She Killed Me at Christmas. I Came Back. Chapter 07

She Killed Me at Christmas. I Came Back. Chapter 07

My palm cracked across Grant’s face hard enough to turn his head.

For one beautiful second, nobody in that kitchen breathed.

“You-“He touched his cheek like he couldn’t process the data. “You actually hit me?”

“Consider it a receipt,” I said, “for three years.”

His voice climbed into a register I’d never heard. “Have you lost your mind?! We’ve been together three years,

Sloane! Who else would even want you-an ice-cold workaholic with a temper like this? You want to fix what

you just did? Apologize. Right now. Give my mother the jewelry set. Then maybe-maybe-I forgive you.

Otherwise we are DONE.”

I looked at him. Then at the basin of dishwater on the counter.

Why not.

I picked up the bowl, scooped it full, and threw the water directly into his face.

He stood there dripping, mouth opening and closing like a landed trout, gray dishwater running off his chin

onto Patty’s linoleum.

“Since there’s no mirror in here,” I said quietly, “use that. Take a long look at what you actually are. A man four hundred thousand dollars in debt, with no savings, no gift for his own mother, screaming at his fiancée to fund his fiction.” I set the bowl down gently. “You want to break up? Granted. Effective immediately. You and I have

nothing to do with each other. Nothing.”

Patty found her voice first, shrieking. “Don’t be stupid, girl! My son is an executive at Meridian Capital! Six figures! You should be on your KNEES grateful a man like him ever looked at-”

I almost laughed out loud.

Meridian Capital belonged to my uncle Victor. Grant had his job because I asked for it-because three years

ago, a lovesick girl had called her uncle and vouched for a charming nobody. Without my last name, Grant Whitlock couldn’t have gotten past Meridian’s lobby security.

“Keep the blessing,” I said. “I’m leaving.”

My phone buzzed. The car was outside.

I walked past the living room with my suitcase-past eighteen frozen Whitlocks mid-eggnog, past Dale’s slowly spreading grin, past the gap where the Christmas tree used to stand before Grant’s allergic reaction

flattened it.

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” I said. “Ask Grant where the four hundred grand went. It’s a great story. There’s a

twist.”

Behind me, the living room erupted.

Grant chased me into the snow in his socks, dishwater freezing in his hair. “Sloane! Sloane, get back here-if you get in that car, we’re finished, I mean it-you’ll regret this, you’ll come crawling-*

I got in the car.

Through the rear window, I watched him standing in the driveway, soaked and shrinking, while Brynn appeared in the doorway behind him and laid a comforting hand on his shoulder. Perfect. They deserved eachy other. I intended to make absolutely certain they got each other.

As the farmhouse disappeared behind the tree line, I typed one message to Uncle Victor.

That favor from three years ago-Grant Whitlock. I’m calling it back. Effective today. I’ll explain at New

Year’s.

Three dots. Then: “Done. Never liked him. Your aunt says come for dinner.”

I leaned back against the seat and watched the snow fall, soft and clean and absolutely silent.

In my last life, I died in that house screaming, and no one came.

In this life, by the time my plane touched down in the city, Grant Whitlock had no job, no savings, a quarter-million-dollar loan coming due against a condo he was about to lose-

-and no idea, yet, that I was just getting started.

My phone lit up. Seventeen missed calls from Grant.

Then a text from a number I didn’t recognize:

“You think you’ve won, Sloane? Grant was MINE before you ever showed up. Enjoy being alone. -B

I smiled at the screen.

Oh, Brynn. Sweetheart.

He’s all yours.