---- Chapter 19 Clara, crumpled on the floor, watched him, her face a mask of disbelief and despair. Her career was over. Her reputation was in ruins. She had one card left to play. "The baby, Liam," she sobbed, clutching her stomach. "What about our baby? Your son. You can't just abandon him." Liam's face, which had been filled with a strange mix of rage and remorse, went completely cold. He looked down at her, at her hand on her belly, and he felt nothing. No connection, no responsibility. That baby was the symbol of his greatest mistake. It was the reason | was gone. "Get her out of here," he said to his men, not even looking at Clara anymore. "Take her to the hospital. Make sure she has the best doctors. But | don't want to see her. And | don't want to see the child. Ever." He was cutting them off, surgically removing them from his life. He would pay for everything, but he would not be a father to that child. He would not give Clara that final victory. "No!" Clara screamed as his men pulled her to her feet. "Liam, you can't do this! You promised!" They dragged her out of the apartment, her cries echoing down the hallway. ---- Liam was alone again, in the ruins of Clara's life. He was still livestreaming. He looked into the phone, his eyes searching, as if he could see me through the screen. "Ava," he said, his voice a broken whisper. "If you're watching this... wherever you are... | am so, so sorry. | know | don't deserve it, but please, come back to me. I'll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. | love you. I've always loved you." He ended the livestream. The silence of the apartment was deafening. In Paris, | was sitting in a small cafe, sipping a café creme. Isabelle had sent me the link to his livestream. | had watched the whole thing, the slaps, the confession, the desperate plea. | watched it with a strange sense of detachment, like | was watching a movie about two people | used to know. | felt no pity for Clara. She had played a vicious game and lost. | felt no sympathy for Liam. His public confession wasn't for me. It was for him. It was a grand, dramatic gesture designed to absolve himself of his guilt. It was a performance, just like everything else. | deleted the link and turned my phone off. | looked out the window at the bustling streets of Paris. The holiday lights were twinkling, and a light snow had begun to fall. It was beautiful. | finished my coffee and walked out into the cold air. | wandered through the streets until | found myself in the city's ---- small Chinatown. The storefronts were decorated with red lanterns, and the smell of festive food filled the air. It reminded me of the holidays with my parents, of the traditions | had lost. An old woman selling roasted sweet potatoes from a cart smiled at me. Her face was kind, wrinkled with age. She looked a little like my grandmother. On impulse, | bought one. It was warm in my hands, a small comfort in the cold night. | was alone, but for the first time, | didn't feel lonely. | felt free. He could have his drama and his public apologies. | had this. A quiet moment, a warm sweet potato, and a whole new life waiting for me.