Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter 23
DECLAN
I’M ON THE COUCH TRYING to distract myself with TV, but my knee won’t stop bouncing. Sienna has been in the bathroom for two hours. When she went to take a shower after lovemaking, I offered to join her. She refused, but I figured she needed a little breather after such an emotional moment together.
I know I did.
So, at first, I wasn’t concerned.
Then I walked into my bedroom. It was void of her belongings; her luggage was packed and waiting in a corner.
Still, I tried to brush it off and took a shower. I changed into a fresh pair of slacks and a blue shirt. Groomed myself.
I decided that Sienna may have gotten antsy about the mess in my room and wanted to tidy up. Though I haven’t told her I need to fly home tomorrow, we are initially due to leave the day after that.
She could be someone who likes to prepare for things early.
There are innocent possibilities for her suitcase to be packed.
Then a half hour passed. An hour. Ninety minutes. I had to know she was okay, so I knocked on her bathroom door a few times. Her muffled voice gave me some comfort, but the shower was still running.
Now two hours are gone, and I can still hear the distant rush of water. I’ve been struggling with flashbacks of Tiffany because she used to do the same thing. Tiffany would lock herself in the bathroom for hours with the faucets running. Sometimes she was in there hurting herself, sometimes only crying.
Often, it was just a long, relaxing shower.
Nothing I’ve observed has indicated Sienna is a danger to herself, but given my history, I’m on edge, like I’m sparring with an opponent blindfolded. I want to give Sienna her space if that’s what she needs, but it is an excessive amount of time to be in the bathroom.
And her luggage is packed.
She packed it before I returned earlier, saw her painting, made love to her.
Why is her fucking luggage packed?
My stomach lurches, so I get up and walk to the patio. I stare at the peaceful blue ocean. It does nothing for me, so I return to the couch and try to watch whatever movie is playing. Five minutes pass.
Ten.
Fifteen.
Now she’s been in there for two hours and fifteen minutes.
I fling myself off the couch because I can’t stand this; I have to check again.
As I’m walking into her room, the water finally turns off. My pulse races. Since I’m already nearby, I sit on the edge of the bed to wait. My knee keeps bouncing, but I’m certain I’m worrying about nothing; she was likely in there just pampering herself.
Needing distraction, I stare at the portrait resting on an easel in the corner. How could Sienna not know how incredibly talented she is? There are artists making good money who would give anything to have her perception and artistic eye. The composition of her work is flawless. The level of detail—
The bathroom door creaks open, and I turn my head. Sienna is in the doorway. On the surface, she looks the same—same blue floral dress from earlier, black hair hanging damp and heavy around her head. Same beautiful dark brown eyes and rosy skin. Her entire face is shiny and flushed, but that’s likely from all the steam she trapped in the bathroom.
That steam rolls out, making the surrounding air humid and dense.
She looks the same, but something in me knows this isn’t the woman who walked into the bathroom two hours and fifteen minutes ago—there are too many hard lines in her body. She’s like uncompromising steel, with a gaze that could cut titanium.
When our eyes lock, she stares me down. I offer a soft smile, trying to ease the sudden tension filling the space between us. Her response is to tip her head back slightly so her eyelids close halfway, looking down at me with ice in her pupils.
What the hell happened behind that closed door?
I stand so I can move closer, but her words stop me before I even take a step.
“I’m not happy, Declan.”
Every muscle stiffens, her firm tone echoing in my head. “About what?”
“Everything. This place. You.” She spits out the last word.
Rhythmically, I clench my jaw, trying to work through this situation. I’m completely sucker punched.
I replay the events of this afternoon.
When I returned to the suite, she was sad, worried that I might get hurt by my depiction in the portrait.
We made love—which I’m certain was what happened because the way she clung to me and kissed me, the way her body wrapped around mine, wasn’t mere sex. Unless she’s an incredible actress.
Afterward, I shared my past. She comforted me. Cried with me.
Then she disappeared into the bathroom, emerging as someone I’ve never met.
I shake my head like that will suddenly make the pieces of this puzzle fall into place. “What specifically has you so unhappy? Have I done something to—”
She sighs dramatically and leaves the room.
I follow.
When she reaches the kitchenette, she snatches her phone off the counter—the one I bought her—and throws it on the tile. The screen cracks, likely rendering the phone unusable.
I stare in stunned silence.
While making fists, her small frame shakes as words erupt from her throat. “I just can’t do this with you anymore.”
Agitation is gnawing at my insides. What the hell is going on? “Do what? What have I done to—”
“I really tried, Declan. I did. I tried to like you because at first you seemed like an okay guy. You let me come to Hawaii with you and you paid for things, and that’s all very sweet but…I don’t think you’re that good of a man, actually. You keep telling me these awful things about your past. I mean, I feel bad about your wife and I’ve obviously been crying for her. And it’s so tragic what happened to that innocent baby. But how can I possibly like you now that you told me all of that?” She flings a hand to motion at her bedroom, as if I don’t remember where I recently spilled my guts. “I’m not, I’m not happy. I need to get away from you.”
I’m in such a state of confusion that her harsh words aren’t yet registering. I can only focus on the way her hand is gripping the edge of the counter like she needs stability.
Taking a breath, she pushes her shoulders back and schools her face into an angry expression. Her mannerisms are odd—strained and forced. She narrows her eyes like looking at trash someone left on the street. “I understand how your wife felt.”
“What?” I say, my voice like diamond—unbreakable and sharp. Her words are hitting now—hitting places inside me I didn’t know she had the capability of stabbing so brutally.
Sienna must see something in my gaze that startles her because she takes a step back. Then she whips around, talking at the wall like she can’t look at me as she slices me open with each word. “Haven’t you wondered what kind of influence you had on her mental health? Honestly, I’m still getting to know you, and this is a bombshell. How do I know you’re telling the truth about what happened? Maybe she couldn’t stand to be around you. It’s just a lot of red flags. I think…I think there could be something about you that…that eats away at a woman until she’s desperate to escape.” She moves toward my bedroom, where her luggage is waiting. “I already know you have control issues. You might be a manipulator, too. Your poor”—she clears her throat, still hiding her face from me—"your poor wife. Maybe she felt suffocated and trapped, and she didn’t know how to get away. You’re making me…I’m feeling like that and I’ve only been with you a week."
I watch, having an out-of-body experience, as she enters my room and then emerges a second later with her luggage. She storms to the exit and opens the door. Then she faces me, angry tears spilling down her cheeks as she reaches a crescendo. “I can’t be with a man who could’ve been emotionally abusing his wife.” Her voice cracks and she jabs her finger in my direction. “So just stay away from me, okay? Do not follow me. Do not contact me.” Another crack, but she pushes forward. “I want nothing more to do with your shady past and your control issues. I hate you. I fucking hate you, and I regret the day we met. Stay the hell away from me, you fucking monster!”
She leaves and the door clicks shut, making her absence hit like thunder.
I huff out air, my lungs stalling, and I stand in the kitchen not breathing at all. Several minutes pass and I still can’t inhale. Tightness and pressure build and the world dims around the edges until I’m almost drowning in inky blackness. It’s the mark on my soul that began growing the day Tiffany and our son died. I’ve worried that one day it would swallow me completely in a desolate, empty feeling.
In this moment, I want nothing more than to surrender and let myself get consumed.
It’s where I belong. In the darkness with Tiffany, in a universe that has imploded and where all light has died. Where nothing has purpose.
Why did I stay in my office so long that day?
Why couldn’t I save my wife and son?
My body finally forces me to breathe, gasping for air.
My hands claw at the kitchen counter, then I press my back against it. My legs can’t support me, so I slide to the ground, making fists and shaking.
And shaking.
And shaking.
I’m back to struggling for breath until my body sucks in air again, gasping.
The door opens and Sean pokes his head in, looking alarmed. “Boss, is everything—”
“Get the fuck out!” I roar because I need to do something with these emotions.
I need the strength to dig my fingers into the marble countertop and break it into pieces, punch holes in the walls, lift the coffee table and chuck it through the nauseatingly white French doors.
Something.
Anything to relieve the bottomless, dark ache that’s consuming me.
But I can’t get off this floor, so I sit here like a pathetic, broken lump and let the tears fall.
Why didn’t I stay with my wife that day?