“A month ago, I wouldn’t have argued like this with you. I wouldn’t have dared hope you’d return my feelings. But I’m different now; you made me different. You built me up and made me believe it myself. You told me over and over again how special I am—,”
“You are special,” he growled, needing her to understand that. “This isn’t about you.”
“No, it’s about you,” she interjected quickly, pushing at his chest again. “It’s about all the ways in which you’ve grabbed hold of me, the ways you’ve opened up to me—,”
“Because this is temporary, so I could do that without risk, without worrying you’d read more into it.”
“What about this?” She fired back at him. “You gave me this necklace—your mother’s. Why?”
Christ. “How did you know?”
“Fleur,” she responded. “Does it matter?”
“I didn’t want you to think it meant anything.”
“It does mean something. This was your mum’s, and you gave it to me.”
But just as quickly as her anger had flared up, it died away again, leaving only sadness and hurt on her beautiful features. He wanted her anger back. That he could deal with. Sadness was so much worse. Sadness made him feel like the worst kind of bastard. It made him feel a thousand things and none of them good.
She waited, poised, silent, watchful, waiting for him to say something, and then she shook her head with broken-hearted acceptance.
“All my mum’s jewelry is just sitting in a safe.” He tried to explain. “It’s a waste.”
Her eyes shimmered, and her tears might as well have been arrows formed by acid, for how the sight of them caused him to ache. She lifted her fingers behind her neck, frowning as she attempted to unclasp the chain. The sight of that was even worse than her tears.
“Keep it,” he said, darkly. “I want you to have it.”
“Well, I don’t want it.” She finally separated the chain, handing it to him without ceremony. He took it on autopilot, frowning as he stared at it in the palm of his hand.
“I’ll leave tomorrow,” she said, taking a step back and then turning away from him. Her shoulders were squared, her spine rigid. “You can work out whatever you want to tell your family about our breakup. I really don’t care.”
And then, she moved her arms—he couldn’t see exactly what she was doing, until she turned back and handed him the engagement ring, adding it to the necklace, her eyes not meeting his.
He opened his mouth to say something. He sure as hell wanted her to keep the ring…but she shook her head, face contorted with feelings he hated knowing he was responsible for. “I don’t want it, Matthieu. Take it. Please.”
She keptthe tears at bay until she’d reached their room, and only once she was there, surrounded by his things, did she let them fall, one after the other, until her chest was wracked with sobs and her mind was spinning.
Numb, she shoved her clothes into her bag, fingers shaking. She couldn’t stay in this room with him. She couldn’t—Skye could hardly breathe.
This had been a stupid idea.
She’d been out of her mind to imagine she could control her feelings for him. With a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, she remembered the awful things Margot had thrown at Skye, and how right the other woman had been. At the time, the warning had seemed cruel, but now Skye wondered if Margot hadn’t actually been trying to protect Skye, in a strange, catty kind of way.
And just like that, she knew how she could escape—and her heart rejoiced, as the bell struck twelve, and Christmas officially arrived in France.
* * *
“What do you mean,you sent her away?” He asked his aunt, careful to keep his voice level, even when anger was bursting through him. It was sometime after two in the morning, and he was dead tired, and spitting chips.
After his argument with Skye, he’d gone walking, the engagement ring and necklace heavy in his pocket, the knowledge that he’d pushed her away when he’d wanted to eke out more time with her gnawing at his gut until he knew he had to see her again, to explain…something. He had no idea what he could say that wouldn’t make it worse, but he had to see her; he couldn’t leave things like that.
But Skye was gone when he got to their room, and some very basic detective work had led him to his aunt.
“I didn’t send her anywhere. She wanted to leave,” Margot corrected with a gentle shake of her head. “I gather you two had an argument.”
Matthieu ground his teeth together. None of this was Margot’s fault, but the other woman’s obvious hostility to Skye made him hate her, in that moment.
“Did you upset her?”
“The upsetting had already been done, I’m afraid,” Margot said, so his gut rolled with guilt. “I only facilitated her request.”
Guilt tore through him. “Which was?”
“To return to Paris.”
“Paris,” he exhaled with relief. “She’s gone home?”
“She was very clear: she was going to your apartment to pack,” Margot said, and there was sympathy in her tone, as though only just perceiving that there might be more at play than she’d first realized. “And from there, returning to Australia.”
Matthieu spun on his heel and left, before his aunt could say another word, and certainly before he could issue those that were sparking on the tip of his tongue.