For the first time in weeks, Ashley stepped outside.

The sunlight felt too bright. The wind too sharp. But she told herself it was progress—being outside, breathing fresh air, walking among people instead of hiding beneath blankets and fading into the walls of her bedroom. This was healing. This was her moving on.

At least, that’s what she wanted to believe.

She missed him. God, she missed him.

Kyle.

His name was a bruise beneath her skin, tender and aching. She told herself he didn’t deserve this kind of grief. That he was hurting too—silent, tortured, broken in his own cold way. They were both suffering, weren’t they? But she had been the one to leave. She walked away.

Because he was an assassin. Because he was dangerous. Because he used her—right?

That’s what her mother said. That’s what the voicemails proved. He bought her things to control her. Gave her attention in just enough doses to keep her clinging. And when she showed him the threats from Mia—when she begged him to choose—he said nothing. He did nothing.

He let Mia tear her apart.

So, no—Ashley hadn’t used him. He used her.

She kept repeating that. Like a mantra. Like a shield.

But somewhere deep down—beneath the rationalizations and mother’s warnings—was a darker truth clawing to the surface.

He had been cold, cruel, detached.

But he was real.

And the love she felt for him, twisted and painful as it was, had made her feel alive. She told herself these stories now—stories about manipulation, about fault, about how he wasn’t right for her—to ease the sting of loss. To survive the silence.

But in her bones, Ashley knew:

These words were not truth. They were excuses. Lies meant to soften the blow of losing something rare.

Of losing a diamond in the rough.