Victor’s voice was smooth, unreadable, but I knew him well enough to catch the sharp edge hidden beneath his words.
He had read through my silence, or perhaps, he had always known that I was merely trapped in Raphael’s web of sweet lies.
My fingers tightened around the phone, my throat dry as I finally admitted, “I’m ending it with Raphael. I’ll be returning to Paris.”
A pause. Then, the sound of a slow exhale, deliberate and measured.
“Good,” Victor replied, his tone betraying no emotion except for the faintest trace of vindication. “You should’ve never been with him.”
A surge of frustration flared inside me, a mix of residual heartbreak and the exhaustion of always being told what I should and should not do. “I don’t need a lecture, Vic. I just need you to keep your word.”
Victor hummed, a low, considering sound. “You’ll be taken care of the moment you arrive. Your fiancé is expecting you.”
My stomach twisted.
A fiancé. A stranger. Another man whose presence in my life was dictated by obligation rather than choice.
But anything was better than staying in London, drowning in Raphael’s deceit.