Florence hated when he started to sound all vulnerable. That's what always won her. Even when he was cutting her as low as physically possible, she'd give in because she couldn't stand to see him hurting. It had been hard enough on her when it hadn't been her doing the hurting. But now?
"You've seen what arguing can do," she repeated, a sad knowing in her voice. "What in God's name makes you think we could have just...stopped fighting? Could your parents, if given the chance? I'm not saying it was impossible. Maybe we could have worked things out as civilized adults. But you know how hard it would have been. We're both hot-tempered and rough around the edges and downright mean when we choose to be." It was what had made them so fiery and passionate, but it had also been their ultimate downfall.
Even if he hadn't been too proud to ask - and they both knew he was, so why even consider it? - she wasn't sure if she could try again with him. Oh, a part of her did want to. He'd meant the world to her, even in their darkest moments, and she knew how capable he could be of being a loving, wonderful man. But he could also be a right git. He could make life downright miserable when he felt like it. His talent equaled an ego and at times, that ego made everyone around him absolutely miserable. Especially if he didn't get his way. And she'd stood in the way of that happening. Even if she did go back to him, if she suggested the idea, if he did accept, she'd be paying for the last year of her life for quite some time.
"I was happy," she admitted softly, looking up at him before studying the table between them instead. "For a while. And sometimes, I still was. You can be so judgmental, Freddie. And critical. Even today, you couldn't be in the same room with me for five minutes without finding something to criticise." And then there was the press. His rants, setting them off on million mile an hour streaks to meet deadlines about the American with the attitude. How many times had she tried to call off the hounds, out for blood, or ruffle the feathers of offended opponents who threatened to not play against him at all?
Though she could honestly say she'd only ever been attracted to one of those opponents. And Freddie had every right to hate him. And to be furious with her, too. But she hadn't left him for Anatoly. That she wasn't sure he'd ever understand. She'd told him before that, back at the hotel, that it was over. That she was leaving. And he'd never know how many storms she'd braved just to get the courage to say those words.
"He never loved me," she finally admitted, her voice barely a whisper. In the crowded coffee shop, it was a miracle if he could even hear her. "I'm not sure if he loved her anymore, but I know he didn't give a damn about me. His kids, though... If he loved anyone in this world, it was them. I want to believe he'd have gone back for them, Freddie. I do. Getting in and out of there was hard enough for one person." No, she couldn't say she still loved Anatoly, not the way she had. Not after everything that had happened in Bangkok. But she'd cared for him for a year, and when Florence gave her affections to someone, it was intentional, deliberate, and complete. And she refused to believe he was, at the end of the day, as cold-hearted as the man who, biologically at least, called himself Freddie's father.