Empire of Hate (Empire #3) by Rina Kent

And I was doing so well, avoiding blondes like the plague and filling the hole she left behind with fucking and working, and pretending I’m living the best life possible.

Until she came back into my life.

The moment I saw her again, everything, every single fucking coping mechanism I tried over the years smashed right in front of my eyes.

And the vicious cycle restarted.

I wanted to get revenge, to hurt her as much as she hurt me, but I’m the one who’s in pain.

I’m the one who’s all alone in a park, like some lonesome old man who lost everything and is reminiscing about the past.

The same park I walked through with Nicole yesterday.

No. I’m not going to think about her laughter or the way she blushed when I held her hand.

I simply won’t.

It’s been exactly thirty-five minutes and twenty seconds since I’ve been sitting here staring at the box that she threw away and told me she’s done with me.

I stood right in front of the room as she cried, stopping myself from going in there and wrapping her in my arms.

I couldn’t.

I didn’t have the right to.

Not when I’m the one who ruined her life. I almost forgot about it during the bliss I felt these past three days. Almost.

But her words slapped me back into the reality that, as the scum Christopher said, she will never forgive me for pushing her into his arms.

One day or another, she’ll wake up and be grossed out with me.

And I can’t do that to either of us.

But I did go into the room when her cries subsided. I carried her to the bed, my gut wrenching at the tears on her face.

Then, I picked the box and key and left. I should be at the airport for my plane back to New York, but I won’t be able to leave without knowing what’s inside this box.

Slowly, I insert the necklace key and turn. The sound of the lock penetrates my skin instead of my ears like a life-changing premonition. The feeling is tenfold heightened when I find what’s inside the box.

The first thing I see are pictures. Of her birthdays and mine that our mothers forced us to attend. From our eighth birthday until our fifteenth—since then, they couldn’t force us to do anything. In every single group picture of my birthdays, she was always looking at me. All eight pictures of them.

In all her birthday group pictures, I was always looking at anything but her. The boy in front of me. The camera. The cake. The presents. Anywhere she wasn’t.

The contrast between the two sets of pictures isn’t only obvious, but it’s also a little sad. From her perspective, at least.

Because she doesn’t know that I didn’t look at her for the sole reason that she unnerved me, threw me off balance. The fact that I avoided her of all people isn’t because I hated her.

It’s because I wanted to hate her.

And sometimes, I thought I did but that never lasted.

I put the pictures to the side and find a single peach seed. It appears old, dry, and ugly. Why would she keep the seed of the fruit that could kill her…?

Wait a minute.

I bring it up to the sun and stare at the plain thing.

It can’t be.

I clearly remember that the doctor told her to never go near peaches again, and even though I saw her with a basket of them at Ronan’s party, she never ate them. I know because I lurked behind a tree and made sure she walked out of that gazebo empty-handed. What? I had to make sure she didn’t have any suicidal tendencies.

The last time she consumed a whole peach was the day she had that strong allergic reaction.

So this must be from back then.

Fuck. She kept it for twenty-one years.

Underneath it, there’s a lollipop wrapper. I remember this one. Peach flavor with the brand design that goes back to over seventeen years ago.

The first lollipop she left in my bag.

Then there’s a pen. One she lent me once.

A few rings that I gave her for her birthdays because I once heard her telling a friend she likes the special edition ones.

It’s how I discovered that vintage shop hidden from view that had custom-made jewelry. The reason I needed her to believe they came from my mother and not from me was because she was a damn mean girl and young-me’s ego couldn’t take being ridiculed by her if she didn’t like the presents.

Then there’s my bracelet. The one I lost the night I fucked her for the first time. The night she stole a part of me that I’ll never get back. The night I realized fucking had a deeper meaning than mere sex and I could only feel it with Nicole.

I stare at the contents of the box, at the memory of us that she preserved with a key around her neck.

The need to go back to her burns hot behind my eyes, nearly blinding me.

I slowly close the box and stand up.

There’s no way in hell I’m backpedaling on this. I already gave her a clean start, showing up again is no different than stomping all over it.

No matter how much I want to see her, going back to New York is the right thing.

Since when are you the right thing kind of person? The devil on my shoulder whispers in his “let’s be selfish” voice.

But I shut it down, walk to my rental car, and put the box in my small bag. I’m closing the boot when I feel movement behind me.

My chest aches.

Did she follow me here? I told my staff to keep her in the mansion until Zach came over. He’s the only one I could confide in knowing full well that he’ll keep a level head about the entire situation.