The Trouble With Us: A Second Chance Love Triangle (The Forbidden Love 2)

Exiting the room, I head straight to the restroom. Inside, I slam my fist against the stall door, the pain connecting through my entire body. But the p

hysical pain is nothing compared to leaving her behind or the moment I chose to give up because she deserved better than me. And this pain can never compare to the last four years of hell without her.

I have a choice—follow Lex’s command once again and leave her alone.

Or—go back to the States and fight for what I should have all along.

I refuse to let him win.

It may be the biggest fight of my life, but I will battle until the very end, even if it kills me.

Amelia Edwards is mine, and this time, no one is going to stop me.

My fingers trace the rim of the glass, slowly gliding against the smooth edge and eyeing the amber liquid with a desperate thirst.

For a Monday evening, the pub is relatively quiet. Just the usual crowd, unlike the loud weekend folk who enjoyed a good pint amongst friends. The rowdy groups would have distracted me from my thoughts. Still, I manage to drown out my sorrows with a Bourbon and football game on the flat screen.

But it’s impossible to focus or even think about anything else.

She’s getting married.

I bow my head, closing my eyes briefly as my posture falls. Amelia was never going to stay single forever. It would have been naïve of me to believe after four years she has been waiting for me to come back. Her stubborn ways would have kicked her ass into survival mode, most likely throwing herself into studying or dating other men in an effort to move forward.

I just didn’t expect her to fall back into bed with that Carter kid, and have no idea why it bothers me more than if it had been a stranger. Amelia loved him, past tense, or so I thought.

“It’s only you,” she murmured, slowing her movements. “Austin means nothing to me.”

The moment we made love at her parent’s house, I knew we were both in trouble—we were in too deep with no chance of escaping unscathed. But could it be that her love for him is a stronger force than what we had several years ago?

It hurt to even think about it, my stomach hardening at the possibility of her feelings being less than my own.

I fucking loved her.

Or maybe—I never stopped.

The past four years have been hell without her, but I managed to distract myself with work and an occasional fuck when I felt myself getting desperate. They were no more than a one-night stand. I didn’t ask names, stayed away from women with green eyes or hair the same shade as hers. In fact, I went in the complete opposite direction. Blonde-haired, blue eyes, or the rare redhead.

The matter of the fact is, I chose to forget she ever existed. It was all so I could give her the freedom to live her life without the burden of me being around. I just never envisioned her marrying so soon and so young. Unless she’s pregnant…

I yell at the bartender to serve me another. My hands wrap around the glass, raising it to my lips and consuming the Bourbon in one go. It no longer burns or clouds my vision, prompting me to demand another drink. I’m surprised he didn’t stop pouring, but perhaps the bills I threw on the countertop with a rather generous tip is enough for him to keep serving me.

Inside, it all becomes numb. The pain, the anger—the bitterness and resentment. The blame is shifted from Lex to the Carter kid, then back to me.

I let her go and walked away.

I didn’t fight.

I was trying to save her and my business, gave up on the best thing to happen to me, and for what? All this money meant nothing. I owned several properties, have servers wait on me hand and foot. I even bought myself a private jet because I despise being around people on commercial flights.

All the wealth means nothing because I sleep alone in my bed each night without the woman I love. No, she’s in bed…with him.

And she is going to be in bed with him for the rest of her life if I don’t do anything.

“Excuse me, sir?” A woman beside me tries to catch the attention of the bartender to no avail. “Of course, why would a man pay attention to me? That’s right, Mister, you’ve probably got some other woman who is much more important than the person demanding to be served.”

Letting out an annoyed huff, I’m somewhat amused by this woman’s sudden outburst and enjoy the familiarity of her American accent. It brings with it belonging and comfort, a feeling I’ve forgotten until now.

“Bartender,” I call, followed by a whistle. “The lady needs a drink.”