julian's phone.

The only person who dared to call so relentlessly was Chloe.

Julian showed no sign of annoyance. Instead, he pulled into a gas station and immediately answered the call.

I leaned against the window, staring at the scenery outside, half-listening to his soft, placating murmurs.

From the saccharine tones I could overhear, she was claiming she'd had a nightmare, and Julian's voice became increasingly doting.

It was a tone I had never heard him use with anyone, least of all me. It was so cloyingly sweet it made my stomach turn.

After consoling Chloe, Julian, a trace of that lingering affection still in his voice, told me to get out of the car.

"I've asked my assistant to come pick you up."

Abandoned at the gas station, I watched his car disappear down the road. A familiar bitterness washed over me. He wasn't coming back. Just like the other 47 times.

Ten minutes later, my best friend, Sloane Pierce, screeched to a halt in front of me in her Porsche. She rolled down the window, handed me a hot coffee, and scoffed.

"I told you, giving up your career for a man is professional suicide."