The Counterfeit Lover (War of Sins Book 3)

‘I’m going crazy,’ I whisper as I lean back, staring at the ceiling.

The baggy gym suit I’m wearing is barely warm enough to keep me from shivering. That in itself is a luxury, since at some point I’d thought Michele would keep me naked to freeze to death here.

He hadn’t. Instead, he’d barely spared me any attention at all.

None of his actions have made any sense so far, though. He’s an enigma I can’t decipher. I know what Raf and Cisco told me about him, yet the more information I glean, the more confused I become.

When he’d asked me to strip for the photo he wanted to send to Raf, he’d done his best to avoid glancing at me, almost as if he was disgusted by my naked skin. It hadn’t been the first time either, since he’d done a similar thing at the piano recital when he’d ordered me to cover myself, looking away until I’d done so.

For all his attempts at tricking Raf into thinking he raped me, he never once touched me—not even in a clinical fashion. If I were to further speculate, I’d go as far as to say he’s thoroughly disgusted by touch, the corner of his mouth curling down every time his hand made contact with my flesh—even with those gloves he usually wears.

And that is just plain odd.

The Michele Raf had told me about was an unrepentant fuckboy, going through the female population like one goes through socks. But then, he’d also described him as restless, drug riddled and extremely volatile.

The Michele I’d met? None of those things.

His light eyes seem to catch every single detail in the room, his manner calm and collected. And when he looks at you, there’s this unmistakable feeling that he knows exactly what you’re thinking—and is already three steps ahead of you.

Maybe that’s why we’ve been on the losing side from the beginning. Because Raf has never known the real Michele.

The truth is that he is scary—too scary, one might say.

There’s a coldness that emanates from every pore in his body, and it’s not because of his highly rational manner. He behaves as if he has no emotions whatsoever.

And that is where the danger lies.

No emotions means I have absolutely no sway over him. Neither my tears, nor my pleas will help my case, which means I need to get to his level if I have any hope of getting out of here alive.

I still don’t know what he plans to do, especially since he’s delayed his plans significantly. Otherwise, why keep me here? To torture me? To torture Raf with my absence?

For all his divided heart, Raf cares about me, and will undoubtedly walk right into Michele’s trap.

Bringing my hands to my face, I scrub my eyes in an attempt to get myself to focus. I can’t lose it. Not now…

I have no idea how many days have passed already.

The windowless room I’m stuck in doesn’t give any indication of the passage of time. If anything, it contributes further to my growing mental instability.

Maybe that was his purpose all along—get me alone with my thoughts so I can end up killing myself with my own hands.

Aside from the picture he’d taken of me naked and with that white paint over my body, he’s only visited me a couple of times—both barely brief enough to get a good look at me.

Does he really expect me to kill myself?

I roll my eyes at that thought. It’s not as if I had anything with which to achieve that.

My meals are delivered by one of his men who waits for me to eat, watching carefully, before taking everything away. He always does an inventory of the cutlery to make sure I’m not stealing anything sharp.

As it stands, I doubt I could cause myself bodily harm.

To my psyche though… Well, that’s another issue altogether.

I’d already been in a bad state of mind before Michele had conveniently decided to kidnap me. Now, I’m just forced to face everything I’d tried to hold down for the longest time.

Raf, Lucero, and my own disintegrating sense of self.

I’ve already replayed everything on a loop, and nothing can stop the anguish that forms in my chest every time I remember Raf calling me by her name. Certainly, it’s been long enough to realize that being alone with one’s thoughts can be more painful than actual, physical pain.

But Raf’s words aren’t the only ones still echoing in my head.

Tormented screams and angry shouts resound in my ears, the noises so deafening, I can’t seem to shut them out.

I see the blood.

On my hands.

Staining my face.

Soaking my clothes.

Blood is everywhere.

There are no particular memories to associate with these sensations. Still, they are part of my being, set to torture me with their mere existence at the drop of a hat.

The few times I’ve managed to doze off, I’ve slept poorly, the flashbacks from before clouding my mind and mixing up with my own fears and disillusions.

I only need to close my eyes and I see Raf—he’s draped in rags, his body battered, his eyes tortured. I see him staring at me.

His gaze is accusatory, and in that one look I can read the condemnation, the disdain, and most of all the hate. He looks at me as if he would like nothing more than to squash me. Take me under his boot and crush me like an insignificant insect.

And I wouldn’t say no.

In that dreamworld—or better said, nightmare world—I face him head on, owning to my mistakes, ready to repent for each one of them. A deep sense of guilt and grief fills me to the brim, and taking one step forward towards him—towards that elusive image of him—my knees give out.

I kneel, my eyes cast down as I don’t dare to meet his scathing gaze anymore. Not when I know myself guilty of such grievous sins, I should be executed on the spot for everything I’ve done to him.

Sometimes, the scene feels too real to be a dream. Other times, the background is too distorted for it to be a reality.

Yet one thing never changes—how I interact with the scene. I’m always ashamed. Beleaguered by an ineffable feeling of atonement and regret that weighs me down more and more with each passing second. And no matter how much I feel like I owe him my very life and essence of being, some things don’t add up. I know what I’ve done to him, and why, theoretically, I should feel remorseful towards him.

I killed the one he loves.

But I don’t regret it. In fact, I would do it again, and again, repeating the same action but each time more viciously until she’d be erased from this earth and from collective memory.

That is not how someone repentant reacts. It’s contrary to everything I feel about him.

And that begs the question…

What did I do to him?

For a while now, I feel like I’ve opened Pandora’s box and let every type of evil out into the world. But this time, I personally made sure that hope fled too.

Because if I harmed him in any way; if I hurt even one strand of hair on his beautiful head, then I could never forgive myself.

That’s where I draw the line.

In my insanity, I could live with knowing that I’ve massacred an entire house full of people, that I’ve killed my own friend and confidante, but I could never forgive myself if I hurt him.

My heart beats wildly in my chest as I picture myself at the hacienda. Now, more than ever before, I force myself to remember everything—needing to know the magnitude of my sins before I can start repenting. But most of all, I’m trying to find a logic to the things I’ve blocked out.

Why did I forget only certain memories and not all? Why do I still remember the way Sergio had treated me?

The way I see it, if I blocked out everything traumatic that happened to me, then the abuse should have been the first to disappear from my mind.

I see my wedding day clearly. My family had taken me to Mexico for the wedding. The moment the priest had ended the ceremony, they’d left me alone with my new husband. Even for that time, the memories are shaky. I remember mostly impressions, emotions and pain. I’d barely been able to stand up after the beating I’d taken the wedding night, and as much as I’d like to recall what happened afterwards, I can’t.

There’s the feel of his belt on my skin, the sting of the leather against my lower back. I remember slaps and kicks, and I can still hear the vicious words ringing in my ear.

Useless.

He’d needed a wife to serve as his decoration and broodmare. I’d been the former but I have no recollection of the latter—thank God.

The image of the hacienda flashes before my eyes—the large house in the middle of an industrial field. There were huts and different buildings all around the area. Later, I would find out that’s where they synthesized the new drugs.

Foggy at first, but slowly taking shape, I see other constructions. Wood and stone are all around as people work to lay the foundation of a new building. Aside from that, though, there’s nothing else.

Picturing a labyrinth, I lead my mind down a dark road as I imagine the succession of events as I know it—my arrival, followed by my stay at the hacienda.

There are few moments I remember clearly—aside from the vicious beatings I withstood from Sergio. He’d forced me to play along with his odd brand of god-worship as he’d interacted with his men. I’d stood frozen like the decorative doll he’d wanted me to be—a fake smile in place as I reacted with haughtiness to everything that happened around me.

After all, the master should only have a fitting mistress by his side, and I could only prove that by enforcing the same cruelty that he had. It must be during one of those instances that I had met Raf, though I cannot, for the life of me, remember.

There had also been the times I’d been forced to sit behind an old piano, playing away pieces forced upon me—all to entertain his high and mighty guests. A shiver goes down my back as I recall my fingers on the piano keys, playing sounds forbidden to me when no one was about.

I continue down the dark corridor of my memories, my eyes closed as I try to make sense of more.

What else happened?

I recall some of my interactions with Lucero and the staff at the hacienda. Sergio is ever present as the villain in that story. But if he was so bad, then why can I only remember him?

It’s almost as if the more I try to make sense of the past, the muddier everything becomes. Even things that until a short while ago I held as true have disintegrated, showing me that I was hanging on to an illusion—to a side of the truth that I’d created specifically for me.

Dr. Chadwick’s words from before come to mind. I’d made myself forget as a protective mechanism. My brain had shut everything away to help me keep on living because the truth would have pinned me down with no hope to ever rise again.

But…

What if the truth I thought I knew so far was also a product of that defense mechanism? What if, in my attempt to recover and keep living, I’d changed reality, shifting my memories to suit a narrative that would be tolerable to remember?

My eyes widen at the realization and I shoot upright, adrenaline charging furiously through my veins.

Moving from one side to the other of my small cell, I begin to put the pieces together, reaching a startling yet painful realization.

Not only had I forgotten things, my mind had also taken it upon itself to reshape my memories, bending reality and molding it into an ideal—something that would help me push forward.

A victim.

A gasp erupts from my mouth as my knees buckle, hitting the floor. Yet the pain radiating from the impact site is nothing compared to the burning sensation I feel in my chest—it’s nothing compared to the blinding pain I feel behind my lids.

‘They hate you. Everyone hates you, Noelle. They are afraid to meet your eyes when you cross their paths because you might suddenly kill them. What the fuck is wrong with you?’ Sergio snaps at me, pacing around.

‘So? Better be feared than loved,’ I snicker back.

‘You…’ he clenches his fist, no doubt thinking to strike me.

‘I’ll remind you that your days of messing with me are over, Sergio. Over,’ I emphasize the word as I take a step forward. What once would have instilled fear in me, now fills me with unimaginable joy at seeing him recoil at my approach.

‘You’re cursed,’ he spits at me. ‘Maldita perra.’

Before I know it, I’m back, staring once more at those unchanging dark walls.

Slowly, I bring my hand up, tracing my features with the tips of my fingers and marveling once more.

Who the hell am I?

I’d cherry picked instances from my past so I could convince myself that I was nothing but a pitiful victim, abandoned by everyone and at everyone’s mercy.

When in fact…

My breath catches in my throat as hopelessness fills every pore of my body.

Maybe I’d been a victim in the beginning. But if what I’ve seen so far of the past is any indication, I’d quickly grown out of that role.

And if what I think is right, then…

I had been the nightmare.

But that can’t be. No, I refuse to believe that.

I have the physical scars and mental anguish to prove it.

How could I have been the perpetrator? Me, the small girl who can’t fight, wield a sword, or shoot a gun? Me, who gets scared and traumatized at the sound of violence.

How?

I keep trying to convince myself that my initial assessment of the situation is correct—that I’d been a pawn in my family’s game and I’d ultimately ended up as Sergio’s punchbag. There’s nothing more and nothing less to it.

How do you explain the people you killed then? Or the fire?

My inner voice won’t shut up, and I’m afraid it’s my guilty conscience peeking through the protective layers I’d set in place.

Yet there are simple answers, right? In those instances, it had been either me, or them. I’d simply fought my way towards survival.

I’d killed that woman in self-defense, and to be perfectly frank, by sheer luck. The little I can remember of that scene paints the situation clearly—I’d been in well over my head and I’d done my best to keep my life intact.

Fernando’s death, while more poignant because I’d intentionally aimed to kill, had still been an accident. It would have never occurred if he hadn’t tried to assault me.

The fire, too, I am sure has a similar explanation. I refuse to believe I am capable of cold, calculated murder.

‘It’s ok. Everything is ok,’ I breathe out, stretching my limbs as I pace around the room. ‘That’s not me,’ I tell myself in an attempt to persuade my own damn self.

This is pure torture.

The more time I spend here, alone, between four darkened walls, the more chances I have of going insane.

My thoughts won’t quiet down, and the doubts are eating at me.

Logically, I tell myself that everything I had done had been because I’d been backed into a corner. I’d been forced to kill to survive. It’s as simple as that.

Yet it’s not, is it?

I don’t know how to trust my own memories anymore. I don’t know what’s true and what’s not. And I certainly no longer know who I am or what I’m capable of.

If only I’d have all the facts in front of me…

But that is a moot point. I’m the only one who survived the fire at the hacienda and as such, I’m the only one who can attest to what really happened—whether I was a murderous maniac or not.

What’s even more discouraging is that Raf was counting on me to tell him the truth of what happened with Lucero.

The person who killed her.

Sick laughter accumulates in my throat, waiting to be released.

I’m such a hypocrite that I can barely help myself from having a fit of hysterics. I may tell myself that I left primarily because Raf called me by her nickname, but deep down I know.

I left before he could find out what I did.

Before his look of affection would change to one of disdain—this time forever.

More time passes and with it, my own sense of selfhood slips away one flashback at a time. That becomes even clearer when one time, I wake up screaming, my body shivery and cold. Sweat drips from my forehead and on to my flushed cheeks.

My breath comes in short spurts as I will my eyes to focus.

‘It’s not true,’ I whisper to myself. ‘It’s not true. It was just a nightmare…’

But what if it wasn’t?

I’m breaking down. How long I’m going to be able to keep going like this, I don’t know. It’s only a matter of time before I either go fully insane, pinned to the ground under the weight of my sins, or I simply give in—erase myself and what’s left of my sanity of my own free will. Embrace that side of me that still lays dormant—though not for long. Accept the fact that I’ve been wrong from the beginning. I’ve just managed to astutely hide it until now.

My walls are crumbling.

And behind one thick, steel wall, there’s another me. One that’s been buried a long time ago; one that yearns to be let free. I hear her fists banging against that physical barrier, her screams echoing in my mind as she begs me to let her go.

And I’m tempted.

If only to end this torment that won’t let me be.

But just as I’m about to take the last step forward, a fear unlike any other assails my being—one not for me, but for Raf.

Now, I can still lie to him with a straight face because I don’t know the extent of what I’ve done. But once I do know? What then?

I won’t be able to look him in the eye and not feel guilty for everything I’ve done and for the pain I’ve caused him—even if that pain comes from losing the one he loves.

I am at a crossroads. More than anything, I am at war with myself and my thoughts. There is an inherent contradiction that languishes in my mind, going to such an extreme that I’m both glad I killed Lucero, but sorry I caused Raf anguish at the same time.

I regret it, and I don’t. Isn’t that fucked up? I regret hurting the one I love, but I don’t feel any remorse for committing murder.

The lock clicks, the door opening to reveal a smug Michele as he makes his way inside my small cell.

‘Here to gloat more?’ I raise a brow at him, forcing myself not to show any weakness.

‘I wanted to see how my little prisoner’s been doing, that’s all,’ he shrugs, coming further into the room.

‘That’s all?’ I roll my eyes. ‘What do you plan to do with me?’ I ask squarely.

‘Haven’t decided yet. Although,’ he pauses, staring at me intently, ‘I have a good idea.’ He whips out his phone from his pocket, dialing a number and putting the call on speaker.

‘I told you I’m out. Stop calling me,’ the man on the other line says through gritted teeth, and my eyes widen when I recognize that voice.

‘Pancho, Pancho, you know that’s not so easy,’ Michele tsks, his tone amused yet his face reveals none of that.

He’s still looking at me, almost as if he’s waiting for my reaction.

‘Raf knows. You can’t threaten me anymore. He already knows I was feeding you info…’

‘And he let you live? I’m impressed,’ Michele smiles. ‘But then again, my brother was always the sentimental one.’

A muffled curse and Pancho suddenly asks.

‘How is Noelle? Did you hurt her? She’s innocent in this, damn it!’

‘Well, that is exactly why I was calling. You see,’ his eyes meet mine, ‘I won’t ask you to betray your principles again—not that it was that hard the first time,’ he chuckles, ‘but I’m going to ask you some questions that may or may not help Noelle.’

‘What?’ He asks, his tone full of urgency.

‘Hmm, Noelle tells me that she’s not Rafaelo’s big love. Do you have anything to add to that?’

My heart stops in my chest at that line of questioning. I blink repeatedly, my mouth opening and closing before Michele quickly shushes me.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That’s for you to tell me. Who is this illustrious woman everyone keeps talking about?’

‘Why should I tell you?’ he hisses. ‘This has gone on for too long. I’m done.‘

For a moment I think he’s actually going to hang up.

‘Tell me this and I’ll have a one year supply of medicine delivered to your place,’ Michele adds smoothly. A long pause ensues, yet Pancho is still on the line—sign he is considering the offer.

‘Just this once,’ he whispers, defeated.

‘One last time, Pancho. I trust that after this I won’t need your services anyway,’ he smirks at me, the meaning clear.

‘You promise to deliver them?’

‘Of course. I may be a scoundrel, but I am a scoundrel who values his word. You have my promise,’ Michele drawls, his voice full of confidence and I realize he does mean to hold his end of the bargain.

Just who is he?

‘Fine,’ he takes a deep breath. ‘Maybe this way you’ll leave Noelle out of your plans, since she has nothing to do with whatever conflict you have with Raf.’

‘Get to the point.’

‘There was a woman he was in love with a couple years ago. Her name was Lucero and he met her at Sergio’s hacienda, where you made sure he ended up,’ Pancho says accusingly.

Michele’s lips curl up in a cruel smile.

‘Yes, do go on.’

‘She was his first love and he never forgot her. He only married Noelle because he thought she had something to do with her death and wanted to make her pay,’ Pancho continues, and I’m rooted to the spot as I listen to our entire history told through the eyes of an outsider—one that is very close to Raf.

‘He only married her to get her guardianship signed over to him. Initially, he wanted to commit her to an asylum. But then he realized she was innocent in Sergio’s game so he continued with the marriage.’

‘Intriguing,’ his brows shoot up. ‘So you’re telling me she’s just his consolation prize?’

‘Essentially,’ Pancho agrees.

I gulp down my misery, blinking back tears. I can’t show him how much those words affect me, or I’ll just give him more ammunition to use against me.

‘That’s all very interesting. But tell me this, Pancho. If she’s just the consolation prize, why was my brother willing to offer his life on a plate for her?’

‘He would have done that for anyone. You know him. He thinks he bears the weight of the entire world on his shoulders.’

The assessment, though it pains me to admit, is entirely accurate. Raf is the type of man who would give the shirt off his back to a homeless man. He would have offered his life in exchange for any innocent hostage. And that is a blow to my heart that I did not need—the verbal confirmation that I’m not that special to him anyway.

‘Are you sure you’re not lying to me, Pancho?’

‘You can ask anyone who knows him. For the last two years he never stopped loving her. He still wears a necklace that belonged to her in her honor…’ Pancho goes on to describe in detail Raf’s routine for the past years, mentioning how they’d had to restrain him at times when the grief would become too much.

Every added detail is like a dagger through my heart, yet I can’t show that. I’m on the edge of the precipice, but I still keep my poker face on, no matter how steep the fall is.

Michele, on the other hand, wastes no time in showing exactly how this piece of news delights him—though why would it when his bargaining chip disappears is beside me?

‘Right. Thank you for enlightening me. You’ll have your delivery,’ Michele snaps the phone closed before I can find my voice and say something to Panchito.

But what would I even say? I don’t know where Michele is holding me. I have no information that could help them find me.

‘Leave it to Raf to be hung up on one woman for his entire life,’ he chuckles, leaning back and regarding me with a dangerous glint, and a much too smug expression.

What are you planning, Michele?

And why would he need confirmation about Lucero? She’s dead. That means this was for my benefit alone to get me to lower my guard, maybe devolve into a round of hysterics at knowing that Raf loves another.

‘See, I didn’t lie,’ I give him a fake smile, imbuing my voice with enough confidence so he doesn’t realize how rattled I am on the inside.

‘Indeed. And how does that make you feel, Noelle? Hearing from his friend’s mouth that he never got over her? That you were only a replacement?’

‘I guess it would piss me off,’ I tell him sincerely, ‘if I already didn’t know it,’ I flash him a brilliant smile.

‘My, my, aren’t you a little too cheeky?”

‘Not at all. But that’s what you wanted to achieve with this, isn’t it? Make me feel insignificant in Raf’s eyes? Well, a little too late.’

‘He still cares about you,’ he notes.

‘Maybe. But does he care enough? Isn’t that what you’re trying to figure out now?’

He purses his lips, his gaze darkening as it rests on me.

‘Maybe he just loves to fuck me,’ I shrug, taking a seat on the floor and pretending to be unbothered. ‘You know, I was his first,’ I add casually. ‘I’m sure it’s the novelty and all that.’

‘Really?’ he drawls severely. ‘And this doesn’t faze you? If I remember correctly, last time you were singing heavenly praises to your dear husband. What changed?’

‘Michele, you’re not very good with women, are you?’

He frowns, a twitch in his jaw announcing I’m heading into dangerous territory.

‘What kind of woman appreciates when the man fucking her calls her by another’s name?’ I arch a brow. ‘I certainly don’t, and I don’t know any who would.’

‘You’re a peculiar woman, Noelle,’ he narrows his eyes at me.

‘No, I’m not.’ I state. ‘I’m just a woman.’

And a potential murderer.

‘Good try,’ he suddenly says, his lips spreading into a wide grin. ‘I almost believed you.’

I don’t get to blink and he’s already out of the door, the lock clicking into place.

I’m alone again, and resting my head against the cold wall, I finally exhale in relief. Lifting my hands up, I stare at the trembling limbs, my entire body shaking uncontrollably.

It took everything in me to pretend I was ok even as my heart was further breaking in my chest. Hearing Panchito’s words—someone who’s known Raf for years—messed something inside me.

This was what Michele wanted all along, wasn’t it? To make me crumble, one word at a time. And I certainly am. What he said is completely right—Raf is the type of man to be hung up on a woman his entire life. He is the type to hold his first love above all else.

Where does that leave me?

Nowhere.

Absolutely nowhere.

I would be a replacement, as they both shrewdly noted. But I would never be anything more. And no matter how much I love him—and I do love him enough for the both of us—I don’t think I could remain by his side knowing all that.

I want all, or nothing.

His heart, or none at all.

It’s a while later that the door opens again, Michele striding in confidently. He’s sporting a smug smile on his face as he looks me up and down, almost impatient to share whatever the news.

‘What is it?’ I ask him in a dry tone.

‘I thought you’d want to see something,’ he quickly comes to my side, lowering himself on his haunches but still keeping a moderate distance from me—as I’ve come to expect from him.

‘What?’ I roll my eyes.

He doesn’t answer immediately. His confident grin spreads wider on his face as he takes his time—trying to get me to squirm, no doubt.

‘Just a little experiment,’ he shrugs. ‘Pancho’s words got me thinking and I just had to test this theory,’ he chuckles, whipping out his phone and thrusting it in my face.

It’s a picture of Raf.

Taken from across the road to our house, it shows him at the window of our room, his shirt off, his torso naked.

My lip trembles slightly as I take in every single detail—drink in the sight of him.

But the one feature Michele wants me to notice is inescapable. Swinging low on his neck, it sits right against his chest. The stone shines in the light, its color a mix between an earthy brown and a brilliant gold, the shade changing with the angle of reflection.

I close my eyes, breathing harshly.

‘Here, just so you won’t say I’m tricking you,’ he clicks on the details of the picture, showing me the time and date it had been taken.

‘Fine,’ I snicker. ‘And how does that help me?’ I burst out, unable to keep the hurt from my tone.

‘It doesn’t. But it helps me,’ he continues to smile in a sick manner, and I’d love nothing more than to wipe it from his face. I do just that as I bring my fist towards him. Yet in my weakened state, I’m no match for him, or anyone—am I ever?

He swipes my arm aside, tsking at me with narrowed eyes.

‘Play nice, Noelle. Play nice,’ he smirks. ‘There are still more surprises for you,’ he winks before he stands up, pacing around the cell.

I take a small break to regulate my emotions and get myself under control. Yet seeing him wear the necklace now, when I’m at his brother’s mercy, irrevocably shatters something in me.

I thought he cared…

Regardless of his feelings for Lucero, I thought he cared for me—at least a little. Yet everything points to the contrary.

‘Aren’t you curious?’ he suddenly asks, and I swing my gaze to him, my eyes widening in question. ‘Aren’t you curious how he really feels about you?’

‘Didn’t you just prove to me that he doesn’t?’ I raise my brow defiantly.

‘Aren’t you curious to see if your time with him was all a fraud?’

‘How do you plan to find that out?’

‘Simple,’ he exclaims, going to the door and barking an order for Andreas.

‘Here,’ he pushes a sheet of paper and a marker in front of me. ‘Fill these in, and I’ll make sure to quiz Raf on them.’

Grabbing the sheet, I let my eyes roam over the questions, my nose scrunching in surprise when I note what his grand plan is.

‘Really?’ I place the questionnaire down. ‘You plan on quizzing him about my likes and dislikes?’

He shrugs.

‘It’s just the beginning of the test. Fill this in, and I’ll explain everything later.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘You lose on an opportunity. Would you rather die thinking he never cared about you, or that he cared at least a little?’

I don’t answer. I can’t.

There’s a part of me that would take the first one, since I don’t want anyone’s pitiful affection. But there’s another side of me that wants anything it can get. That wants Raf regardless of anything.

He casually walks out, letting me stare at the sheet of paper. Before I lose my courage, I pick up the pen and start writing.

Are you going to disappoint me again, Raf?