He Paid Five Million to Cut Ties, Then Came Crawling Back Chapter 01

He Paid Five Million to Cut Ties, Then Came Crawling Back Chapter 01

My boyfriend Bennett Ashford and I hadn’t spoken in ten days. Not since the intern. Then I heard his voice on a late-night radio show.

“I’ve been with my girlfriend for eight years. She saved me back in high school. Shattered her right hand doing it. She never painted again.”

“I thought I’d take care of her forever. But I’m exhausted.”

“She’s moody, hard to be around. The new intern isn’t like that. She studied art too.”

“When I saw her perfect, undamaged hands, something in me woke up. I can’t keep staring at what I ruined.”

The host sighed and gave his advice. “Guilt isn’t love. Walking away might be the kindest thing you can do for both of you.”

“If she’s holding you back, be honest with her. Offer her a clean break. Settle things financially and let both of you move on.”

Before I could even process it, my phone lit up. A bank transfer from Bennett.

[Maren, I’m sending you a million dollars. Enough to get your hand treated somewhere else and start over. Let’s stop doing this to each other. Please just let me go.]

***

I accepted the money.

[Okay.]

I tossed my phone aside and looked at my right hand.

The scar crawled from my wrist to my fingertips, ugly and permanent. Every time the temperature dropped, it ached like something was still buried under the skin.

Eight years since this hand was ruined. Eight years Bennett had felt chained to me because of it.

A million dollars. That was the price of his freedom.

The next morning, I drove to Bennett’s office to return his apartment key.

I pushed open his office door. He wasn’t there.

Serena Bellamy was.

The intern.

She was sitting in his chair, flipping through something on his desk.

She looked up when I walked in, her smile already in place. “Oh, Maren! Bennett’s in a meeting. Can I help you with something?”

I didn’t answer. I set the key right in the middle of the desk where he’d see it.

I turned to go, but her voice caught me at the door. “Maren, wait. Bennett wasn’t feeling well last night. His stomach was acting up again. Could you maybe…”

“I’m not his mother,” I said before she could finish.

Her smile flickered, then reset—soft, sweet, and perfectly composed. She reached for the coffee on the desk.

“You’re right. That wasn’t my place. Here, have some coffee. I made it fresh.”

She started toward me, then stumbled. She lurched forward.

The scalding coffee hit my right hand dead-on.

The pain was blinding.

I gasped and yanked my hand back.

But Serena screamed first, like she was the one who’d been burned.

A few drops had splashed onto her wrist. A tiny pink mark.

The office door slammed open.

Bennett.

He didn’t even glance my way. He was already at Serena’s side, grabbing her wrist.

“Let me see. Where’d it get you? How bad is it?”

Serena’s eyes welled up, and she shook her head. “I’m okay. It was my fault. I tripped and spilled it all over Maren’s hand.”

That was when he finally looked at me.

His eyes dropped to my hand, raw, red, and already blistering. His jaw set.

No concern on his face. Just irritation. “What the hell is wrong with you, Maren?”

“She’s an intern,” he said, his voice going flat. “If you have a problem, come at me. Don’t take it out on someone who has nothing to do with this.”

Something behind my ribs cracked wide open.

He was shielding her. Actually shielding her from me. From behind his shoulder, Serena met my eyes with a look that said she’d already won.

I couldn’t speak.

I grabbed the key off the desk and shoved it back in my pocket.

Bennett’s voice dropped another degree. “What now? You’re going to hold the key hostage?”

“No,” I said. My throat felt like sand. “I just figured there’s no point giving it back.”

“I’m sure you already changed the locks anyway.”

I walked out.

His voice followed me into the hall, edged with anger.

“Are you done, Maren?”

I didn’t turn around. I kept walking until the building was behind me and I could breathe again.

The sunlight struck me hard. My hand was still on fire, and all I could think was how stupid I must have looked in there.

Eight years ago, I’d thrown this hand up to stop a metal pipe from smashing into his head. He’d cried and sworn he would never let anyone hurt me.

Eight years later, the same hand got scalded by his intern’s coffee, and all he wanted to know was what my problem was.

My flower shop smelled the way it always did when I stepped inside: green, earthy, alive.

This was the one place that was still mine.

I pulled an ice pack from the freezer and pressed it against my hand.

The sting faded. Everything else got worse.