Chapter 24
VICTOR
Istared around the shitty studio I was viewing, noting the camp bed set up in the corner and the dirty window that overlooked the street.
It was above a wine store too, and the door wasn’t that great—it didn’t even lock properly—but honestly, I had to get out of my mother’s hair before one of us killed the other.
Plus, Vanessa couldn’t just show up. Her visit last week had almost sent me off the edge.
The studio was only a few miles walking distance from the building site I was contracted to, so that helped, seeing as I was banned from driving for a whole fucking year.
The lawyer had done well getting me off with a ban and a fine, I knew that, but when you drive everywhere for work, collecting tools and materials, shifting rubble and all sorts of shit, it meant you were pretty much useless in the trade.
A whole year of not driving. Another massive fuck up.
Thoughts of Lila being wined and dined—and fuck knows what else—by some British prick who spoke Greek made my blood boil.
A fly zipped past me, and I swatted it away.
“I’ll take it,” I muttered, to the landlord's surprise.
He was a pot-bellied man, balding and refusing to let the one hair on his head go. He scratched his head and frowned at me.
“You sure?”
I peeled some bills from a roll in my pocket—thank fuck for being paid weekly at my new job—and handed it to him.
“I need to move in today.”
He spied the roll of bills in my hand with his beady eyes. “Today will be extra.”
Of course it would be.
I closed my eyes and counted to ten before peeling off two more fifties.
“Take it or I’m leaving,” I growled, watching as he took it eagerly.
“Great, Mr Rossi, your first month is paid in advance. If you need anything…” He looked around the studio and shrugged. “Well, this is the best I can do for such a cheap price.”
I stared at him, wondering when eleven hundred dollars a month became cheap. We paid three thousand a month for the house, for fucks sake.
We.
The landlord, Colin, scurried out, leaving me to it.
I sighed and looked at the room, hating myself for the thousandth time.
It was late evening now, and I didn’t have time to start moving my shit in.
I didn’t have much, only what Lila had dumped at my mom’s when she’d changed the locks.
Luckily, I’d remembered to bring a sleeping bag and a pillow, because like fuck was I sleeping on that bed.
It looked like someone had died in it. Seriously, were those blood stains? I leaned forward and gagged, dropping my sleeping bag to the filthy ground. I was too tired to cook, and to be honest, I think the kitchen needed scrubbing before I even thought about cooking here.
I thought of our high-gloss kitchen back home, and how Lila and I would dance around it sometimes, while one of us cooked.
It had been a long time since we’d done that. I’d taken it all for granted. What I wouldn’t give to go back and fucking beg her to go to the doctor for help, therapy for both of us—anything. If only I’d fucking tried rather than fucking Cami.
It felt like I was looking at some other poor fucker’s life, not my own. I was a happily married man, with a great job and a beautiful wife and home.
This? Almost divorced at forty-six, living in a shitty studio while walking to work, eating shit and struggling to get out of bed every day—this was not the life I’d envisioned.
But it was the life I had.
Because of my stupid fucking decisions. I couldn’t stop thinking of Lila watching that video either. I’d have smashed the house up if I’d had to watch some guy pounding into my wife, muttering filth like it mattered.
It must have nearly killed her.
Self-loathing rose within me and I stared at the bathroom to my right, shuddering at the sight of it.
Fuck it. What was that saying? You made your bed; you lie in it?
Well. Here I was, about to lie in my sleeping bag on the floor.
But first, I had to sort out that fucking lock. If some wino came in during the night, I was too tired to fight. So, I spent the next hour making it as safe as I could, then dragged the only table in the room in front of it. It would have to do.
I tried to ignore the hard floor and be grateful I had my own place, but it was surreal. No curtains, a damp smell of sewerage and fuck knows what else, and I had work for the next three days. I’d sleep tonight, then try and sort this shithole out when I could.
The sound of the street below was jarring. I was used to silence when I went to bed for the night. No such luxury here. Men shouted at each other, women screeched with drunken laughter, and I prayed that I’d get even an hour of sleep.
I tried to ignore the itching in my fingers as I reached for my phone, a sucker for pain. I had to see if she’d uploaded anything. It was like an obsession, checking Lila’s socials constantly.
My heart dropped when I saw her latest upload; her in a nude-coloured dress, showing off her deep bronze tanned skin.
Her hair was loose and curly, and she was drinking what looked like water from a wine glass.
She still took my breath away, even now.
Even when she hated me. But she looked happy, her eyes dancing as she smiled at whoever was taking the photo.
It was him. I knew it.
Photographing my wife—fuck the divorce, it wasn’t final yet—in Greece, at a beautiful restaurant by the sea.
That should be me. That should be fucking me.
I stared at the photo until it went blurry, then I fell asleep, dreaming of watching Lila and her new man getting married in Greece.
It was fucking hell.