Loving Madeline

Chapter 372: I Care

Charlotte’s POV

I slipped out of the function hall as quickly as I could, my heart racing. I knew Sophia would be looking for me again, probably ready to ask—no, beg—me to join them tonight. I wasn’t in the mood for social games or forced laughter. I just wanted space.

But as I stepped outside, I froze.

Standing near the entrance, leaning casually against the wall, was the last person I expected—or wanted—to see.

"Can I speak with you for a moment?" the woman asked, straightening as I approached.

It took me a second to place her face—she was the one who had boldly asked Jack out earlier.

"You’re Charlotte, right?" she continued, not waiting for my response. "I’m Deborah."

She extended a hand, and though every part of me wanted to ignore it, I took it out of reflex. Her handshake was firm, confident—too confident.

"What do you want from me?" I asked, keeping my voice as casual as I could, though suspicion already prickled beneath my skin.

She didn’t waste any time.

"Are you really going on a date with Jack?"

Her question caught me off guard, and I felt my brows rise. "Excuse me?"

"I saw the way you looked at him earlier," she said with a smirk. "That angry, disgusted glare? Yeah—I know that look. So I figured, maybe you’re not interested in him at all. Which works out perfectly for me."

She crossed her arms, eyes glinting with something between mischief and entitlement. "I like him. A lot. And I want to sleep with him—just once. That’s all I need."

Her words hit me like a slap.

Sleep with him?

She said it so plainly like she was talking about borrowing a jacket or ordering dessert. I stared at her, horrified—not just by her bluntness, but by the fact that she actually thought I’d help her.

"Come on," she added, lowering her voice like we were co-conspirators. "You clearly want to get rid of him. Help me out. Make sure he says yes. Then you’ll never have to deal with him again."

She had no idea.

She had no idea why I avoided Jack, why I was angry, or why I said no to that date. It wasn’t because I didn’t care—it was the opposite.

And that’s what truly shook me.

Because she was right—I hadn’t wanted to go on a date with him. But not because I didn’t like him.

It was because I did.

"Yes," I said softly, avoiding her eyes. "I didn’t want to go on a date with him. I turned Jack down."

I tried to sound indifferent, composed—but even I could hear the slight tremor in my voice.

"He was so full of himself for thinking I’d just say yes. Like it was a given." I added with a faint, almost bitter smile. "Typical Jack."

Deborah raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by my response, but I didn’t give her a chance to revel in it for too long.

"But I’m sorry," I continued, my voice firmer now. "I can’t help you."

Her face fell just a little—barely noticeable, but it was there. Disappointment crept into her expression, softening her earlier boldness.

"I don’t want to meddle in someone else’s life like that," I added. "Whatever’s going on between you and Jack—or whatever you hope will happen—I’m not going to be a part of it."

I didn’t say it to be cruel. I surprised myself with how calm I sounded. But deep down, I knew there was more to my refusal than just morality.

I didn’t want to admit it—not to her, not even to myself—but something inside me twisted at the thought of Jack with someone else. Especially someone who treated him like a passing thrill.

Deborah looked at me for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether to argue or walk away.

"Well, that’s disappointing," she finally said with a shrug, though her tone lacked the sharp confidence she’d started with. "You seemed like someone who didn’t care."

"I don’t," I said too quickly, then paused. "At least, I’m trying not to."

She gave me a strange, knowing smile—one that made me feel exposed.

"Good luck with that," she said quietly, then turned and walked away.

And I just stood there, the weight of my own words settling over me like fog.

I didn’t want to care. But the truth was... I did.

Too much.

Do you really hate me that much?" a familiar voice asked behind me, low and sharp. "That you won’t even consider going on a friendly date with me?"

I froze.

My heart jumped into my throat, and I turned around slowly. There he was—Jack—leaning casually against the doorframe like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb into the quiet. But his eyes... they weren’t casual at all. There was hurt in them. Real, raw hurt, barely masked beneath that usual smirk he wore like armor.

"Jack, I—" I started, but the words caught in my throat.

He didn’t give me a chance to explain.

"Well," he cut in, his tone suddenly cooler, tinged with something bitter. "Deborah seems like an interesting woman. Confident. Fun. I think one night with her wouldn’t be such a bad idea after all."

The air left my lungs.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. I couldn’t tell if I was shocked, or angry, or just... aching. He wasn’t even looking at me anymore—he was already turning away, walking down the hall like he hadn’t just ripped the floor out from under me.

And I just stood there, watching his back grow smaller with every step, wishing the ground would swallow me whole.

Because the worst part wasn’t what he said.

It was how much it hurt.

I walked back toward my hotel, and my steps felt heavy. The world around me blurred into the background—cars, voices, the fading hum of evening activity—it all became a distant noise as if I were moving underwater.

I felt... lost.

The kind of loss you don’t get from taking a wrong turn, but from realizing you don’t know where you’re supposed to be anymore.

As I stepped through the hotel lobby, my eyes instinctively scanned the space, searching for him.

Jack wasn’t there.

The front desk, the lounge area, the elevator—nothing. No sign of him. And it hit me harder than I expected.

If you’d asked me just a few days ago, I would’ve said I wished Jack would disappear. That his absence would bring peace, silence, and maybe even relief.

But now?

Now, I found myself hoping he was upstairs. That maybe, just maybe, he was behind the door of his suite, pacing or thinking or—God, anything but out with her. Or maybe I wanted him to knock on my door and look at me the way he used to as if I was the only person in the world who mattered.

The thought made my stomach twist.

How childish could I be? I felt like a fool for thinking I’d moved on. For pretending that my feelings were buried deep enough to be ignored. For convincing myself that avoiding him would make it all go away.

But it hadn’t.

And now the idea of him with Deborah—laughing, touching, kissing her—stung in a way I wasn’t prepared for.

Why did it bother me so much?

Why did the idea of Jack being with someone else make my chest ache like this?

I stopped walking in the hallway outside my room, staring blankly at the door, heart pounding. The answer was painfully clear—because I wasn’t over him.

Not even close.

And that realization terrified me more than anything.

I wanted to stay in my room. I really did.

The walls felt safe—quiet. A refuge from the thoughts I couldn’t seem to escape. But no matter how many times I tried to distract myself, my mind kept circling back to Jack.

Where was he? Was he with her?

The thought made my chest tighten. I rolled onto my side, burying my face into the pillow as if that could silence the whirlwind in my head.

Then my phone rang.

I reached for it, hoping—and yet not hoping—it would be him. But it was Sophia’s name flashing on the screen. I hesitated for half a second but answered.

"Why are you hiding in your hotel room, Charlotte?" she asked immediately, her voice laced with mock scolding before I could even say hello.

"I—"

"Don’t even start," she cut me off playfully. "We’re in Paris, for heaven’s sake! You’re not allowed to sulk in bed while we’re out living the dream. I’m sending you the name of the bar. Get dressed—we’re waiting."

And just like that, she hung up.

I stared at the phone, her energy still ringing in my ears. For a moment, I debated staying put. It was tempting. But something in me shifted—an ache, a flicker of restlessness.

"Okay," I whispered to no one, throwing off the blanket and walking to the closet.

I didn’t just want to go out—I wanted to feel something other than this mess inside me. And yes, I wanted to look good... stunning, even. I told myself it was for me. To feel powerful again. But deep down, I knew the truth.

I wanted to impress Jack.

Even if he wasn’t going to be there.

I slipped into a dress that walked the line between classy and sexy—subtle, but striking. The kind of look that didn’t scream for attention, but wouldn’t go unnoticed either. As I stood in front of the mirror, adding the final touches to my makeup, I caught my own gaze.

Why am I doing this?

Because part of me wanted him to see what he’d miss out on.

And the other part?

The other part of me, buried beneath pride and logic ached with the impossible hope that he’d walk in, look at me, and remember what we almost had.