“I know, and I’m sorry.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and hauled it against her, then touched his cheek. Her eyes were wounded and full of pain for a brief moment, and then flickered back to that carefully dead state again. “I wish I could be the wife you need.”
Fuck it. He grabbed her arm and pulled her against him. “Chelsea, I love you. Fuck what I said about this relationship being a fake. I love you. I fell in love with you the first time we kissed. I want to be your husband. I want you to be my wife. Don’t do this. Don’t leave. Let’s talk. Please.”
She bit her lip, and her entire body trembled. For a moment, hope rekindled. If she was hesitating . . .
But no, she shook her head. “I can’t, Sebastian.”
“At least tell me why.” His voice was anguished. His entire world felt like it was ending. It was clear she was miserable and suffering. Something had happened to her, and she wasn’t letting him in. “Tell me why you’re doing this.”
She held her bag closer and pulled out of his arms. “I don’t want to.”
“You can’t?”
“I won’t,” she corrected, and gave him a faint smile that seemed ironic compared to the tears that shimmered in her eyes. “Good-bye, Sebastian.”
Stung, he let go of her. She was choosing not to share with him? Whatever it was that bothered her, she didn’t want to share it with him? She was clear about that. It wasn’t that she couldn’t share it. It was that she didn’t want to.
She didn’t want him in her life.
And god, that fucking hurt. “I love you, Chelsea,” he said again, voice hoarse. “Please. Don’t do this to me. To us. To what we have.”
She shook her head again and moved past him. “I have to go.”
“Where are you going?” Was she going to deny him that, too?
She continued down the stairs. “To Austin. To stay with Pisa for a while, until I figure things out.”
“Can I come see you? So we can talk? So—”
“No,” she said quickly. “Sebastian, no. Please. Let’s just end it right here, okay?” Chelsea glanced up at him from the bottom of the stairs, and she looked so fragile and sad that he wanted to hug her against him and make it better for her.
But she didn’t want that. She didn’t want him.
And that was like a knife in the heart.
He raised a hand to tell her good-bye, but she was already gone. He thumped down on the top of the stairs, stunned, and wondered how a perfect life had gone so wrong so fast.
*
She didn’t love him.
Sebastian was shocked at how much the realization hurt. He’d thought that Chelsea was happy in their relationship. That what had started out as friendship and a fake wedding had turned into a helluva lot more. She was proud of him, he’d thought. She loved his art. Loved hearing him talk about sketches. Loved playing with his hair when they watched a movie, or tugging him along after her when they skated in the park.
He thought she’d enjoyed his company, his body. His life. His love.
After all, wasn’t it obvious that he loved her? It was in everything he’d done, everything he was. Chelsea was the inspiration of all his sketches. She was in his dreams at night, in his daydreams during idle times, and he lived for the sound of her laughter. He’d have done anything for her.
And she’d left him. With no explanation, and a simple refusal to talk.
That refusal wounded him more than anything else. That no matter what they had, there was no trust. No friendship. No love.
It had all been on his side, and it apparently didn’t matter to her. Agonized, he buried his head in his hands and remained at the top of the stairs for what felt like hours. Every bone in his body wanted to go after Chelsea. The only thing stopping him was that she’d made it quite clear that she was done, and she didn’t want any more. She didn’t want anything to do with him.