Chapter Five
Chapter 5
DECLAN
THERE ARE MANY DARK EMPTY rooms in my house—a house that was never meant for a solo habitant. In one of those dark rooms on the second floor, I pour another glass of scotch, the amber liquid sloshing against the sides as my hand shakes. It’s a telltale sign that I’ve already had too much, but tonight, I don’t care. I need the numbness, the blissful oblivion that only alcohol can provide.
My head is already in such a fog I’m not sure what room I’m in. I got home from a long day of irritating meetings and started with two shots in the kitchen. Then I began wandering. This house is so large, with winding hallways and connecting rooms, that I enter another universe when the lights are off.
On days like this, part of me hopes I never find my way out of this maze of polished wooden floors, bare walls, and marble surfaces. That I can wander forever and never circle back to the light where every memory is illuminated.
So, I might be in the library or my office. The second story den. Several of these dark rooms have at least a small bar or a shelf dedicated to spirits, so they all blur together in the dim light. After getting my next drink, I move toward the window and bump into a couch. Guess I’m in the den.
I peel back the curtains to gaze down at the tiered garden. She made me build that garden when we moved in; she spent nearly every day tending to the flowers, teaching me the names of each kind. Under her care, the garden burst with colors and smells, roses from pink to dark crimson, tulips, rows of irises in every shade of blue. The stone pathways wove through lavender beds, wisteria draped over arches.
She adored that garden. Guess that’s why I found her letter right there, resting on the stone of the fountain’s edge, held down by the tiny white shoes I bought the day I found out she was pregnant.
“It’s all for the best. You and I know I wouldn’t have made a good mother.”
I let the entire garden die after that letter—I didn’t have the heart to see it bursting with so much life. It’s now only dirt and sticks and abandoned pathways, a few stubborn roses clinging to life. I tore down the fountain myself—took a sledgehammer and smashed the entire thing, leaving the rubble as a visceral reminder that all I bring to women is destruction.
Turning from the window, I down the rest of my scotch, welcoming the burn in my throat. Anything to distract from the gaping hole in my chest.
Eight years. Today, April 10th, is the eighth anniversary of the day I read that letter.
A chime echoes around me, the sound trying to pull me from the darkness I’d prefer to fall into. With a sigh, I pull out my phone to check the video feed from my security app. My assistant is waiting in his car outside the gate.
My jaw tenses. Why the fuck is he here? He knows what today is.
He stares into the camera, looking a mix of friendly and terrified. “Mr. Conte,” he says, brushing a blond bang off his forehead with twitchy fingers. “Um, you said to bring the jacket as soon as I got it. I met with her just a bit ago. I’m sorry. I know not to disturb you now, but you also said this was important. I wasn’t sure.”
So, the mystery woman resurfaced.
With a sigh, I hit the speak button on my NexaProtect app and tell him, “Leave it by the front door.” Then I open the gate and close the app.
It takes a few minutes for me to stumble out of the room and make my way to the stairs. After crossing the vast, echoing spaces of this damn house, I finally reach the front door.
My assistant is driving away by the time I open the door and pick up the garment bag he hung on the doorknob. The chill of the evening seeps into my skin and I shake. But instead of retreating, I stand in the open doorway for a moment, my eyes unfocused.
Perhaps I should’ve asked my assistant to describe the mystery woman’s face since I’m yearning to see it. I’ve imagined so many versions of her in my head—bushy eyebrows, thin and straight ones, a wide nose, a crooked one. The yearning to simply know has been growing, especially since she keeps running away.
Stepping back into my house, I close the front door, finally turning my attention to the white plastic bag draped over my arm. Inside, I’ll find my jacket soaked in her scent.
I think back to our phone call, to the way her breathy moans and gasps set my blood on fire. The way she surrendered to my commands. It was intoxicating, addictive. A high I never wanted to come down from.
I hate to admit it, but she made me feel something. I became lost in her voice and actually felt excitement. A flicker of joy.
She seemed to enjoy herself as much as I had, so why run? Why hit me with a jab and end the call? Either I pushed her too far, too fast, or she’s playing a game. I really don’t know the woman beyond her ambitions and the way her presence affects me. She might be the kind of woman who enjoys the game of cat and mouse.
I don’t.
The thought of her toying with me intentionally is like nails on a chalkboard.
One minute she’s hot, the next she’s cold. Responsive and eager, then distant and closed off. This is a cycle I’m all too familiar with—push, pull, love, hate. Over and over until I don’t know what’s up and what’s down. What to believe or not believe. When to give space. When to cling desperately.
I fucking hate that game and I refuse to play it again.
My mind shifts to the garden, the letter, the…
I swallow hard and walk to the kitchen, laying the garment bag across the marble counter. My fingers grab the plastic in the middle and tear it open, ignoring the zipper. Inside, there’s my jacket. But not soaked in her scent.
Cleaned.
She cleaned my jacket when I told her not to.
With one quick movement, I sweep the garment onto the tile. Then I stalk to the cabinet and grab a bottle to pour another drink, my vision blurring at the edges. I know I should stop, should go to bed and try to sleep. But I can’t. Not when my mind is racing, my body thrumming with restless energy.
After hanging up on me, she merely messaged: I’m sorry.
For what? For playing a game? She doesn’t want to use my contacts so clearly something is going on, and I keep letting myself get mixed up in it. I need her out of my head, out of my system.
I set my glass of scotch down by the sink without drinking. Fuck, I need to calm myself, but that’s impossible to do in this house where memories are practically dripping from the ceiling. I decide to call a driver and go somewhere that always makes my problems feel smaller.
THE COLD SAND OF BAKER BEACH fills the cracks between my toes. A bitter wind stabs at my blazer and whips hair around my face. There’s only one other person on the beach at this hour—a shadowed figure sitting on a rock and staring at the ocean.
I step forward until the waves lap at my bare feet, the water thick with the briny scent of the bay, and I take a breath. In the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge is illuminated in long strands of lights. Beyond the lights, pure darkness. The moon is a sliver and the ocean an inky black void. If not for the lighted boats and the sounds of water crashing against rocks, it would be pure nothingness.
Exactly what I need; this spot always helps me clear my head. Except, it’s failing that duty tonight. The vastness of the water, the scale of the bridge—it should all put my problems into perspective. Yet I can’t get one single, irritating thought out of my head: She cleaned the fucking jacket.
I curl my toes into the muddy sand until a sharp rock shifts under the waves and jabs me. I shouldn’t care. I normally don’t. After one woman in particular wrecked me, I thought I had learned my lesson about letting people in, about opening myself up to the possibility of pain. But here I am again, standing on the precipice of more anguish.
Fuck this.
Before I can think better of it, I pull out my phone and type a message: Why did you clean it?
I hit send. Part of me hopes she won’t respond, that she’ll just let this thing between us fade, becoming another ghost in my past.
Another part of me, the part that can’t seem to stop obsessing, craves an answer.
Minutes tick by, each one an eternity. I’m about to put my phone away, to finally throw in the towel and write this woman off, when the phone buzzes in my hand.
M.W.: Cleaning it seemed like the right thing to do. I enjoyed what we did, but I don’t want attachments. I’m sorry.
Me: Same here. I don’t want attachments. But I thought I made it clear; I like to be in control. You can’t just disregard that.
Her response is quicker this time: You told me to hang up if I didn’t like something. So I did.
I stare at the screen. Guess I didn’t satisfy her, didn’t help her find pleasure. That’s a tough pill to swallow, a thought that sits heavy in my gut.
Me: I’m sorry you didn’t enjoy what we did.
M.W.: I enjoyed it. But I said no names. You ignored that.
I rake a hand through my hair, tugging at the strands. She’s right, of course. I did ask for her name, did push for more when she’d already set a boundary. Is that why she cleaned the jacket?
I smirk. Seems I’ve met a woman as stubborn as I am. And yet, even though I have answers now, I still can’t seem to let this go, even though every part of my logical brain says I need to.
I have plenty of women to keep me company, so why the hell am I so stuck on this one? She’s a woman without a name whose face I haven’t fully seen.
I’ve lost my mind.
An idea starts to form in my head, hazy at first, then it sharpens. It’s reckless, impulsive, completely unlike me. But the alcohol buzzing in my veins, the raw ache of what today is, pushes me forward.
I type out the words rapidly: I’m leaving for a conference in a few weeks. Hawaii. Come with me. I need to fuck you out of my system.
M.W.: Wow. Are you always this brutally honest?
Me: Yes. I hate games.
I never deny how blunt I can be, and it has scared plenty of women off. The ones who stay, though, are the ones who can handle me and my strict boundaries.
My mystery woman doesn’t respond, so I add: You said you felt the attraction, so give us one night. I’ll take you on a date, then back to my hotel room. In the morning, enjoy yourself in Hawaii, all expenses paid. We’ll go our separate ways, no strings attached.
I wait, staring at the black ocean. The weight of the night presses in—tomorrow will be a gray, foggy day.
Finally, my phone lights up with her response: I can’t. Sorry. I don’t like owing anyone anything, especially not a man. I can’t owe you for a trip. Please, don’t text me again.
With that, the guillotine falls. I honestly don’t know what the hell I was thinking; a moment of pure insanity.
I pocket my phone and start trudging through the icy sand back to where my driver is waiting. But I’m not going home. What I need is to pound my fists against the hard, unyielding surface of a punching bag. There’s a 24-hour gym I frequent with exactly what I need, and if I’m lucky, there will be a few people interested in sparring.
My body craves the physical ache of getting pummeled.
As I walk, I close my eyes, letting the wind smack my face, letting the chill seep into my bones. I think I’m relieved my mystery woman said no, because I’m a tainted man, poisoned. Everything I touch turns to ash, so she’s better off escaping.
I don’t need another woman leaving me a letter and a pair of tiny white shoes.