From Best Friend To Fiancé (Savannah and Roman) novel Chapter 216

**TITLE: Dreams Folding Into Broken Time**
**Chapter 216.**

“I don’t think you care,” I declared, my voice steady but laced with an undercurrent of bitterness. “In fact, I know you don’t.”

He looked up, surprise flickering across his features, eyes narrowing. “That’s not fair,” he shot back, a hint of defensiveness creeping into his tone.

“Neither was what you did,” I countered, my voice unwavering. There was no need to raise it; the truth was enough to fill the space between us. “You can spin whatever tales you like, Dean. You can paint me as the villain—cold, cruel, unforgiving. But the reality is, you don’t get to rewrite history. You can’t just waltz back into my life now, after you’ve left a trail of destruction, and expect me to feel something for you just because you’ve suddenly decided to grow a conscience as you prepare for your impending jail time.”

His eyes widened, and he blinked rapidly, as if my words were tangible weights pressing down on him. “Sav, I never expected you to feel anything. I just…” He took a deep breath, his shoulders slumping slightly. “I just wanted you to know I’m sorry.”

I held his gaze for what felt like an eternity, searching for any hint of sincerity, but all I found was a reflection of my own pain. Finally, I reached for the door handle, my fingers brushing against the cold metal, a stark contrast to the warmth of the moment. “You’ve already said that,” I reminded him, my voice flat. “Repeatedly.”

Panic flickered in his eyes, and his voice quickened, desperation spilling forth. “Wait—don’t go out there! It’s still pouring.”

I turned my head just enough to catch a glimpse of him, my expression unyielding. “Then maybe the rain can wash away the remnants of this conversation along with your presence.”

“Sav—please.”

There was something in his voice that made me hesitate. It wasn’t pity I felt; it was a shared exhaustion, two weary souls caught in the crossfire of regret.

I released the handle and leaned back against the seat, closing my eyes for a brief moment. The rain had transformed into a gentle drizzle, yet it remained unrelenting, as if the universe refused to grant us a moment of peace.

He spoke again, his tone slower, more measured this time. “I know you think I’m just saying all this to save my own skin. Maybe that’s partly true. Maybe I am scared. But I also realize I can’t keep running from the hurt I caused you. You didn’t deserve any of it—not the lies, not the public humiliation, and certainly not my betrayal when you needed someone to lean on.”

The sincerity in his voice, once capable of moving me, now felt like mere background noise, a melody I had long since tuned out.

“Dean,” I said, opening my eyes to meet his gaze. “You want to know what’s ironic?”

He looked at me with a mix of wariness and curiosity. “What?”

“I don’t hate you.”

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