Chapter 153 Five Frances

Chapter 153 Five Frances
Lorelei‘s POV

A few people stopped to buy. Mostly older women who smiled warmly and asked if I was raising money for charity. I just smiled back and took their money, not bothering to correct the assumption.

I'd sold maybe half the basket when a shadow fell across me.

I looked up.

Dante stood there in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent, hands in his pockets, looking down at me with an expression I couldn't read.

My entire body went cold. My fingers tightened around the basket handle so hard the wicker bit into my palm. Every instinct screamed at me to run—to grab my things and disappear into the crowd before he could corner me again like he had that night in the hotel corridor.

Not here. Please not here.

But I forced myself to stay still, to take in the scene around us. Midday sun. Families with strollers. A street musician playing violin twenty feet away. People everywhere—witnesses, safety, escape routes if I needed them.

He can't do anything here. Not in broad daylight. Not with all these people watching.

The thought steadied me just enough to meet his eyes, even as my heart slammed against my ribs.

How long has he been standing there? How long has he been watching me?

"Can I buy one?" he asked.

His voice was quiet. Controlled.

I grabbed a rose and thrust it at him, my hand shaking. "Five francs."

He took it but didn't reach for his wallet. Just stood there holding the flower, staring at me with those grey eyes that looked even more bloodshot than they had in the car.

He hasn't been sleeping well. Good. I haven't been sleeping well either.

"Why are you selling the flowers I sent you?"

I stood up, grabbing the basket with movements that were too sharp, too defensive. "Because I don't want them."

"You could have just thrown them away."

"This seemed less wasteful." I started gathering my things—the sign, the empty coffee cup I'd been using for change. "Now if you'll excuse me—"

"You're quite entrepreneurial." His mouth curved slightly in something that might have been a smile if it had reached his eyes. "Turning unwanted gifts into profit."

The comment stung more than it should have. I turned to face him fully, my spine straightening with defensive pride.

"I don't know what you think you're doing," I said. My voice was shaking but I pushed through it. "I told you—we're done. There's no possibility of anything between us."

"Lorelei—"

"And honestly?" I cut him off, the words coming faster now, fueled by suppressed anger. "We never had anything real to begin with. Let's not pretend otherwise. I was your mistress. That's it. That's all I ever was to you."

The word hung in the air between us.

I watched it land. Watched his jaw tighten, watched something flicker behind his eyes.

His hand found his thigh. I heard the familiar tapping start up—that nervous habit he'd never quite managed to control.

Good. Let him be uncomfortable. Let him feel a fraction of what I felt.

"Stop sending flowers," I continued. "I know you have money to burn. But you used to be all about efficiency, right? This isn't efficient. This is just—" I gestured helplessly at the basket. "Just pointless."

He was quiet for a long moment. The tapping got faster.

"I just wanted—" He stopped. Started again. "I thought—"

But he couldn't seem to finish the sentence. Couldn't find the words to explain what he thought sending flowers would accomplish.

All the anger I'd been holding back for a year came flooding up like a dam breaking.

"You want to know what you could have done?" My voice rose. People were starting to look. I didn't care anymore. "You could have defended me. When I was being harassed online. When people were sending me death threats. When my face was all over social media with people calling me a homewrecker and a gold digger and worse."

He went very still. The tapping stopped.

"You did nothing," I continued. My hands were shaking now, my whole body vibrating with suppressed emotion. "You just watched. And I know why—you were worried about your reputation. About Seraphina's feelings. About what people would think if you defended your mistress publicly."

"That's not—"

"It is." My voice cracked. "And that's when I realized: I was nothing to you. I never was. You couldn't even stand up for me when I needed you most."

People were definitely staring now. A small crowd had gathered at the edges of my peripheral vision.

Let them stare. Let them see what kind of man Dante Ashford really is.

"The damage you caused—" I had to stop and breathe, had to force air into my constricting lungs. "It's not something a few bouquets of roses can fix. You understand that, right? You can't just show up with flowers and expect everything to be okay."

Dante's fingers started tapping again—faster now, almost violent. His other hand came up to his head.

"I wasn't trying to—" His voice was strained, breaking at the edges. "I didn't mean—"

Then something in him seemed to break.

He grabbed his head with both hands and sank into a crouch right there on the plaza. His shoulders hunched forward. His breathing went ragged—short, sharp gasps that sounded almost like sobs.

"I—" The word came out choked. "I wasn't—"

I stared down at him—this man who'd always been so controlled, so perfectly composed—now crumpled on the ground in front of me like something broken.

Part of me wanted to reach out. To touch his shoulder. To ask if he was okay.

No. Don't you dare. This is manipulation.

But another part of me felt my heart constrict painfully at the sight of him like this.

And then, unbidden, my mother's words echoed in my ears, "Dante's father is your father."

Everything we did—everything I felt—it was wrong from the very beginning.

My throat closed up. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think past the sick, twisting horror of it—that I'd loved him, that I'd let him touch me, that some treacherous part of my heart still ached for him even now when I knew the truth.

We were doomed before we ever began.

"Stop it." My voice came out cold, harder than I'd intended, covering the crack threatening to split me open. "Don't do this. This whole tortured act—it doesn't suit you."

He didn't respond. Just stayed there, hunched over, hands in his hair, shoulders shaking.

I turned and walked away.

My vision was blurring. I blinked hard but the tears came anyway—hot and unwelcome, tracking down my cheeks despite my best efforts to hold them back.

I raised my hand and wiped at my eyes, trying to be discreet.

Don't look back. Don't you dare look back.

I made it to the corner before I had to stop. My hand found the wall. I pressed my palm flat against the cold stone and just breathed.

Behind me, I could still see him. Still crouched there on the plaza. The rose he'd asked for was on the ground beside him, petals already crushed under someone's careless foot.

This isn't your problem anymore. His pain isn't your responsibility.

You're not responsible for fixing him. You never were.