58. Now
FIFTY-EIGHT
now
With every second that ticks past, the temperature in my office drops. Plummeting us from our warm afterglow to frigid unease. While I fumble to right my tuxedo, Ella drops to her knees to scour for her underwear.
I read it in every shadow on her face: She regrets what we did.
I know I should, too. And the fact that I can’t summon even a shred of remorse leaves me enraged .
What the fuck is wrong with me? This woman is the very last person I can ever trust. She’s gutted me more times than I care to count .
All the times she ran from what we had. Leaving me without so much as a word. Disappearing completely. Dedicating her book to me. Being as light and lovely as ever when I finally managed to hunt her down. Refusing to explain herself. Making me want her. Letting me have her.
With her panties back on, she rises on shaky legs. I note the way she holds her torn dress together over her thigh, how she keeps her eyes cast down and her head bent in shame.
And because I’m the stupidest sap in the history of the world, I feel bad . And then I instantly hate myself for pitying her.
Self-loathing sinks through my center, spurring me into action. I toss the evidence of our hook-up into my trash can and push my work back to the center of my desk.
Work , I remind myself. My job. My father. My family’s entire legacy. The single most important speech I’ve ever given, which I’m supposed to be preparing for right now.
Meanwhile, I’m upstairs fucking my ex on company property and, in the process, very nearly falling right back in love with her. Despite still having no clear answers as to why she ever left me. Or why she tried to run from me again tonight.
The truth soaks into my soul, numbing it.
She’s still just as damaged and flighty as she was back then. Loving me three years ago didn’t keep her from running scared, and nothing ever will.
My shame expands into a cloud of dread.
I can’t afford to do this. I can’t fuck up my life like this again.
I need to go.
But, still, I stand and stare. Hoping, against all reason, that she’ll say something . Explain herself. Anything.
In the end, though, she doesn’t even lift her face. I hear her crying but refuse to go to her. Can’t, even though part of me desperately wants to abandon all pride for her once again.
No. Not this time.
Before the ache in my chest overrides my determination, I stuff my hands into my pockets and stride past her .
My voice is hollow. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m expected on stage shortly. There’s a service elevator to the left of the regular lifts. It will take you down to the garage. If you’d use that to exit, I’d appreciate your discretion.”
And then, for the first time, I leave her .