Chapter 65 The Irony of Betrayal

Chapter 65 The Irony of Betrayal
(Trish's POV)

"Joseph, please... listen to me. Whatever you think you heard—"

"Is what, Trish?" Joseph’s voice was a jagged blade, cutting through the small space of the hallway. He didn't move toward me. He stood rooted to the spot, his hands clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

"Is it a lie? Did I not just hear you promise a stranger that you’re moving hundreds of miles away in five days?"

I reached out, my fingers trembling. "It’s not like that. I was going to tell you. I’ve been trying to find the words for two months, ever since the first email came through about the New York residency—"

"Two months?" The word came out of him like a gasp, as if I’d physically punched him. He stepped back, his eyes searching mine with a look of pure, unadulterated horror. "You’ve known for two months? Since before the exams? Since before we... since everything?"

"I didn't know how to say it!" I cried, the desperation rising in my throat like bile. "Every time I looked at you, every time I saw how happy you were, I couldn't do it. I didn't want to break this. I wanted to stay in this bubble forever, but the reality is I have to go. I have to do this for my career, for—"

"For who, Trish? For yourself?" He let out a harsh, bitter laugh that sounded nothing like the boy I loved.

"You’ve been playing house with us. You’ve been letting my mom cook for you and letting me fall for you, all while you had a suitcase packed in your head. You were never going to tell us, were you? You were just going to disappear on Wednesday and leave a note on the pillow."

"That’s not true! Joseph, I love you!" I stepped toward him, my heart breaking at the sight of his tears. I reached out to hold him, to pull him into a hug that would prove I wasn't leaving him behind in spirit, but he recoiled.

He pushed my hands away as if they were made of fire. "Don't. Don't touch me."

He broke down then, the Golden Boy facade dissolving into the raw, jagged pain of a boy who felt discarded. I begged him to stop, to just sit and let me explain the contract, the money, the house, but he wouldn't hear it. The silence of the house was shattered by his heavy, gasping breaths.

Without another word, he turned and stormed into his room. I heard the frantic rustle of fabric, and seconds later, he emerged with his hoodie pulled low over his face. He didn't look at me. He charged past me, his shoulder brushing mine with a force that sent me stumbling.

"Joseph, wait!"

He didn't stop. He threw open the front door, the cold night air rushing into the warm house like a predator. He hit the pavement running, his athletic stride carrying him into the darkness of 7th Street.

"Trish? Joseph? What in the world is happening?" Miss Britney’s voice drifted from the living room, filled with sudden alarm. "What's wrong? Why is he running?"

I didn't answer. I couldn't. I couldn't tell her that her son thought I was a traitor, or that I was leaving her in five days. I ignored her calls, my sneakers hitting the cold concrete as I chased after him.

The night was freezing, the mist clinging to my skin, but I didn't feel it. All I could see was the shadow of Joseph disappearing into the fog.

He was running from the heartbreak of being left behind. He was running from the thought of being stuck in Mthland, a "Golden Boy" whose gold had turned to lead, while I became a star in a city he couldn't reach.

"Joseph!" I screamed into the wind, my lungs burning, the fitness he gave me being used for the most painful run of my life. "Please! Just stop!"

But he was a star quarterback, he was a good runner too, and I was just his girlfriend.

"Joseph! Please, stop!" I screamed again, my voice cracking against the biting wind.

He didn't look back. He reached the intersection of Main and 4th, his hoodie pulled tight, his head down in a blind, agonizing rage. He didn't see the glare of the high beams. He didn't hear the screech of air brakes or the frantic roar of a heavy engine.

The sound of the impact was something I will never forget, a sickening, dull thud followed by the terrifying skidding of tires. Joseph’s body was tossed like a ragdoll, sliding across the cold pavement before coming to a dead stop in the center of the road.

"NO!"

The scream ripped from my throat, raw and primal. I reached him in seconds, collapsing onto the concrete beside him. He was terrifyingly still.

A dark pool began to bloom beneath his head, staining the asphalt. His face, usually so full of life and arrogance, was ashen and slack. He was unconscious, his chest barely moving in shallow, stuttering hitches.

"Joseph? Joseph, look at me! Open your eyes!" I sobbed, pulling his limp body into my lap, my hands instantly slick with his blood. I fumbled for my phone with shaking fingers, dialing the emergency line through a haze of tears.

"Ambulance! I need an ambulance on 4th and Main! Please, he’s not moving!"

I dropped the phone, wrapping my arms around him, pulling him against my chest as if I could breathe my own life into his lungs. I shook him, my screams echoing off the empty storefronts. "Don't you dare leave me! You hear me, Joseph Michael? You don't get to leave!"

Suddenly, his eyelids flickered. A small, pained groan escaped his lips, and for a fleeting second, his eyes met mine, dazed, unfocused, and filled with a confusing blend of agony and lingering heartbreak.

"Trish..." he wheezed, before his eyes rolled back again.

My phone vibrated in the blood-stained grass beside me. It was a text from Miss Britney: “Is everything okay? Where did you guys go?”

I could only stare at the screen, my heart freezing. How was I supposed to tell the woman whose house was falling apart that the only thing she had left, her golden son, was currently dying in my arms?