Broken Juliet Read online

  About Broken Juliet

  Some loves never let you go . . .

  Cassie swore she’d never forgive Ethan for breaking her heart when they were in acting school years ago. He was her one great love, and when he refused to love her back, a part of her died forever . . . or so she thought. Now she and Ethan are sharing a Broadway stage, and he’s determined to win her back. Finally he’s able to say all the things she needed to hear years ago . . . but can she believe him? The answer lies somewhere in the past, and now the truth will come to light.

  Will Cassie rediscover what it’s like to be trusting and open again – the way she was before Ethan? Or is it too late for these star-crossed lovers?

  Don’t miss this mesmerizing final chapter in the Bad Romeo duet, the unforgettable love story that captured the hearts of over two million fans online.

  Contents

  Cover

  About Broken Juliet

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Chapter One – Beautiful Repair

  Chapter Two – Despised Vulnerability

  Chapter Three – Mask

  Chapter Four – Hold on to Me

  Chapter Five – Perfect Disguise

  Chapter Six – Unraveling

  Chapter Seven – Stronger

  Chapter Eight – One Night

  Chapter Nine – Floodgates

  Chapter Ten – This Too Shall Pass

  Chapter Eleven – Open Book

  Chapter Twelve – Hopeful Indifference

  Chapter Thirteen – Avoidance

  Chapter Fourteen – Passion

  Chapter Fifteen – Just Sex

  Chapter Sixteen – Little Ache

  Chapter Seventeen – Collision Course

  Chapter Eighteen – Powerplay

  Chapter Nineteen – Emotional Evolution

  Chapter Twenty – Now and Then

  Chapter Twenty-one – Opening Night

  Chapter Twenty-two – Beginning of the End

  Chapter Twenty-three – Sink or Swim

  Chapter Twenty-four – Encore

  Chapter Twenty-five – Final Bow

  Special Preview: Wicked Heart

  Acknowledgments

  About Leisa Rayven

  Also by Leisa Rayven

  Copyright page

  This book is dedicated to my darling parents, who thought I was being scammed when I told them I had a publishing deal.

  How’d you like me now, Bern and Val? Huh?! In your face!

  (I’m kidding. I love you. Please don’t ground me.)

  When he shall die,

  Take him and cut him out in little stars,

  And he will make the face of heaven so fine

  That all the world will be in love with night

  And pay no worship to the garish sun.

  —Juliet, describing Romeo

  Romeo and Juliet by William Shakespeare

  ONE

  BEAUTIFUL REPAIR

  Present Day

  New York City, New York

  The Apartment of Cassandra Taylor

  In Japan, they have something called Kintsugi—the art of repairing precious pottery with gold. The result is a piece that has obviously been broken, but is more beautiful for it.

  It’s a concept that’s always fascinated me.

  So often, people try to hide their scars. As if the slightest damage proves how weak they are. They equate scars with mistakes, and those mistakes with shame. Perfection forever marred.

  Kintsugi does the opposite. It says, “There is beauty borne from tragedy. Look at these precious fault lines of experience.”

  As I stand in my hallway, staring at the front door that reverberates with my former lover’s knocks, it occurs to me that even though Kintsugi is a noble concept, it doesn’t change the truth that once something is broken, it can never be anything else. Beautiful repair, no matter how elegant, doesn’t make it whole again. It’s still just a collection of pieces impersonating its former shape.

  Judging from his soul-baring email this morning, which included an epic declaration of love, I believe Ethan wants to repair me. Ironic, considering he was the one who broke me in the first place.

  I know you think I left because I didn’t love you, but you’re wrong. I’ve always loved you, from the moment I first laid eyes on you.

  I’d spent so long believing I got what I deserved when people left me that I didn’t stop to think I got what I deserved when I met you. I couldn’t comprehend that if I stopped being an enormous insecure jackass for five minutes that maybe . . . just maybe . . . I could keep you.

  I want to keep you, Cassie.

  You need me as much as I need you. We’re both hollow without the other, and it’s taken me a long time to realize that.

  There was the knocking again, this time louder. I know I have to answer it.

  He’s right. I am hollow without him. I always have been. But what do I have to offer other than a shell of the woman he fell in love with?

  Don’t be as stupid as I was and let the insecurities win. Let us win. Because I know you think loving me again is a crapshoot and that your odds are grim, but let me tell you something: I’m a sure thing. I couldn’t stop loving you if I tried.

  It’s possible for him to love me and still leave me. He’s proven that time and again.

  Am I still terrified of you hurting me? Of course. Probably the same way you’re terrified I’ll hurt you.

  But I’m brave enough to know it’s absolutely worth the risk.

  Let me help you be brave.

  Brave is a word I haven’t used to describe myself for a long time.

  My phone buzzes with a message.

 

  Excitement and fear crawl up my spine, racing to see which one can paralyze my brain first.

  When I’d finished reading his email, I needed to see him. But now that he’s here, I have no idea what to do.

  As I walk down the hallway, I feel like I’m dreaming. Like the past three years have been a nightmare, and I’m about to wake up. Everything feels slow. Important.

  When I reach the door, I tighten my robe and exhale in an effort to calm my nerves. Then, with a shaky hand, I pull it open.

  I make myself breathe as the door swings open to reveal Ethan, phone in hand. So handsome but tired. Nervous. Looking almost as nervous as I feel.

  “Hey.” He says it softly. Like he’s afraid I’m going to chase him away.

  “You’re here. I only texted that I needed to see you a minute ago. How did you get here so fast? Were you already here?”

  “Uh, yeah. I’ve . . . well, I’ve been here for a while. After I emailed you, I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop thinking about things. You.” He looks down at the phone and shoves it in his pocket. He smiles and shakes his head. “I wanted to be here. Close.”

  His jacket is on the ground, crumpled next to a cardboard coffee cup.

  “Ethan, how long exactly have you been out here?”

  His small smile masks something deeper. Something desperate.

  “A few hours, but in a way . . .” He looks at his feet and shakes his head again. “I kind of feel like I’ve been waiting out here for three years, just trying to find the courage to knock on the door. I guess that email was my way of doing it.”

  When he glances up again, for the first time in a long while I see fear in his eyes. “The real question is, are you going to let me in?”

  I notice how I’m gripping the doorjamb with my right hand, while my wh
ole body blocks the entrance. It’s like I’m subconsciously standing in his way.

  He leans forward slowly, being so careful. “You read my email, right?”

  Right away, the space between us feels very small.

  “Yes.”

  He puts his hands in his pockets, expression wary. “And? Did it help?”

  I don’t know what to say. Does he expect some sort of declaration from me? Something to match his thousand “I love you”s?

  “Ethan, that email was . . . amazing.”

  Apparently that’s all he wants to hear, because his face lights up.

  “You liked it?”

  “I loved it.” My throat tightens around the “L” word. “Did you really type out the . . . those phrases . . . individually?”

  “Yes.”

  “How long did it take?”

  “I didn’t keep track of time. I just needed you to know. I still need for you to know.”

  I grip the door tighter.

  I know we shouldn’t be having this discussion in my hallway, but if I let Ethan in, he’ll touch me, and then whatever fragile strength I have left will shatter.

  “So, where do we go from here?” He moves forward. “I think I’ve made myself pretty clear. But what about you?”

  I tense because of his proximity.

  This man represents so many things to me. He was my first true friend. My first love. First lover. The master of more pleasure than I knew existed, and the architect of more heartache than I thought I could endure.

  It seems almost impossible to translate all of those men into the one he wants to be. The one who just wants to be a single thing to me.

  Mine.

  “Cassie . . .” He touches my hand then traces down my wrist and over my forearm. There’s an explosion of goosebumps left in its wake. “What do you want?”

  I want him. Can’t want him. Need him. Hate needing him.

  “I don’t know,” I whisper.

  “I do,” he says, leaning forward. “Invite me in. I promise, I’m here to stay this time.”

  TWO

  DESPISED VULNERABILITY

  Six Years Earlier

  Westchester County, New York

  The Grove

  When I wake, I stretch, and it takes me a moment to realize why I’m sore. Then I remember.

  I had sex. Incredibly passionate, muscle-trembling sexual intercourse. With Ethan.

  I smile.

  Ethan Holt took my virginity. Oh Lord, how he felt. All around me and inside. Scenes from last night come flooding back and make the ache transform into tingles.

  Surely I’ll look different now. I feel different. Wonderful. Like a whole new world of experience has been opened up to me, and I can’t wait to explore it.

  With him.

  As I sigh contentedly, I reach over to the other side of the bed, only to find it empty.

  I open my eyes. “Ethan?”

  I get up and check the rest of the apartment. Empty. I go back and sit on my bed. The sheets are crumpled and still smell like him.

  I check my phone. No messages. I look under the bed to make sure that a touching love note/apology hasn’t slipped under there.

  Nothing.

  Great.

  I’m pretty certain that when a man leaves your bed in the middle of the night, it’s not a good sign.

  *

  Later that morning, I jiggle my knees as I wait for our Advanced Acting class to begin.

  Ethan’s late. He’s never late.

  I still can’t believe he just left. I mean, if you sleep with a girl for the first time, you at least text her, right? If not an actual phone call to say, “Hey, thanks for letting me deflower you. It was rad.”

  I know that being open is a struggle for him, but doesn’t he realize he’s not the only one who needs reassurance?

  Erika sweeps into the room, and I try to put Ethan from my mind.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back. I trust you all had a refreshing Thanksgiving break.” Everyone murmurs something vaguely positive, and she smiles. “Good, because for the next few weeks, I’m going to push you harder than ever before. This term we’ll be working with masks, which is one of the most challenging and ancient art forms within the theater.”

  The door opens, and Erika frowns as Holt walks in and sits down. He looks tired.

  “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Holt.”

  He nods. “Yeah, no problem.”

  “Can I get you anything? A watch, perhaps?”

  He looks down at his hands. “Sorry I’m late.”

  She gives him a pointed look. “As I was saying, mask work is difficult and requires the actor to be completely honest and open. It’s not an art form that forgives emotional blocks or insecurities. Be prepared for some brutal self-examination.”

  Ethan glances at me and gives me a tight smile before he turns away.

  Erika goes to her desk and collects a large box filled with masks. She spreads them out on the floor.

  “These masks exhibit specific emotional traits. I’d like you all to take a few minutes and choose one that appeals to you.”

  Everyone goes over to the masks. As they talk and laugh among themselves, Ethan stands at the back, waiting for the crowd to subside. I go and stand beside him.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.” He barely looks at me.

  “You bailed on me this morning.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, and the muscles tighten in his jaw. “Are you . . . upset with me? About what happened? I mean, I know you said we should wait, and I pushed you to do it anyway, but—”

  “No.” He shrugs. “I’m not upset with you. I just . . . had stuff to do and I didn’t want to wake you.”

  His words are reassuring, but they don’t make me feel any better. “So, you enjoyed it then?”

  He drops his head, and I see the hint of a smile as he leans down to whisper in my ear. “Cassie, only you would want to discuss sex in the middle of acting class. Can we please talk about this later, when we’re not in a room full of people?”

  “Oh, yeah. Absolutely. Later.” I know he’s right, but my ego deflates more every second. “When, later?”

  He sighs and leans down again, so close his lips brush against my ear. “Yes, I enjoyed it. A lot. You were, without a doubt, the best I’ve ever had. But thinking about it right now isn’t going to end well for me. So please, for the love of inconvenient boners everywhere, let it go.”

  His confession makes me beam. It doesn’t excuse him leaving, but at least I know he had a good time.

  Erika gestures to us. “Mr. Holt, Miss Taylor, less talking, more mask choosing please. I’d like to get started.”

  By the time we step forward, there are only two masks left: one with a large nose and heavy, frowning brows, and one that looks like a child, all round eyes and soft cheeks.

  “Aggression and vulnerability,” Erika says as she leans against her desk. When I pick up the child and Ethan goes for the other one, she clucks her tongue and swaps them around. “This is a far less obvious choice for you both, don’t you think?”

  Ethan tenses, and for a second I think he’s going to argue, but Erika stares him down until he turns and goes back to his seat.

  Erika then calls people to the performance space in pairs. She gives prompts for improvised scenes that use only body language. It’s difficult, and everyone struggles, but Erika pushes them to give more. She’s scary today, and by the time she calls me and Ethan to the stage, my hands are clammy.

  “Miss Taylor, you’re representing strength, but in a negative context. Bullish, domineering, uncompromising. Mr. Holt, you’re the opposite. Sensitive, open, trusting. Begin when you’re ready.”

  I slip on my mask. It’s tight, which makes it difficult to breathe. My vision is limite
d to the small eyeholes, and I have to turn my head to see Ethan.

  He glances at me for a few moments before putting on his own mask.

  I take some time to center myself then move toward him and make myself as imposing as possible. It’s not easy when he towers over me. Still, I try to be aggressive and intimidating.

  “Feel what you’re doing, Miss Taylor. Inhabit the emotion of the mask.” I grab Ethan’s shirt and silently order him to the floor. He shies away, feigning fear, but his movement is awkward.

  “Mr. Holt, your mask represents submission and vulnerability. You have to embody those characteristics. Open yourself up.”

  Ethan tries to do what she’s asked, but he throws out clichéd gestures that make him look like a bad actor in a silent movie. Not only that, his frustration makes him seem more angry than anything else.

  I can tell that Erika is disappointed in our effort. A few minutes later, when she calls a stop to the exercise, Ethan all but rips off his mask and stalks back to his chair.

  Erika collects the masks and places them back in their box. “I know that today was difficult, but it should get easier. Your final assessment in this subject will account for fifty percent of your acting grade, so I expect you all to deliver your best work.”

  Ethan raises his hand.

  “Mr. Holt?”

  “Can we swap masks next time?”

  “No. The mask you worked with today will remain yours for the rest of the semester. I think you’d better get used to exploring your vulnerable side, Mr. Holt.”

  The look on Ethan’s face is so disdainful it’s almost funny.

  THREE

  MASK

  The Grove’s acting school is the most prestigious in the country, so it stands to reason their standards are extremely high. Still, I don’t think any of us were prepared for just how difficult some classes are proving to be. Especially masks.

  Contrary to Erika’s assurance that it would get easier, we all continue to struggle. But as bad as most of us are, Ethan is worse. Erika has been pushing him harder than anyone else, and of course that means he’s always in a crappy mood.

  He’s being distant, and even though I’ve made it very clear I’d love to have more sex, it’s been nearly a week since he’s touched me anywhere interesting. He doesn’t even hold my hand unless I initiate it. Good thing I always initiate it. If he won’t let me have the rest of his body, I’m damn well going to have his hand.