I Stopped Asking Him for Anything

I was carrying an empty wine crate past the private lounge when I heard my name.

“Poor little Evie. You really sold her that wounded-boyfriend routine, didn't you?”

Laughter spilled through the half-open door.

“You've won the bet, Whitmore. When are you dumping her? Or are you getting attached?”

I stopped.

Lucas made a soft, impatient sound. I knew it. He made it when the traffic light stayed red too long.

“She's crazy about me. Getting rid of her is going to take some finesse.”

The crate pressed into my hip. I couldn't seem to put it down.

Inside, someone changed the subject to my birthday.

“You used to spend five figures on a bag without blinking. Obviously you can't do that this time. Give her something insulting. Five hundred bucks. Actually, make it three.”

Lucas laughed. “Fine. You're in charge. Three hundred. Not a cent more.”

“Oh, please.” That was Connor Hayes, his oldest friend. “You people have no imagination.”

A chair scraped. I could picture him taking out his phone.

“There's this discount app. My housekeeper uses it. If you're going to pretend you're cheap, commit.”

He whistled.

“Look at that. A whole bouquet for less than a sandwich. And here's a necklace. Silver-plated. Fancy.”

The others crowded around him, laughing as though he'd discovered a new species.

“Imagine wearing that around your neck.”

Lucas took the phone. Through the gap, I watched his thumb move across the screen.

“All right. Order them. Have them sent to my place.” He handed it back. “A man recovering from gold diggers can't be too careful.”

They loved that.

I had heard the stories so many times I could have told them myself.

The first girlfriend had left him for his mother's younger brother. The second had used his money to support another man. The third had begged him to invest in her business, then disappeared overseas with the cash.

Lucas was the heir to Whitmore Holdings. Money had always been the easiest thing in the world for him to give.

According to his friends, those women had ruined him. Now, every time a woman reached for his hand, he saw her reaching for his wallet.

When we started dating, he explained that he couldn't be generous anymore. He needed to know someone wanted him for himself.

I hadn't asked for proof.

His money was his. He could spend it on whoever he liked. He didn't owe me a designer handbag for being his girlfriend.

But I hadn't known I was the evening's entertainment.

Someone offered another suggestion for getting rid of me. Something about making me feel as if the breakup had been my idea.

Lucas smiled.

It was a cruel smile. On anyone else's face, I would have recognized it immediately. On his, with that ridiculous mouth and the dimple I used to kiss, it had taken me a year.

A server rounded the corner and reached for the crate.

“You okay?”

I nodded too quickly.

“You look pale.”

“Just tired.”

She took one end, and together we carried it into the storeroom. I counted the bottles on the shelf while she checked the delivery slip. Twelve whites. Six reds. Ordinary numbers I could trust.

My phone vibrated in my apron.

Lucas: Working late? I'll wait up.

I turned the screen against my leg.

Then I picked up another crate and kept walking.

Behind me, they were still trying to work out how to make me leave.

I had already decided to leave Lucas. I wouldn’t ask him to explain, and I wouldn’t try to change his mind.

A funded graduate placement in London, with a part-time research post attached, had been waiting in my inbox for days. I'd put off answering because accepting meant leaving him.

Now I knew what my answer would be.