Nothing tragic had happened. No promises had been exchanged. There hadn’t even been enough time for expectations to be raised.
Then why did she feel such a terrible sense of betrayal? As if something precious, something she hadn’t even been aware of wanting, had somehow slipped from her grasp. It was completely and utterly illogical. She’d gone into this affair with eyes wide open. All those glamour shots she’d seen online of Marc with different women, like a Hugh Heffner wet-dream, screamed loud and clear: this was not a man predisposed to fidelity.
Not that she was necessarily looking for anything long-term, she reminded herself. With her parents’ less-than-sterling example of what marriage entailed, she had always shied away from any entanglements. The last thing she wanted or needed was to end up like her mother, completely dependent on a man who didn’t give a damn about her well-being, her entire identity subsumed by the needs of someone who had apparently never reciprocated her feelings. It was enough for Kate to have witnessed her parents’ self-perpetuating cycle of hostility and bitterness, their never-ending volley of verbal pot-shots fired over a widening marital divide, to know that she wanted something different for herself. She was strong, clever, and hoped to have a brilliant career ahead of her. She didn’t need a man to complete her, even if he was gorgeous and smart and so sexy he could melt her with just a look.
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