Chapter 3

Jax didn’t show his face for an entire week.

The last day of the month was my mother’s death anniversary.

Beatrice Harlan had never been strong. Her health had steadily declined after I insisted on mating with Jax, defying my father’s wishes. The day she passed, Wyatt Harlan—proud, reserved, never one to beg—called me himself, voice cracking, urging me to come home before it was too late.

But I was in Seattle, closing a deal that would finally lift the Teton Pack out of debt. One signature, and Jax could walk into my parents’ manor with his head held high. Mother had been hospitalized before; our private medical team was the best money could buy. I gambled. I stayed.

By the time I rushed back to Jackson Hole, she was already gone.

My father looked ten years older overnight. He didn’t yell. Didn’t strike me. Just stared at the floor and whispered, “Aurora… how long has it been since you last saw your mother? She kept saying your name… right up until the end.”

Her death carved a hollow in my chest I’d never fill.

Jax carried guilt like a second skin. Every year since, he brought white lilies to her grave and stood beside me in silence. This year, though, he’d be absent.

I bought the lilies myself and walked alone through St. John’s Cemetery.

“Mom,” I murmured, tracing the cold marble of her headstone, “do you hate me for this? Do you think it’s funny—how far I’ve fallen?”

“Jax didn’t mean to hurt me.”

He just stopped loving me.

I stayed until dusk, whispering secrets only she would understand.

When I finally left the cemetery, I found Jax waiting outside our apartment at Teton Trail. His eyes were shadowed, his posture tense.

I clenched my fists and made one last request.

“Jax… I haven’t seen you play football in years.”

“Will you play for me? Just once more?”

He hesitated. Rubbed his jaw. Looked away.

“I promised Chloe tonight. It’s our last evening together. After this, I swear—I’ll never see her again. Please, Aurora. Just this once.”

I studied his hopeful expression—the same one he used to wear when begging me to say yes back in high school—and nodded silently.

His face lit up like he’d just won the state championship. He hurried inside, showered, shaved, and emerged in a crisp charcoal suit, clutching a bouquet of deep red Bulgarian roses.

I watched him adjust the stems.

When was the last time he’d brought me flowers?

I couldn’t remember.

Maybe love, like roses, always fades.

There was joy in his steps—but also sorrow.

After he left, I pulled out my old Jackson Hole High cheer uniform from the back of my closet. The fabric still smelled faintly of sage tea and Friday night bonfires. I drove to the renovated football field where everything began.

The grass was newer. The bleachers shinier.

Just like Jax’s heart—refurbished for someone else.

I queued up our old halftime song on my phone and danced.

Jax, do you remember?

Right here, you told your teammates you’d marry the prettiest cheer captain in Wyoming.

Every routine I ever performed after that was for you.

I spun, leapt, shook the pom-poms with everything I had. Sweat stung my eyes. My lungs burned.

This final dance—still yours.

But the sidelines were empty. No Jax grinning like a fool, no wolf-whistles from his friends, no proud shouts of “That’s my girl!”

When the music died, I collapsed onto the turf, ripped off the uniform, and tossed the pom-poms into the dark.

I never doubted true love.

But truth changes faster than seasons.

My flight to Paris left at 5 a.m.

I waited at home until 3 a.m.

No knock. No call. No Jax.

I didn’t dial him. Just grabbed my suitcase and walked out.

Goodbye, Jax.

For good.