IT’S BEEN TWO weeks since Bennett’s funeral, since I looked into the eyes of my love’s father. I’m alone and I’m drowning. There’s no one left in the world for me, and the only place I find any semblance of peace is in my dreams—so I sleep. I used to always dream of Carnegie, the prince-turned-caterpillar my father once told me about when I was a little girl, but lately, when I close my eyes, it’s Declan I see. I dream about what our life could have been: living in Scotland in the estate he used to tell me about, having a baby together, loving each other. The vision covers me in warmth, but the moment my eyes open, I am greeted with the dank coldness of my reality, reminded once again that fairytales are shit-filled lies.
Pulling out another suitcase from the closet, I continue to pack up my clothes. I can’t stay in Chicago. This isn’t my life—not the one I want because what I want doesn’t exist anymore. It’s simply another fallen star that I was wishing upon. What I want is the dream, so I decided yesterday that I would go get a glimpse of that dream, of the what-could-have-been, of the what-should-have-been. Because the dream is all I have left of him, and I want to see it. I need to see it, to know it was real. So I’m leaving for Scotland. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I can’t stay here any longer.
I continue to move about the penthouse until the phone rings.
“Mrs. Vanderwal?” Manuel says when I answer. “Mrs. Jacqueline Brooks is here to see you. Shall I send her up?”
“Oh,” I murmur, not expecting any visitors today. “Um, yes. Please.”
I hang up, wondering what it is she’s wanting. We haven’t really spoken since the paternity of her son was revealed, but what is there to even say? It’s not like she was ever truly my friend, just someone I pretended to like for the satisfaction of Bennett.
I open the door when I hear the knock and am greeted by Jacqueline holding Alexander in her arms.
“Jacqueline, please, come in.”
Her eyes barely meet mine as she steps inside and slowly walks to the center of the room before stopping and turning around to face me. We both stand here for a moment while I watch her tears well up.
“I’m so sorry,” she says on a shaky breath, and I shift my eyes to look at her baby. When he becomes restless in her arms, she sets him down on the floor and he focuses on the stuffed frog he’s holding.
Walking closer, I kneel down in front of him and our eyes lock. I take this moment to observe his features, and beneath the pudge, I see Bennett. I never cared enough to ever look at this child in the past, but I should’ve because it’s glaringly obvious. He’s right there within this little boy, and my stomach knots. My teeth grind when I feel the heat in my blood surging with a need to slam my fist into this baby’s face. My palms are actually tingling with desire, begging my fingers to ball so that I can hammer my knuckles into Bennett’s legacy. I hate this child because he is the one thing that carries the life of the man that destroyed mine.
Alexander reaches up with a smile and touches my cheek, and I have to swallow back the sour bile of loathing. It takes great strength to pull back and not knock this little shit across the room.
When I stand, Jacqueline breathes in shame, “Nina . . . I’m sorry.”
“Why?” I ask with no influx of emotion.
“For hurting you.”
But I’m not hurt, so I simply respond, “Everybody has secrets, everybody lies, and everybody cheats their way through life for self-fulfillment. We wouldn’t do it if we felt sorry; we do it because it’s our human right to seek happiness.”
My words take her by surprise, and when I ask, “Did fucking my husband make you happy?” she takes a deep breath as more tears fall and answers, “Yes.”
I nod my head when she adds, “But it didn’t make me happy to know I was hurting you.”
“People are bound to get hurt in our journey for happiness. If fucking my husband made you happy, don’t ever be sorry for that.”
She tilts her head with a look of pity.
“Don’t worry about me,” I continue. “You didn’t break me. You can’t break something that was already broken.”
“He never loved me,” she confesses abruptly. “He never wanted me. I took advantage of him when he had too much to drink. I knew it made him sick to look at me after what happened, but he kept up his pleasantries for the sake of Alex. He merely put up with me because he refused to turn his back on his son.”
Jacqueline grows more upset with each word while I stand and listen. Her voice cracks in heartbreak when she adds, “But it was always you he loved.”
Releasing a heavy sigh, I give her a weak smile, shaking my head, and saying, “I guess in the end, it doesn’t really matter. All we are left with is ourselves.”
She wipes her cheeks and takes a couple deep breaths in an attempt to compose herself before reaching down to pick up Alexander, and then asks, “So what now?”