Thirty-nine
Danica
I open the door to a room we’re using as storage, and Austin strides in like he owns the place. “This can’t be happening,” I mutter under my breath, but there’s no denying the six-foot-one frame that’s just disrupted this huge party I’m supposed to be working.
I plant my hands on my hips, mustering every ounce of indignation I can. “What the hell are you playing at, Austin?” My voice is sharp, edged with three months of silence. “I did not get any messages from you.”
Austin’s hazel eyes meet mine, any sense of humor absent. He rubs the back of his neck, a telltale sign he’s stressed. “Danica, I—I swear I tried reaching out. After the party, I called you every night for a week. You never answered.”
“That is not true. I sent texts and left voicemails,” I retort, confusion mixing with a flicker of pain. Not once did my phone light up with his name.
He’s quiet a moment, and then his face changes. “My mother…tonight…all those calls, all those texts…” His voice trails off.
He explains how he called me when he arrived here tonight, and his mother answered. She’s done something to his phone, making it impossible for us to connect.
Stunned, I step back, trying to process. Every missed connection, every doubt about where we stood, it was orchestrated. I know she didn’t like me, but how could she have done this?
“Her jealousy—it’s always been an issue,” he continues. He looks devastated, shaking his head. “She told me you left the party with someone else. That you’d moved on.”
“How could she have done that?” I struggle to find my footing in the revelations. Austin’s confession paints a picture so twisted it’s hard to look at. “Why didn’t you get my messages and voicemails?”
He runs his hands through my hair. “My only guess is that when she changed your number in my phone, she forwarded all your calls and text messages to herself.”
“Why would she do that? What did I do to her?”
“There’s no reason that justifies this. She’s gone too far this time.” He shakes his head again, and his frown tells me he’s only just beginning to understand the extent of his mother’s interference.
“Too far, indeed,” I murmur, the pieces of a painful puzzle finally clicking together. The missed calls, the silence, my growing resentment—it wasn’t indifference; it was manipulation.
And there, amidst the turmoil and the shock, I see earnest regret in Austin’s gaze, tension in his shoulders. He’s been caught in his mother’s web as much as I have. It doesn’t erase the past months, but it cracks the wall I’ve built around my heart—just a little.
“Those texts you thought were going to me,” I start, my voice shaky, “were any of them…not exactly PG?”
Austin shifts uncomfortably, raking a hand through his hair. “No. I was mostly interested in trying to explain why I was so absent that night of the party.”
“I saw the news. I knew you were swamped. I even tried calling your office, but your voicemail there was full.”
He nods. “Somehow my personal voicemail was leaked to the press.” He pushes his cell at me, and I scroll through text after text. It breaks my heart to see all the messages that went unanswered.
“I’m so sorry,” he says after a moment. “I never thought she’d do anything like this.”
And yet she has… This doesn’t suddenly make everything okay. I need to be careful, not fall for it all over again. “Figures.” The word snaps from my mouth. “You get what you deserve, Austin.” I pivot on my heel, ready to escape this absurd situation, but his hand wraps around my arm, stopping me.
“Danica, wait.” His grip is firm but not harsh, a plea rather than a command. “I’ve thought about you every day. I missed you so much.”
I close my eyes. I want to believe him, to lose myself in the possibility that what we had wasn’t as one-sided as I feared. But the sting of betrayal still lingers, fresh and raw. “Missed me?” I scoff, yanking my arm away. “Funny way of showing it. Living next door to your loft for weeks, I’ve seen plenty. Sandrine always hanging on your arm, smiling for the cameras.”
He shakes his head. “No, no, you’ve got it all wrong. Sandrine and I—we’re not together. I haven’t seen her. She made a scene at the loft demanding to get in one day, but I wasn’t there. I had Clear Security recheck my system to be sure it was solid after that.”
“I saw you on some red carpet with her,” I volley back. Let him defend that.
His brow crinkles. “I haven’t seen her in months. I swear. I haven’t been to any events with her since you and I got involved. After you told me about that party, months ago, I had the locks changed, as well as my code to the door. I haven’t seen her. I swear.”
“You swear,” I echo. My heart wars with my head. Can I trust him? Do I dare let down my guard? Am I just like my mother—forgive and repeat? Setting myself up for destruction over and over again?
“Please, Danica.” There’s a note of something in his voice that makes me pause. “Just hear me out.”
I feel that familiar tug, a mixture of longing and apprehension, of hope and the fear of being hurt again. I’m straddling a precipice, and the fall could either bring us back together or shatter everything for good.
“Danica, please,” Austin’s voice cracks.
I sigh. “I can’t do this right now. I’m here to work.”
I feel his gaze heavy on me, pleading. “You have every right to be upset. I was an idiot,” he continues. “But let’s sit down, talk this through. I want to make things right. If it can’t be right now, then when? Let’s make a plan.”
I fold my arms. Talk it through? After months of silence and tabloid images of him with another woman? But my heart pounds, a traitor to the fortress I’ve built around it. Seeing him like this—so vulnerable—it chips away at my resolve.
“Wanting doesn’t change the past, Austin.”
“Danica,” he insists, stepping closer, his presence all-encompassing. “I need you to understand. I want you back.”
I glance at the check-in line through the window in the door, and it looks long. I need to get back out there and help them. “Fine,” I relent. He won’t give in until I agree. “After the party. We’ll talk then. But I’m here to work tonight.”
His shoulders drop, relief washing over his features. “Thank you. I’ll meet you at the check-in table at the end of the night. Please don’t leave without me.”
As he steps out, back into the crowd, I’m left to gather my composure. Am I making a mistake? Meeting him later means opening a door I’ve spent three months trying to shut, and I worry about what will come rushing in once it’s ajar.