Chapter Fourteen
Gareth
It was supposed to feel like a relief.
That was the first lie I told myself. That after she left, after I forced her out with the truth.
I told myself I’d finally be able to think again.
That the house would be clean, efficient, sterile, as I’d built it to be.
My family was gone, ushered out and put in vehicles, too drunk to even know what was happening. My plans had been foiled.
The air was still. The rooms were still. Every surface shined. But nothing was right.
It started in the ballroom, because of course it did. I found myself standing under the cold glare of the chandeliers, hands in my pockets, jaw locked.
The floor gleamed where we’d danced, the faintest trace of her perfume still caught in my lungs. She’d blushed in my arms, like it was the most humiliating thing in the world to be touched. But she hadn’t said no. She never said no. Not once.
I remembered her body, the taste of her skin, the sound of her breath when I pressed her against the bed and dared her to make a sound.
I remembered how she made me forget every rule I’d ever written.
The echo in the ballroom was sharp enough to cut skin. I almost wished it would.
Like a dead man walking, I made my way into the library.
I should have been working; I was always supposed to be working.
But all I could do was sit at the long table and stare at the book she’d reached for.
How I’d helped her, and I wondered if the note I’d written her was still tucked between the pages.
Aching inside, I made my way to my office. There were post-its in her handwriting all over the desk, reminders about vendors and invoices and “don’t forget to hydrate!” with a little smiley face that made my stomach twist.
I tried to rip them up, but my hand refused. I left them there, in a neat stack, and told myself I’d get rid of them tomorrow. I thought about how I’d bent her over the desk, how it took every ounce of my self-control not to take her then and there, and how she’d responded to me.
On the windowsill was one of her hair ties, thin, black, stretched almost to breaking.
I picked it up, rolling it between my thumb and forefinger until I nearly dropped it.
I put it in my pocket without thinking, and when I realized what I’d done, I told myself it was just to keep the place tidy. That was the second lie.
She would have laughed at me for being sentimental. Or maybe not. Maybe she would have just looked at me with that steady, searching stare and waited for me to flinch.
I hated that she knew me so well. I hated that she was right.
Still wandering, I heard whispers in the corridor. Staff, of course, there were always eyes and ears behind the walls. I walked past the kitchen just as someone said her name. I stopped, silent as a hunting cat, and listened.
“She’s not coming back,” said the housekeeper. “He chased her out like he always does.”
“No,” said another, “this time’s different. He’s… he’s not himself.”
“Five says she’s back by Tuesday,” said a third, and there was a murmur of agreement and disagreement.
There was a sharp whisper, a hissed “shut up, he’s right there.” The voices went flat. I moved on, my chest squeezing out whatever remained of my dignity.
Let them gossip. Let them bet. I didn’t give a damn.
But I circled back and stepped inside instead.
Everyone had scurried like cockroaches when the light came on.
The kitchen was empty, which was strange for this hour.
Maribel had taken to avoiding me since this afternoon, but I knew she was still in the house, there were new spice jars lined up by the stove, and the cutting boards had been scrubbed until they gleamed.
I made a coffee and stood at the window, looking out over the back garden.
Leo was there, hunched over the rose beds, pruning without any real intention. He looked smaller than usual, shoulders slumped, the lines of his body tracing the shape of defeat. I watched him for a while, expecting to feel some flicker of satisfaction.
But there was nothing. Just emptiness.
If he wanted her, he could have her. I’d made sure of it.
That was the third lie.
Everywhere I went, there she was. Her ghost, her scent, her echo. I sat in my office and tried to work, but all I could hear was her laugh, her soft voice, the way she’d sat with me and simply understood. How she’d accepted me, even when I wasn’t worth the time or effort.
She was efficient, infuriating, and absolutely irreplaceable.
All I could think about was how my words – and the realization of what I’d done with her help – had made her go pale, how hurt flashed in her eyes, how tears instantly began to fill her eyes.
But her anger… her anger was worse than her pain.
She’d left, and I did nothing. I didn’t chase after her, didn’t try to fix it.
That was the point. That was what I was supposed to do. Better for her to hate me than things get more messy.
Later in the evening, after a completely unproductive day, I wandered the upper hall, unable to remember why I’d gone there in the first place.
The sunlight made patterns on the runner, and for a second I imagined her standing at the banister, watching the dust drift in the air like snow.
She would have said something smart, or sassy, or both.
She would have asked if I’d ever seen anything so beautiful, then rolled her eyes when I pretended not to care.
I leaned against the wall, breathing through my teeth, and tried to remember a time when I’d been lonely on purpose.
It was hard. Even harder when I thought about how it had felt to have her in my arms, warm and pliant and so goddamn alive.
I wanted to forget the way her hair smelled, the way her lips tasted, the sound she made when I pushed her down into her bed and fucked her like I was starving.
I wanted to forget, but I couldn’t.
At some point, I ended up in the garden, for reasons I couldn’t explain. Leo had finished his rounds and left the roses half-pruned, the job abandoned in the middle. I stood among the thorns, breathing in the rot and the sweetness, and wondered if she’d ever come back to see them bloom.
Probably not. She was gone for good.
The sky turned pink, then orange, then black. The house was silent except for the ticking of the grandfather clock and the far-off sound of a fox screaming in the woods. I sat on the edge of my bed, hands clasped, and waited for the ache in my chest to dull.
It never did.
I thought about her brother, Dolan, the way she’d talked about him, the way her voice broke when she described the tragedy, the way her parents never spoke to her again after his death.
I wanted to ask what might have made them do that, but I knew first hand that grief does strange things to people, that sometimes, when people hurt, they make the wrong choices. And the irony wasn’t lost on me.
The next morning, I woke at four and dressed in silence. I took the stairs two at a time, ignoring the protest of my knees. The house was cold, and I was colder.
I went to her room. The bed was stripped, the closet empty, but there was a single drawer left open in the desk. Inside was a notebook, spiral-bound, the cover soft with wear. I flipped it open, expecting lists or schedules or some trace of her meticulous mind.
Instead, there were doodles. Little wolves, chasing their own tails. Loose figures dancing in the ballroom. A cartoon of me, scowling at a coffee cup. Underneath, she’d written in tiny print: “Cheer up, boss. You’re not as scary as you think.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and laughed, just once, sharp and bitter.
She was wrong. I was worse.
Amusement and an emptiness warred within me. I kept the notebook. I put it in my top drawer, next to the contract. I told myself it was just until I found someone to return it to her.
That was the last lie. I had no intention of letting it go.
Days later, the staff still gossiped. The betting pool had doubled. Leo looked more and more like a kicked dog with every passing day. The housekeeper left chocolates on my pillow, which I threw away. Maribel made my coffee with extra sugar, which I drank without complaint.
Every day, the house grew darker, colder, quieter. Every day, I thought about her. I thought about what I’d done. I thought about what I’d lost.
And I wondered, for the first time in my life, if maybe I’d made a mistake I couldn’t fix.
I sat at my desk, staring at her handwriting, and waited for the hurt to go away.
It never did.
But I kept waiting anyway.
Clinging to every memory of her, I glanced through her hiring paperwork, studying her handwriting.
There was a number in her file, marked “emergency only.” I’d read it a dozen times, never intending to use it.
I was breaking rules. Being stupid and doing something that my lawyer would yell at me for.
I called anyway.
It rang three times before a woman’s voice picked up, sharp as lemon rind. “Peggy Blake.”
I almost hung up. Instead, I cleared my throat and said, “This is Gareth Wolfe. I-” I stopped, unsure what to say next. I’d never practiced this part.
There was a silence on the other end, then a low, disbelieving laugh. “You’re the boss.”
“Yes.”
“The one who made my granddaughter cry for three days straight.”
That landed like a punch. “Yes.”
Another silence, this one longer and much colder. “This better be important, Mr. Wolfe. Or I’ll call your mother myself and tell her what a shit you’ve been.”
I almost smiled. “You have every right.” Not that my mom would give a shit, but the sentiment wasn’t lost on me.
“So why are you calling?”
I ran a hand over my jaw, trying to force the words out. “I made a mistake. Several, actually.”
“Men usually do.” She sounded bored, but I could hear something else under the sarcasm; curiosity, maybe. Or hope. “Did you think she’d just get over it? Or did you want to gloat?”
“No.” I pressed a fist to my chest, hard, as if that would slow my pulse. “I wanted-” I stopped, started again. “She means more to me than I can explain. And I ruined everything.”
There was a soft exhale. “Go on.”
“I was selfish and stupid. I knew her past, and still had her go through with something that hurt her.” I said it quietly, as if the walls might overhear. “My family- they’re not like hers. They’re not like anyone’s.”
Her tone was sharper now. “You think you’re so special, honey? The only one with a family full of assholes?”
I had no answer for that.
“You hurt her,” she said, finally. “You hurt her worse than I thought possible. She’s stubborn, but she’s not invincible.”
I gripped the phone, knuckles white. “I know.”
“If you know,” she said, “why haven’t you called her?”
“I didn’t think I had the right.” I meant it. Every word.
“Now you’re just being stupid.” There was another long pause, then a softer voice. “She’s in bad shape, you know. Keeps pretending she doesn’t care, but it’s all an act. You broke her heart, you dumb son of a bitch.”
“I know,” I said again.
“So what do you want from me?” she asked. “You want me to talk her into forgiving you? You want me to fix it?”
“No.” I swallowed. “I just wanted someone to know. I thought- I thought if anyone could understand, it would be you.”
There was a sound on the other end, like a snort. “You’re not wrong.”
I tried to imagine what Eden would say if she knew I’d called her grandmother. Probably she’d laugh, or throw her phone, or both.
“She loved you, you know,” Peggy said. “She told me that.”
I felt the air leave my lungs. “She said that?”
“She said a lot of things,” Peggy replied. “But that was the important one.”
I stood in the middle of my office, surrounded by the sad remains of my life, and tried to remember the last time anyone had said something like that to me.
“I love her, too,” I said, before I could think better of it. “I’m sorry. I’m so-”
“Don’t,” she cut me off. “Don’t apologize to me. You want forgiveness, you ask her.”
“I don’t think she’ll take my call.”
She laughed again, rough and bright. “Then show up. That’s what men do, right? They make grand gestures.”
I winced. “I’m not good at that.”
“Doesn’t matter. You want her back, you figure it out.”
I closed my eyes and pictured Eden, stubborn and beautiful, the way she’d looked at me after I told her the truth, like she could see right through to my bones.
“Thank you,” I said, and meant it.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Peggy said. “I’m still deciding if you deserve her.”
The line clicked and silence followed.
I stared at the phone, heart racing. I’d never felt less in control, less sure of myself, but there was something else there too; a kind of hope, raw and ugly and impossible.
Maybe I didn’t deserve forgiveness. Maybe I didn’t deserve her.
But I was going to try anyway.
I picked up the hair tie from my desk, rolled it between my fingers, and wondered if she was thinking about me, too.
I doubted it. But I hoped.
God, I hoped.
My mind ran in circles, ideas surfacing and leaving as better ones came along. I went to the window and looked out over the grounds, the roses blooming wild in the dusk, the world washed clean by rain.
The next move was mine, and I had no intention of screwing up again.
I was going to make her mine, no matter what it took.