Chapter 32
ALENA
"I hate red."
Lucy holds up the dress—crimson silk, backless, the kind of thing that screams trying too hard.
"But babe," she says, grinning like she's personally saving my life, "you look so good in it."
I stare at the dress. At myself in the mirror. Hair done. Makeup perfect. One year sober-ish and I barely recognize the woman staring back.
"I look like I'm going to a funeral," I mutter.
"You look like you're going on a date." Lucy shoves the dress at me. "Which you are. So put it on."
I take it. Hold it at arm's length like it might bite. "This is a terrible idea."
"It's a brilliant idea." Lucy sits on my bed, already looking smug. "You haven't been on a date in two years. You need this."
"I need a lobotomy."
"Same thing." She grins. "Come on. Oliver's nice. Polite. Rich. Marcus vetted him—no criminal record, no secret wives, not even a parking ticket."
"Sounds thrilling."
"He's perfect."
"That's the problem."
I slip the dress on anyway. Because Lucy's been pushing this for months. Because Marcus thinks I need to "move on." Because my therapist—the fourth one—says isolation isn't healthy. Because maybe they're right. Maybe two years is long enough to mourn a man who left without looking back.
The dress fits perfectly. Of course it does. Lucy probably had it tailored.
I look at myself in the mirror. Red silk. Bare back. Hair falling in soft waves. Lipstick the exact shade of the dress.
I look… good.
I hate it.
"You're gorgeous," Lucy says, standing behind me. "He's going to lose his mind."
"I don't want him to lose his mind. I want him to buy me drinks and leave me alone."
"That's the spirit." She squeezes my shoulders. "Just… try, okay? For me."
I don't answer.
The doorbell rings.
Lucy practically sprints to the window. Peeks through the curtain. Gasps. "He's here! And oh my god, Alena, he's fit. Like… proper fit. I might steal him myself."
"Go ahead. But run fast because Marcus will be on your tail before you know it."
She smiles. She always liked Marcus’s possessiveness, as I liked Drogo’s. "Not a chance." She grabs my hand. Pulls me toward the stairs. "Come on. Don't keep Prince Charming waiting."
· · ·
I open the door.
Oliver Sutherland stands on my porch looking like he walked out of a magazine ad for expensive watches. Tall. Brown hair swept back. Green eyes. Tailored navy suit that probably cost more than my first car. Smile that's just the right amount of confident without tipping into arrogant.
Perfect.
"Alena," he says, voice smooth. British. Posh but not obnoxiously so. "You look stunning."
"Thanks. You look… clean."
He laughs. Genuine. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Behind me, Lucy is practically vibrating with excitement. She waves at him. "Hi! I'm Lucy. Best friend. Emotional support. Don't fuck this up."
"Lucy—" I start.
"I'm kidding!" She grins. "Mostly. Have fun, you two."
Oliver opens the car door for me. Black Aston Martin.
Even though it’s one of my favourite cars, I hate Aston Martins after Drogo vanished.
Fucker took my heart and my passion with him when he disappeared.
I slide in. Leather seats. New car smell.
Classical music playing softly. Classical.
I am too old for this shit. Who are you trying to impress?
He gets in the driver's side. Smiles at me. "Ready?"
"As I'll ever be."
He pulls away from the curb. I glance back. Lucy is standing in the doorway, grinning like a maniac, giving me two thumbs up like I'm going to fucking prom. I resist the urge to flip her off.
· · ·
The restaurant is in Mayfair. Michelin-starred. The kind of place where they don't list prices on the menu because if you have to ask, you can't afford it.
We're seated at a corner table. Candlelight. White tablecloth. Soft jazz playing in the background.
Oliver orders wine. Something French. Something expensive.
"So," he says, leaning back in his chair, completely at ease. "Lucy tells me you're a writer."
"She talks too much."
He grins. "She's enthusiastic. I like that about her."
"Everyone does. It's exhausting."
The wine arrives. He pours. Hands me a glass. I take it. Sip. It's good. Too good. The kind of wine that makes you forget you're supposed to be sober-ish.
"What do you write?" he asks.
"Horror."
"Ah. Hence the whole mysterious, brooding thing."
I raise an eyebrow. "Mysterious and brooding?"
"Lucy's words, not mine." He smiles. "Though I have to say, you do pull it off remarkably well."
I take another sip. Bigger this time.
He leans forward slightly. "I read one of your books. Through the Veil. Brilliant. Dark. Utterly devastating."
"You read it?"
"Last week. Couldn't put it down." His eyes hold mine. Green. Intense. "The way you write loss… it felt visceral. Like you'd carved it out of your own chest and put it on the page."
My chest tightens. "It's fiction."
"The best fiction always has truth in it." He pauses. "You have a gift, Alena. A rare one."
I look away. "You're very flattering."
"I'm very honest." He leans closer. "And I'm very interested."
The waiter arrives. Takes our order. Disappears.
Oliver doesn't lean back. Stays close. "Tell me something true about yourself. Something Lucy didn't mention."
"Like what?"
"Anything. Favorite color. Worst fear. Secret talent."
I consider. "I hate red."
He glances at my dress. Grins. "And yet here you are, wearing it beautifully."
"Lucy's idea."
"Lucy has excellent taste." His eyes trace the neckline. Not leering. Appreciative. "Though I suspect you'd look stunning in anything. Or nothing."
My eyebrow arches. "Bold."
"Honest," he corrects. "There's a difference."
I take another drink. The wine is making everything softer. Easier.
"Your turn," I say. "Something true."
He leans back finally. Considers. "I'm terrible at relationships. Work too much. Travel constantly. Most women find me boring after three months."
"That's depressing."
"That's reality." He smiles. "But I'm hoping you're not most women."
"I'm not."
"No. You're far more interesting." He reaches across the table. Touches my hand. Just fingertips. Light. Testing. "You're the kind of woman men write novels about. The kind who ruins them for everyone else."
I pull my hand back. Not aggressively. Just… away.
He notices. Doesn't push.
The food arrives. Expensive. Beautiful. Probably delicious. I eat mechanically. Taste nothing.
He eats. Watches me. "You're very guarded."
"I'm very tired."
"Of what?"
"This." I gesture vaguely. "Small talk. First dates. Pretending."
"Pretending what?"
"That I'm someone who does this."
He sets down his fork. "What do you do, then?"
"Write. Drink. Survive."
"Sounds lonely."
"It is."
"Let me change that." He leans forward again. Intent. "Come with me. After dinner. There's a rooftop bar nearby. Private. Quiet. We can talk. Really talk. No pretense."
"Oliver—"
"Or don't talk." His smile turns slightly wicked. "We could just drink expensive whiskey and watch the city. No pressure. No expectations."
I stare at him. He's perfect. Polite. Interested. Green eyes warm in the candlelight. The kind of man women dream about.
And all I feel is… nothing.
"I should go home," I say.
His face falls. Just slightly. "Already?"
"It's been a long day."
"It's barely nine."
"I'm tired."
He studies me for a long moment. Then nods. Signals for the check. "Let me at least drive you."
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
· · ·
The drive back is quiet. Classical music. Again. Leather seats. City lights blurring past.
He pulls up to my house. Puts the car in park. Turns to me. "I'd like to see you again."
I hesitate.
"Please," he adds. "One more chance. Lunch. Coffee. Something low-pressure."
"Oliver—"
"You're incredible, Alena. And I think—if you gave this a real chance—we could be good together."
I look at him. At his hopeful face. His perfect smile. "I'll think about it," I lie.
He smiles. Leans in. Kisses my cheek. Lingering. "I'll call you."
"Okay."
I get out. Walk to my door. He waits until I'm inside before driving away.
I close the door. Lean against it.
Lucy appears from the living room. "Well? How was it?"
"Fine."
"Fine? That's it?"
"He was nice."
"Nice?" Lucy's face falls. "Babe, he's perfect. Rich, charming, clearly mad about you—"
"I know."
"Then what's the problem?"
I look at her. At my best friend who just wants me to be happy. "I need to shower," I say.
I head upstairs before she can argue.
· · ·
In my bedroom, I strip off the red dress. Let it pool on the floor. Sit on the edge of the bed in my underwear.
Pick up my phone. Scroll through photos. Past the recent ones. Past the new house. Past the rehab selfies and the "getting better" shots Lucy made me take.
All the way back. Two years back.
And there he is.
Drogo.
Smiling at the camera. Rare smile. The one he only ever gave me. Black t-shirt. Tattoos visible on his forearms. Blue eyes bright. Hair messy like I'd just run my hands through it. Which I had.
I stare at it. At his face. At the man I haven't seen in two years but can't forget.
My hand slides down my stomach. Under the elastic of my panties.
I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't.
But I open the drawer of my nightstand anyway. Pull out the vibrator. Black. Sleek. Expensive—because if you're going to pathetically fuck yourself to memories, at least use quality equipment.
I lie back on the bed. Phone propped on the pillow beside me. His face filling the screen.
Turn on the vibrator. Press it between my legs. Close my eyes.
And I'm there again. Two years ago. In his arms. His hands on my hips.
His mouth on my neck. The way he'd looked at me—like I was everything.
The way he'd fucked me against the dresser.
On the bed. The sounds he'd made when he came inside me.
The way he'd whispered "I want you mine.
Only mine." The way I'd said "I've always been yours. "
I press the vibrator harder. Hips lifting off the bed. Open my eyes. Look at his photo. At that smile. At the man who left me and never looked back.
"Fuck," I gasp.
My other hand goes to my breast. Squeezing. The way he used to. I imagine it's him. His hands. His mouth. His cock.
The vibrator hums against my clit and I'm so close—
I look at his face on the screen. At those blue eyes.
And I come. Hard. Crying out his name into the empty room. "Drogo—"
The orgasm crashes through me. Violent. Desperate. I ride it out. Trembling. Sobbing.
When it's over, I lie there. Spent. Pathetic. Staring at his photo. At the ghost I can't let go.
The vibrator falls from my hand. I curl onto my side. Pull the phone close. Trace his face on the screen with one finger.
"I hate you," I whisper.
But it's a lie.