Chapter 36
Chapter
Thirty-Six
ISLA
Two months later
It takes an hour of therapy, three times a week, for two exceedingly long months to reclaim the faintest grip on my mental stability.
It doesn’t help that the therapy in question is provided by a nameless, faceless online shrink, while I also remain nameless and faceless because I can’t exactly divulge details with all the legal and safety ramifications.
But as I sit in a Michelin-star restaurant, across the table from my date, Lincoln, a man who should be a visual trigger for a heightened libido, all I can think about is how he doesn’t measure up to the man who turned my life upside down.
“How do you feel about the wine menu?” he muses. “Should we share a bottle with dinner?”
I nod. “That sounds nice.”
It sounds bland. Too soft. Too diplomatic. The kind of politeness that generates no spark. I bite my tongue, ashamed that I’m still drawn to the kind of bold authority I have no business missing.
I need to breathe. Fall back on coping mechanisms courtesy of my therapist. Orient myself within the room—the low amber lighting, the hum of jazz, the glitter of crystal glasses, and linen so starched and crisp it could second as a stretched canvas.
The restaurant is elegant. Exclusive. And somehow completely underwhelming.
“Do you have a preference?” Lincoln asks.
The menu blurs before me, the poetic descriptions refusing to sink in. “Why don’t we ask our server to find something that pairs with our meals once we order?”
“Great idea.” He beams.
I cling to my forced smile even though it drains my energy.
It’s not as if I want to be here. This date is Quinn-appointed.
She’s pushed for weeks for me to have some “healthy distraction therapy.” Aka sharing overpriced meals with safe men in an attempt to get my mind off the dangerously intoxicating meals I ate in the presence of a very unsafe man who refuses to leave my memory.
The logic is obvious.
The intention clear.
Quinn wants me to prioritize myself. Especially when I’ve bled myself dry while proving I deserve the CEO position I prematurely inherited. And Lincoln is a nice enough guy. Or so I’m told. Honest. Reliable. Just not anything like Raff—
I clear my throat, hard, stopping myself from finishing the thought.
The man who shall not be named stopped inserting himself into my life the day his cousin came to my office. There have been no further gifts. Messages. Calls.
He’s moved on, but the ghost of his touch still embedded in my skin refuses to read the memo.
I order the caramelized scallops appetizer and the pan-seared sea bass for the main.
We share a bottle of pinot noir as we wait for our meals and engage in a conversation that’s as exciting as listening to a conference call replay I’ve already sat through twice.
Everything is different now.
I have a best friend who barely comes to the office, instead working from home while she monitors Eliseo like a hawk—logging his sleeping habits, tracking his behavioral patterns, designing correctional schedules as if she’s running a personalized supermax.
Dad is in therapy, and working within my boundaries to earn my forgiveness.
And slowly but surely I’m impressing the staff at CrossPoint. Or at least convincing them I might actually know what the hell I’m doing.
The appetizers arrive, another bottle of wine is opened, and I can’t ditch the feeling that my date is a profound mismatch for me. Clearly, I’m wasting his time because the thought of transitioning this meal into a nightcap gives me hives.
“Please excuse me for a minute.” Lincoln dabs his mouth with his napkin before placing it neatly beside his plate. “I’m going to use the restroom.”
“Of course.” I offer another default smile.
He stands, straightens his jacket, and walks away without a hint that he manages a hedge fund big enough to make headlines.
Women in the room track his movements. A couple at the bar obviously recognize him, whispering behind their hands.
Lincoln is handsome. Sought after. Ridiculously successful.
And my insides stay stubbornly neutral, the exact reaction I’d have if sitting across from a well-meaning cousin.
As soon as he disappears from sight, I grab my phone from my clutch, ready to send an extraction demand to Quinn when the device vibrates in my hand.
Raffael’s name flashes on screen.
All the blood drains from my body.
I stare at those letters, the three syllables whispering through my mind, my heart pitter-pattering without permission.
I can’t answer.
I haven’t spoken to him since the meeting months ago. Haven’t read a text. Haven’t allowed a crack in my defenses.
But he also hasn’t initiated contact in a month.
What if something’s wrong? What if there’s been an incident at Prison Camp Cavallo?
I skirt my finger over the connect button, unable to stop myself from pressing it. A mass of nerves overtakes me as I raise the cell to my ear, my chest tightening into an aching knot. “Hello?”
“Hi.” Raffael’s simple yet refined reply is enough to have me closing my eyes in an effort to beat back the longing.
“Why are you calling?” I fake fortitude I don’t feel. “This isn’t a good time.”
“Why? Is your date the possessive type?”
My eyes snap open, my heart forgetting how to beat.
“My date?” I dart my gaze around the room, scanning faces, searching for a familiar silhouette.
“I assume that’s an accurate description for the man in the ill-fitting three-piece who I assume moonlights as a leadership coach for mediocre middle management.”
He’s here?
Watching?
My stomach floods with butterflies. “Where are you?”
“Keeping out of sight as stipulations demand. But it would be a disservice not to tell you how stunning you look in that dress. The neckline should be illegal.”
I force my free hand to remain on the table instead of slapping it across the gaping cleavage of said illegal neckline—my outfit another Quinn snafu seeing as though she’s the one who insisted I wear something I swore was far too revealing for a first date.
“If you’re calling about your brother, you need to speak to Quinn, and apart from that we have nothing else to discuss.”
“I’ve spoken to Quinn about Eliseo every week for months. That’s not why I’m calling.”
He has?
And she didn’t tell me?
Jealousy spears through me. Yes, I’d told my best friend to keep me on a strict CliffsNotes diet regarding the man who abducted me, but having her withhold information on Raffael when I’ve struggled to get over him seems cruel.
Logical, but cruel.
“What do you want?” I remain still. Act unfazed.
“Our arrangement to keep distance has run its course. It’s time to renegotiate terms.”
My pulse hops, skips, jumps.
I scowl, leveling my energy on crushing any glimmer of excitement invading my body. “There’s nothing to renegotiate. What’s done is done. Now if you’ll please excuse me, I’ve got to get back to—”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to insist. Otherwise your date is going to find himself in a shallow grave.”
The heat filtering through my limbs pools low in my belly.
“It’s strange,” he drawls. “I always feared becoming my father, but watching you share a romantic meal with another man has made me appreciate having the means to make him disappear. With that in mind, I thought you’d appreciate me reaching out to advise you against letting him touch what’s mine.”
That heat thickens. Intensifies. Burns.
I refuse to take the bait.
This is just more Raffael manipulation at its finest. And although every inch of me is one hundred percent entirely and unequivocally manipulated, my mind still has a few combative cells.
I take a beat. A breath. Then calmly state, “You’re advising me?”
“Mmm.” A deep growl of affirmation carries through the phone. “It seemed appropriate, given my current urge to commit homicide.”
A manic laugh bubbles up my throat. It doesn’t help that I can picture him lazing in a wingback chair, scotch in hand, chin arrogantly high as he articulates the warning.
“I’m glad you find his quickly approaching death funny,” he drawls. “I feared it might scare you.”
“I find your dramatics ridiculous. Move on with your life, Raffael. I have.”
“You haven’t moved anywhere. You’re still as much mine as you’ve ever been. We will be renegotiating terms. I’ll be waiting in my boardroom.”
“I’m not—”
The line goes dead.
“Everything okay?” Lincoln returns to the table and slides back into his seat.
I place my phone in my clutch and grasp my wineglass, nodding through an unladylike gulp of liquor.
He doesn’t skip a beat before diving straight back into menial chitchat that starts with the current state of interest rates and devolves into market commentary I would usually enjoy, but right now, the words fade into white noise.
I focus, if only for survival, and use Raffael’s intimidation as motivation to manufacture attraction for the man seated across from me, but the thought of being watched has my skin in a constant state of goose bumps, the thrum just shy of arousal.
Our mains are served, but instead of the sea bass I ordered, what’s placed before me is a rack of lamb. Red wine reduction. Parsnip purée. Charred broccolini.
A sharp jolt cuts through me, the sensation way too similar to excitement for my self-loathing not to increase.
“Is that what you ordered?” Lincoln asks.
I drag in a breath, the scent of roasted lamb and red wine making me salivate.
“No.” I swallow. The meal wasn’t even on the menu.
“You should send it back.” His fork scrapes across the porcelain of his plate as he twirls his pasta. “The kitchen must have made a mistake.”
There’s no mistake.
This meal has Raffael written all over it.
“It’s fine.” I grasp my cutlery, my palms sweating around the silverware as I stare at my food, despising it. Adoring it. “If I send it back they won’t be able to serve it to anyone else anyway, so I might as well eat it.”
Lincoln shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
The broccolini gives way under my careful slice before I trail a bite-sized piece through the glistening reduction, a sharp awareness prickling up my spine.
I’m not giving in. This isn’t surrender. Eating what I’ve been served is the low-key, non-reactive response. Right?
The first bite lands with devastation, the broccolini hitting my tongue and decimating my taste buds and every buried impulse along with it.
It’s hard to swallow through the want. The ruin. To pretend all the nerves in my body aren’t yearning for a man I’ve fought hard to forget yet still struggle to live without.
“I’m sorry, who is this?” Lincoln’s voice pitches.
I raise my gaze, not realizing he’s answered a call until I see him wide-eyed, skin paling as he holds his phone to his ear.
“Yes, of course.” He places his napkin on the table and pushes from his chair in a rush. “I’m on my way. I’ll be right there.” He fumbles to end the call and scoot his seat under the table. “I’m sorry, Isla, I have to leave. My mom… She’s been in an accident.”
My insides lurch, my thoughts narrowing to the obvious culprit and what he might have done.
“Of course.” I prepare to stand and say goodbye, but Lincoln’s gone before I find my feet.
I watch him weave through tables and escape through the restaurant’s front door before my clutch begins to vibrate.
I snatch at my phone. Find Raffael’s name again. Don’t hesitate to answer.
“Did you hurt his mother?” I demand.
“How could you ask such a thing?” His voice is sin—devilish and devastating. “I didn’t do anything to his mother. I’m sure she’s perfectly fine and your date is worried over nothing more than a hoax.”
Annoyance should overwhelm me. Why doesn’t outrage boil my blood?
Instead, it’s as if I’m being sucked into a whirlpool, my endearment to his tactics an intoxicating torrent I can’t escape. “Raff—”
“Enjoy your meal, la mia rovina. I’ll be waiting.”