He Gave Me Fake Bags and a Fake Future Chapter 07
Sloane
He finally looked up, his expression unreadable.
“Claire doesn’t like you around me.”
Tears spilled down Sloane’s cheeks. Her mouth opened, then closed again.
The moment the door shut behind her, Adrian froze.
Claire was more than three thousand miles away in England. She’d taken everything she owned and hadn’t
left so much as a strand of hair behind.
And he was still saying, Claire doesn’t like it.
By then, summer had already ended in England.
The treatment was painful, but I didn’t stop.
I was going to heal this hand and go back, back to the operating table.
Not to prove anything to him. To prove something to myself.
My life wasn’t supposed to be a script someone else got to write.
Adrian’s messages started coming in during the second week.
[You’re in England?]
[Where are you staying? I’ll have my assistant arrange a place for you.]
[I transferred the condo back to you.]
I stared at that message for five seconds, then blocked the number and deleted the conversation.
After that, he started using different numbers.
[Clary, answer the phone.]
[I’m looking for your mom’s scarf. The promises I made were real too.]
(Claire, how long are you going to drag this out?]
I blocked that number too.
Sloane messaged me in the fourth week. She opened with:
[Claire, Adrian’s in the hospital with a stomach bleed. He keeps saying your name. Don’t you want to come
back and see him?1
I was sitting at the rehab center when I tapped Block This Caller.
I set my phone facedowns the armrest and finished my last two sets of exercises.
That evening, my phone buzzed again as I walked out of the rehab center.
The call was coming from/a Swiss number. I hesitated, then answered.
Two seconds of silence passed before I heard his voice.
“Clary.”
“My stomach hurts so bad… I’want the soup you used to make.”
I stood on a bridge, phone in hand, as the wind slipped down my collar and made me shiver.
“And that has what to do with me?”
I hung up, blocked that number too, and kept walking along the river.
In December, I had my final major reconstructive surgery.
The surgeon said that if it worked, we’d have a fairly clear idea of how much function my right hand would
ultimately regain.
When I woke up, the hospital room was quiet.
Outside, snow was falling so thick it seemed to fill the entire sky.
I turned toward the door. Adrian stood there, his hair longer now, loose strands falling across his brow.
He’d lost a lot of weight. His cheekbones were sharp, and dark stubble covered his jaw.
He stayed in the doorway without coming in.
The fluorescent light washed his face ghostly pale.
He took a step forward, his voice so quiet it nearly disappeared beneath the hum of the ventilation system.
“Clary, I miss you.”
I slowly pushed myself upright against the headboard, lifted my right hand, and smiled.
“Adrian, remember this hand? You paid someone to destroy it.”
The color drained from his face.
Seeing him like that gave me a sharp, vicious rush of satisfaction.
His face went rigid.
Clary, just listen to me.”
“Listen to what?”
I lifted my right hand a little higher and gave it a small shake.
“Listen to what? How you paid someone to attack me and destroy my hand? How you made sure I never went abroad for treatment? Or how you spent three years pretending to love me while giving me fakes and handing our home to another woman?”
Adrian lifted a hand as if to reach for me, then stopped.
“…I loved you too much back then.”
“I was terrified you’d leave. I thought if your hand healed and you went back to surgery, then you’d…”
