Page 33 of The Ring
I pick up my bag. I don’t want to be here with him. And while I was here first, I’m not going to use that childish argument.
I walk to the door, but I must pass by his side to get out of it. As I’m about to, he grabs my wrist—not roughly, but gently and carefully. I look at his right hand on my wrist, then my gaze gradually moves up his arm. It pauses for a few seconds on the faint scar on his forearm, the one I both hate and love equally because it’s there because of me.
I know how to ski, like everyone who went to boarding school in Switzerland, but I have always been on the lower end of the group in terms of how well I do. Not like TJ, West, and Nate—though I would never admit that to West. Because ofthat, I went with them to the black slopes. I ended up losing control, unable to brake, flying towards the trees. At the last second, TJ crossed my path to stop me. I walked away with only a few bruises. He broke his arm.
I hate that he got that scar because of me, but eventually, I began seeing it as a reminder that, physically and mentally, I will always be safe with him.
Now… I still think I’m physically safe with him.
As for the emotional part?—
I already know the answer.
I continue slowly, my gaze lifting until it meets his. He looks hurt, as if this is just as painful for him as it is for me.
How did he get to where hurting each other feels like a sport?
A tear escapes from my eye, and he gently wipes it away with the thumb of his other hand.
I look at his lips, lips that were once my home and are now everyone’s hotel, but despite that, I feel the urge to kiss him. His touch is like alcohol—it makes me forget things and makes me want to do things without thinking. I pull my wrist from his grasp, shaking off the impulse I wish I no longer had.
I walk to the door, but before leaving, I look back at him. I want to make one thing clear. “For the record, nothing happened between Nate and me while we were together. I lov… I loved you too much to have done that to you.” That’s the difference between us.
I think I hear him mutter, “I know,” as I walk out.
Chapter 17
TJ
Iwent back and forth a lot about attending Cornelia’s grandmother’s party, but in the end, the thought of seeing Cornelia all dressed up won me over. Honestly, I think I’m just incapable of staying away from anywhere I know she’ll be. Also, my mother insisted I needed to go.
The problem now is that I knew Nate was going to be there, which drove me to make an arsehole move.
“Oh my God, is that Cornelia’s grandmother’s house?” Amelie asks, eyes wide as the chopper begins to descend.
I invited Amelie as my plus-one.
I don’t bother answering; it’s a rhetorical question. She knows exactly where we’re headed.
I took one of the chopper rides offered as transportation to the estate for the party. I could have driven—I’ve done it plenty of times with Cornelia. It’s not far from London, and I’m planning on staying the night, anyway. But I didn’t want to spend more time with Amelie than necessary or give her the wrong idea that this is more than just a convenience arrangement where I get to get back at Nate, and she gets tomake him jealous and attend an exclusive party she wasn’t invited to.
She’s nice, don’t get me wrong, and I’ve known her for about… six years, but I’ve never actually spent much time with her, even though she dated Nate for around four. Every time we asked Nate to invite her on a trip or to hang out, she rarely showed up. I can even count on with my fingers how many times I’ve seen her after boarding school.
Also, I can’t help but compare her to Cornelia. Amelie is wearing a floor-length mustard dress that fits the black-tie dress code, but it’s something Cornelia would never be caught dead in. Amelie is short, while Cornelia is tall, like a model. Amelie has blonde hair and brown eyes; Cornelia has brown hair and strikingly green-blue eyes. Amelie is American, while Cornelia is British (technically also Swiss, but only because her mother was adamant about going skiing despite being pregnant).
Cornelia was born into money. Private jets, expensive jewellery, massive estates—they don’t impress her; she’s used to it. Amelie wasn’t born into wealth. Her family became affluent when she was thirteen, after her mother married an investment banker. While Amelie’s family now has millions, Cornelia’s family has had billions for generations.
In some ways, Amelie is the antithesis of Cornelia.
The chopper lands on the helipad, and after the other couple who came with us disembark, I help Amelie down. We make our way towards the house.
The entire estate is adorned with lights, illuminating acres of land. We’re guided to the main entrance, where a concierge takes our coats and phones, as per the invitation’s instructions—this is a no-phone party.
We walk down the corridor leading to the main entertainment area. Amelie is in awe, taking in the art on the walls, the architecture, and everything around her.
“Is that an actual Picasso?” she asks, wide-eyed, pointing at one of the paintings in the hallway.
“Yes,” I reply almost dismissively, as if Cornelia’s grandmother would ever have an imitation of anything.
