Part 1His Heartbeat Belongs To My Mother

In the circles Declan Cross ran in, I was famous for one thing: being his ultimate, pathetic doormat.

Once, someone at a party asked him what he actually thought of me.

He clamped a cigarette between his teeth, exhaled a plume of smoke, and drawled, “Harper? She’s like a stray dog nobody wanted. Honestly, I bet she’d take a bullet for me.”

Later, I actually did. I stepped in front of a gun for him and nearly bled out on foreign soil.

After that, everyone whispered about my blind, desperate devotion. They said my love for Declan was a feral, solitary crusade.

Until the day he wrecked his car trying to show off for his first love. I was sitting beside him, quietly dabbing antiseptic onto his bruised skin.

He reached up, patted my head like a pet, and let out a sudden, cruel scoff.

“Harper, does your mother know how cheap you make yourself look?”

I froze. Then, I picked up the entire bottle of iodine and splashed it directly into his face.

My eyes were bloodshot. “Don't you ever,” I snarled, “say a goddamn word about her.”

* * *

Declan hadn’t expected me to react at all, let alone like that. He sat completely stunned.

The dark iodine dripped down his nose, blurring his vision. He wiped blindly at his face, his voice wavering with a rare uncertainty. “Are you… crying?”

I didn’t answer. The violent, boiling rage inside my chest was already beginning to cool, hardening into something brittle and smooth. In that single, suspended second, a profound sense of exhaustion washed over me. The whole thing suddenly felt terribly pointless.

Him. Me. And that heart beating inside his chest—the one I had been obsessing over for so long.

Once the obsession evaporated, what followed was a suffocating, overwhelming wave of relief. I turned my back to him and began pulling my things from the closet.

Declan’s brow furrowed. He kicked the glass coffee table, sending it shattering against the hardwood.

He had a volatile, explosive temper; the moment the world stopped spinning on his axis, he’d scorch the earth.

“Harper, stop throwing a tantrum. Come here,” his voice dropped into that cold, authoritative register he used when he expected to be obeyed.

I sped up, shoving cashmere and denim into my suitcase.

He crossed the room, grabbed my chin in a bruising grip, and roughly wiped away a stray tear clinging to my eyelashes. When I just stared at him—dead-eyed and unresponsive—he forced his brow to unknot. His tone softened, just a fraction.

“I’ve been drinking. I was out of line,” he muttered, his voice tight with the foreign effort of an apology.

It was a rare concession from Declan Cross. Yet, even in his apology, he looked down at me from a pedestal, tossing me a scrap of affection like a beggar.

I zipped my suitcase, yanked the handle up, and walked straight toward the front door.

“We’re done,” I said, my hand wrapping around the cold brass knob. “Throw the rest of my shit away. I don't care.”

Crash!

A heavy crystal tumbler slammed into the wall inches from my head. The explosive force sent a shard of glass slicing across my cheek.

A bead of warm blood welled up. I turned my head, my face completely devoid of emotion.

Declan’s face was thunderous, a sneer twisting his handsome features. “Don’t think you can come crying back in a few days begging for another chance, Harper. Everyone in this city knows you’re my shadow. I’m giving you an out right now to save you the embarrassment.”

He pointed a finger at me. “Apologize, and we’ll pretend this didn’t happen.”

I looked at him, raised my middle finger, and smiled. “I’ve wanted to say this to you for a really, really long time.”

“You’re a fucking psychopath, Declan.”