34. Venetia
I ’m drunk. Completely, irrevocably wasted.
This wasn’t part of my plan. Tonight, I had intended to push my emotions and thoughts aside for a little self-care. I prepared a face mask, brewed some tea, and even picked out a movie for a calm, quiet evening.
But my dad had other plans. I didn’t pay much attention to the details he shared—all I know is that West and his father would be stopping by to discuss a minor financial issue in one of the projects. I wouldn’t have minded if it were just Lucas. But with West coming over, my attempt at peace evaporates as quickly as it appeared. And with the little escape I pulled a couple of days ago, I have no choice but to accept it.
Just as I feel the urge to scream into a pillow from sheer helplessness, he storms into my room. He acts like he owns the place, barging into my personal space whenever he pleases. Though, to be fair, it’s a bit hypocritical of me to think that way, considering I mindlessly sought refuge in his room during that charity event.
“I’m surrounded by fucking idiots who don’t understand how to get the job done!” he snaps, slamming the door behind him. Tension radiates from his body like poison, and if I weren’t drunk, it would affect me. But in my current state, I’m as calm as a monk before meditation, watching him in silence with my knees pulled to my chest on the couch. “I mean, backing out of agreements a week early, and I’m only finding out about it now. Why? Because they forgot to tell me? Or because they didn’t think it was fucking important?!”
He runs his shaky hands through his hair, creating a messy arrangement of short strands. His tie is knotted haphazardly, and the buttons of his white shirt are only half-done at the top, as if he tried to undress in a moment of frustration, to rid himself of the suffocating fabric. I can relate to that feeling—when you get so overstimulated that you just want to crawl out of your skin, and the layers of clothing only amplify the discomfort.
“Because they’re afraid of you,” I say lazily, and he snaps his wild eyes to mine. “Afraid of your reaction.”
He stares at me in silence, and I can’t tell if he wants to agree or if he’s about to scream at me to go fuck myself. “I’m their boss,” he finally replies, a slight tremor in his voice. The weight of the job hangs heavily on him, and I can sense he’s torn between fulfilling multiple obligations and preserving the remnants of his sanity. “What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to fucking?—”
I rise from the couch and close the distance between us in a few strides. He stills, finally stopping his frantic hand movements, leaving a disheveled mess of hair to fall onto his forehead. West opens his mouth to say something, but no words come out. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath as I reach for his tie and slowly untie the knot he managed to create.
“You are their boss,” I agree, and a flicker of confusion crosses his tired features. Yeah, it’s not often I willingly agree with what he says. “A big, scary boss they’d rather avoid and hide things from. You’re impulsive,” I count, letting his tie fall to the ground. “Angry most of the time, always unleashing your madness on them.”
He turns his face away, clearly annoyed by the truth in my words. But he doesn’t stop me, even as my fingers reach for the buttons of his shirt, brushing over them. “People are scared of you, West. Scared of what you might do if they fail to impress you.”
As I keep touching him, his body starts to relax and his breathing gradually slows, but his expression remains hardened, the scowl still cutting across his face.
Slowly, his focus shifts toward me, and the weight of his gaze causes my heart to race. I shift from one foot to the other, feeling trapped. “And you? Are you scared of me, Venetia?”
“I am.” I absently play with the buttons, a quiet fear hovering just out of reach. “You’re unpredictable. Unstable. Sometimes I wonder if you’ll wake up one day and decide to hurt me just because I’m pissing you off again.”
He grabs my chin, and I flinch, a shudder racing down my spine as he looks into my eyes. “How much did you drink?”
I tilt my head, trying to break free from his grip, but he holds me firmly in place, reminding me that I have no control over the situation. “Does it matter?”
An indescribable emotion flickers across his face, and he lowers his gaze as if regretting our conversation. “It doesn’t,” he replies curtly before roughly releasing me and turning away. “We’ll talk when you sober up. We have business to discuss.”
A sharp ache grips my chest as he prepares to walk away, leaving me alone once again. He ruined my peaceful night with his unexpected arrival, and now he dares to cast his negativity on me and get annoyed because I’m drunk while talking to him.
“Fuck you,” I snap, my words landing squarely as he stops. “And your fucking business.”
A low, deep chuckle escapes him—a haunting melody so dark it could belong in a Sylvia Plath reverie. I straighten up as he turns back to me, doing my best to maintain a facade of indifference.
“Don’t start this again,” he warns, the tension in his voice unmistakable. “I don’t have time for this.”
“What do you have time for, then?” I challenge, taking a step closer. My body moves on autopilot, though fear coils tightly in my gut. I’m toying with fire, but I can’t help but inch closer to him. Like a void, his presence draws me in, its magnetic pull threatening to swallow me whole. “Running around angry at everyone? Or for a job you claim to love, even though every little thing sends you spiraling, on the verge of losing your mind?”
“You know better than that,” he replies calmly. “It’s never about loving it.”
“Yet you still act like you don’t care about anything but that,” I retort. I’m not sure why I decided to confront him like this, but it feels as though the words that had been hovering on the tip of my tongue finally slipped out. The weight I’ve been carrying for so long begins to lift, easing the discomfort that had been boiling inside me.
“You sound like you don’t believe it.” West swiftly closes the remaining distance between us, taking advantage of the fact that I’m rooted to the spot. He knows exactly what effect he has on me. “Tell me, Venetia. What do you think of me?”
I shake my head, attempting to turn away, but his hand grips my shoulder, holding me in place. “It doesn’t matter what I think of you, West. I?—”
“It does,” he interrupts, capturing my chin in his hand again. It seems he’s become obsessed with holding me like this. “To me, it does. So say it.”
My hands find their way to his undone buttons, gliding over them as I feel the rough texture of his scars beneath. “Come to bed,” I whisper, my fingers gripping the fabric, twisting it in my hand. “I’ll show you.”
He exhales heavily. “Yeah, you’re fucking drunk, that’s what I think. Out of your fucking?—”
“I don’t want to have sex with you,” I cut in, dispelling any doubts. His self-esteem is laughable. “It’s not about that.”
He’s quiet for a solid moment before slowly pulling himself away from his stance, allowing me to take him to my bedroom. His deliberate pace makes it clear he’s hesitant. It’s strange how only moments ago, he was ready to upend everything in my room, and now he seems so calm and composed.
I can feel how tense he is as we walk inside. Stopping by the bed, I push him onto it. I realize I can easily shift him from feeling safe and guarded back to his usual discomfort. The thought fills me with a sense of empowerment, though I don’t want to use it against him.
Not tonight, anyway.
I stand between his legs, my chest just inches from his gaze. I’m dressed in my silk short robe, and it wouldn’t take him long to slide it off me and take what most men would desire. Yet, no matter how close I am or what I do, he doesn’t even look at me. Instead, he looks right through me.
I undo the remaining buttons of his shirt, my curiosity growing with each second as his tension increases. We’ve been intimate before, and it’s not like he doesn’t enjoy being touched. But whatever I’m doing now feels much more profound than that. I have no intention of turning this into something sexual.
He allows me complete control as I remove his shirt, revealing his bare chest. The dim lamp on the nightstand casts an orange glow, the only light in the room, creating a soft illusion of warmth and comfort.
My eyes roam over his body, drinking in the sight of him—so damaged, yet so beautiful. I thread my fingers through his hair, trying to draw his attention, but he turns his head away, clearly uncomfortable.
I’m not quite sure what I’m doing when I climb onto the bed and settle behind him on my knees, choosing to focus my attention on his back, which bears even more scars.
“Come on, West,” I whisper, tracing a finger over the top scar, sending a shiver through him. “I’m going to hate you again in the morning. Just let me see you while I want to.”
He sucks in a sharp breath, and out of the corner of my eye, I notice the flutter of his lashes. “I don’t need you to see me,” he says, attempting to sound harsh, but his voice wavers. I brush my fingers across the damaged skin, moving slowly and deliberately, as if trying to memorize the details he keeps hidden beneath fabric. “Don’t try to make me your business.”
“Do you know why I did that to your sister?” I ask, keeping a pace that gradually helps dissolve the tension radiating from him. I adapt to the slightest movements in his body, intent on pushing further. Though I’m drunk, I can still recall how he brushed my hair and saved me from breaking further. He saw it, and he helped.
Now, I want to help him in return.
“Because I see it. I see the man your father forces you to be while you carry everything on your own. I see how nobody appreciates it.” Leaning in, I place my lips against one of his scars, earning a barely audible moan of pleasure that he tries to stifle. “I see you because that’s what I’m going through too.”
As I’ve said before, it doesn’t take a genius to understand West. To others—and to me, before I got closer to him—he’s just a madman with anger issues, a venomous presence who lurks around, seeking new victims. People are afraid of what he might do if he loses his temper. Nobody truly sees the bigger picture. He’s completely alone—an abandoned child who never fully grew up. I can tell his dad constantly convinces him he’s a failure, and that he’s worth nothing. I see the judgment in his eyes whenever they’re together, the energy he radiates, the disdain toward his son.
No matter how tough and strong West pretends to be, deep down, all he wants is to make his father proud. He yearns for him to see his efforts, to acknowledge them, to say he’s doing a good job, to pat him on the back. He may never show it, but I can see it—a loner, a broken soul. I’m certain nobody has ever told him they’re proud of him or how much they love him.
We are alike in this.
“I wish I’d never had to know you,” I whisper against his skin, my lips trailing kisses down his back. After finishing the map of his scars with my lips, I push him onto the bed and straddle him, shifting my attention to his chest. I glide my palms over the rough, hard surface of his abs, tracing a path down his chest. “But I can’t deny I’m impressed by everything you’ve accomplished. Proud of everything you’ve endured.”
“Proud?” he echoes skeptically. “You don’t know shit about me, Venetia.”
“I don’t need the details,” I respond, leaning in with deliberate slowness. He swallows, his tough exterior faltering beneath the weight of my words and movements. “I know they’ll never see you the way I do.”
Starting at his shoulders, I kiss the scars I haven’t touched yet, the thick, bulging veins, and the small moles that decorate his skin. He’s unlawfully beautiful, and I want to show him this.
“ Fuck ,” he rasps as his arm wraps around my waist, holding me in place. The warmth from his touch mingles with the one my lips give him, and I dissociate. “How are you not disgusted by me?”
I fight the impulse to pause and meet his gaze, a tide of bitterness rising in my chest at his question. His voice, vulnerable and unfamiliar, makes me wonder who could’ve called his scars disgusting. To me, they’re the most stunning imperfections—raw and tragic, drawing me in. My throat constricts, and I feel my eyes start to glisten. My heart tightens like a vise, and I allow myself to think that, perhaps, he was once kind and pure, and that his integrity was shattered, trampled underfoot, molding him into the person he is now.
Perhaps he was just like me.
What the fuck is happening to me?
It’s probably the alcohol. Everything feels warm, soft, and comfortable. I want to touch him more, to explore and uncover the real stories behind his scars, but I know my pride won’t let me ask aloud.
“You might be good, West,” I murmur, pausing to savor the shudders that ripple through him with each brush of my lips and fingers. “In your own, fucked-up way, but you might be.”
His quiet whimper stirs a sense of pride deep inside me. Finally, I raise my head, our eyes locking, and the intensity in his gaze draws me in with an irresistible pull.
“How can you trust me?”
“I can’t,” I lie, my voice betraying a tremor. My hand reaches up to cup the side of his face, my eyes savoring the beauty up close. The crystal-clear eyes, the small freckles, the slightly crooked nose—a breathtaking face, just like the rest of him. Jagged, imperfect, broken, but oh, so magnificent. “And I won’t,” I add, brushing my thumb across his cheek.
“Liar.” He threads his fingers through my hair, and I brace myself for the sting that usually follows. But it never comes. Instead, he holds me close, his fingers moving in a soothing motion back and forth, treating me like the most prized possession in his arms. “What an annoyingly beautiful little liar you are, Venetia.”
Warmth gathers and erupts in my belly, the spark ascending to my ribcage and wrapping around my heart. I feel as if I’m melting away, my soul unraveling piece by piece while he keeps me so close yet so distant.
I wait for him to kiss me, to flip me over and strip away my clothes, but he doesn’t. I know he wants to. He must want this. Why else would he keep me so close?
Panic claws at the edges of my mind, transforming the warmth into a blazing inferno of conflicting emotions. I’m confused and lost, just as he was moments ago. This feels too intimate—like something only people who truly love each other could share. But West and I will never love each other. No, we’ll break each other apart, setting the pieces on fire before starting all over again. We’ll tear each other’s souls to shreds and laugh as we do it.
But why does this feel like love? Searing warmth pulses through my veins, butterflies flutter in my stomach, and I can feel the same stirring within him. My throat feels tight, as though something is cutting off my breath. Panic rises as I realize we’re doing something we shouldn’t—something that doesn’t align with who we are.
And I was the one who initiated this.
Before it’s too late, I take matters into my own hands. I press my mouth against his, kissing him so deeply that my consciousness begins to dissolve into his. The world spins as I cup his face, trying to deepen the kiss, but I can’t.
He doesn’t kiss me back.
“Kiss me,” I plead, pressing my mouth to his again and again, but he remains still. “I want to feel sick of you. I want to destroy this because it’s not right between us.”
“Stop it,” he says in between my attempts, pulling his hand from my hair. I squeeze my eyes shut as a tear rolls down my cheek, leaving a trail of raw sorrow across my flushed skin. “You will?—”
“I hate you already, West,” I insist, my hands reaching for his waistband. “I hate you so much that I want this.”
In an instant, his hands are on my wrists, pushing me away before rolling me onto my back. I gasp, my mouth desperately searching for his, needing, craving his attention. But all he gives me is a weary sigh before completely pulling back, sending a wave of icy rejection that slices through me, cutting deep.
“West,” I call his name, unsure of what I want him to do anymore. “ West , I?—”
“Go to sleep, Venetia,” he cuts me off, adjusting his pants before bending to pick up his shirt from the floor. Draping it over his shoulders, he walks out of the room and shuts the door behind him. I stare at it, waiting for him to change his mind.
A minute passes. Five. Fifteen.
I remain transfixed, unable to process what just happened. Exhaustion surges over me, sweeping me into its embrace, and my eyelids grow heavy. The weight of my emotions bears down on my shoulders, leaving me no choice but to flop onto my back and close my eyes.
The dam finally breaks, and a waterfall of tears spills down my cheeks, shattering the last remnants of my composure as my heart slowly bleeds out.