90 Days With the Man I Can't Have

The morning didn't arrive with a soft glow; it arrived like a fluorescent bulb flickering to life in a morgue. Cold, gray light filtered through the industrial windows of my loft, illuminating the dust motes dancing over the wreckage of the night before.

My body felt heavy, my muscles humming with the dull ache of Josh's possession, a physical reminder of the way he had dismantled me on the bed.

​Josh was already up.

​He stood by the small, scarred kitchen table, fully dressed in a fresh white shirt he must have kept in his car for emergencies. He was the picture of corporate perfection once again, his movements precise as he fastened his gold cufflinks. The scent of our frantic, desperate union was being methodically replaced by the sharp, sterile aroma of his expensive espresso and the crisp smell of starch. Watching him was like watching a ghost materialize back into a statue. The man who had growled my name into the crook of my neck was gone, replaced by the CEO who calculated risks and managed assets.

​I sat up, pulling the thin, paint-stained duvet around my naked shoulders, feeling a sudden, sharp pang of vulnerability. "You're leaving," I said, my voice raspy and thin in the morning air.

​"I have a board meeting at eight, Viv," he replied without looking up. His voice was steady, professional. The jealousy from the night before, the raw, bleeding edge of his question about Julian seemed to have been tucked away into a neat little folder in his mind.

​He walked over to the table where I kept my brushes and a half-finished sketch of a city skyline.

With a flick of his wrist, he slid a slip of paper across the wood. It landed right in a puddle of dried cobalt blue paint.

​I frowned, leaning forward. It was a check. My eyes scanned the numbers, and my heart did a slow, sickening roll. It was enough to cover my rent for six months, with plenty left over for high-end supplies and the repairs I'd been ignoring for a year.

​"What is this, Josh?"

​"It's a solution," he said, finally looking at me. His expression was one of benign generosity, the look a king gives a subject. "The landlord called my office. Apparently, you're behind. I don't want you worrying about the ceiling caving in while you're working on our portrait. Consider it an advance."

​The air in the loft suddenly felt very, very cold. The "Maid of Honor" title was a public shackle, but this? This felt like a private leash.

​"An advance?" I repeated, the words tasting like copper. I stood up, gripping the duvet tight against my chest, and walked toward the table. "I didn't ask you for money, Josh. I've never asked you for money."

​"You shouldn't have to ask," he said, his tone softening into that infuriatingly patient "billionaire" voice. "You're an artist, Viv. You shouldn't be struggling to keep the lights on while you have real talent. I'm fixing it."

​"You're fixing it?" My voice rose, the suppressed rage from the gala finally bubbling to the surface. "You think my life is something you can just patch up with a signature? You think you can buy your way out of the guilt of what we're doing?"

​Josh's eyes narrowed. The "nice" mask began to slip. "Guilt? I'm taking care of you. Most people would be grateful."

​"I'm not 'most people'! I'm your best friend! Or your lover! Or whatever the hell we are in the dark!" I grabbed the check, my fingers trembling. "But I am not one of your charities. I am not a Sterling Enterprise line item."

​"Don't be dramatic, Viv. It's just rent."

​"It's not just rent!" I screamed, the sound echoing off the brick walls. "It's control. You spend your whole day owning people. You own the skyline, you own the merger, and you're about to own Vanessa in a contract marriage. But you do not own me. This loft is a mess, and it's cold, and the plumbing is a disaster, but it is mine. I earned every inch of this struggle."

​I looked at the check, at the crisp, clean signature that held more power than my entire life's work, and I felt a wave of pure, unadulterated loathing for the paper in my hand. With a slow, deliberate motion, I caught the edge of the check and ripped it.

​The sound of the paper tearing was like a gunshot in the silence.

​I didn't stop. I tore it again and again, until the six months of security were nothing but white confetti falling onto the floor, mixing with the dust and the dried paint.

​Josh froze. His face went pale, then a deep, dangerous red. He looked at the scraps on the floor like I had just spat in his face. "That was forty thousand dollars, Vivian."

​"That was a leash, Josh!" I stepped closer, ignoring the fact that I was shivering, ignoring the way my heart was breaking. "You want to care for me? Then talk to me. Stay for breakfast. Be a person. But don't you dare try to 'fix' my life with a checkbook because you're too cowardly to give me what I actually want."

​"And what is it you want?" he hissed, stepping into my space, his height used as a weapon. "You want me to call off the wedding? You want me to let ten thousand families lose their jobs because the merger fails? You think life is a fucking painting where you can just layer over the parts you don't like?"

​"I want intimacy, Josh! I want you to look at me and see a woman, not a problem to be solved!"

​"I look at you and I see the only thing I have left that isn't a transaction!" he roared, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "I tried to do one thing, one thing to make your life easier so you could focus on your art, and you throw it back in my face because of your goddamn pride."

​"It's not pride, it's independence! If I take your money, I'm just another employee. I'm just another thing you've bought. And I refuse to be bought by you."

​"Fine," he spat, the word dripping with venom. He reached for his coat, swinging it over his shoulders with a violent grace. "Keep your independence. Keep your freezing loft and your broken pipes. If you want to play the martyr, Viv, go ahead. But don't expect me to sit here and watch you drown while I have a life raft in my pocket."

​He turned on his heel, heading for the door.

​"Is that all I am to you?" I called out, my voice breaking. "A project? A girl you need to save so you can feel better about the monster you're becoming for the Sterling name?"

​Josh stopped at the door. He didn't turn around. His shoulders were slumped, the tension in his back visible even through the expensive fabric of his shirt. "I don't know how to do this any other way, Viv," he said, his voice quiet and dangerously flat. "In my world, you protect the things you love by securing them. If you won't let me secure you, then I don't know what we're doing here."

​"Maybe we're doing nothing," I whispered.

​The door slammed so hard a stack of canvases near the entrance toppled over. The sound rang in my ears, a final, brutal punctuation mark to the morning.

​I stood there in the center of the room, clutching the duvet to my chest, staring at the white scraps of paper on the floor. My chest ached with a physical weight, a pressure so heavy I could barely draw air. I looked at my paintings, the raw, bleeding abstracts of my soul and I realized the terrifying truth.

​I wasn't just in a 90-day bargain. I wasn't just his secret lover.

​I was falling in love with a man who was fundamentally broken. A man who thought a dollar sign was a synonym for 'I love you.' A man who would rather buy my silence than share his heart.

​I walked to my easel and picked up a palette knife. I didn't paint. I just stared at the blank white canvas, the void of it staring back at me.

Josh was gone, back to his world of glass and steel, leaving me behind in the ruins of our morning. And for the first time, I realized that the 89 days left weren't going to be a goodbye.

They were going to be a slow-motion car crash, and I was the one strapped into the passenger seat, watching the wall come closer with every breath I took.