Chapter 22
CHAPTER 22
Erika
T he dead silence of my apartment wrapped around me like a cold shroud as I stepped inside, nausea twisting my stomach into knots. The box of red roses in my hand felt like a lead weight, doing nothing to quell the rising tide of fear within me. Foster had sent me flowers while I was at Morgan’s wedding. The concierge handed them to me with a smile, but the moment I touched the box, a shiver ran down my spine. These weren’t from Lincoln.
I placed the box on the granite counter, my hands trembling so violently that I had to grip the edge to steady myself. Why now? Why, after all this time, was Foster trying to worm his way back into my life? He knew he had the power to break me if he was persistent. He always had. After he left me, my emotions were shredded, like the foolish teenage dreams I’d woven around the son of a billionaire. But what he did to me— what he made me feel—was worse than anything my father ever did.
The sweet fragrance of the roses wafted from the box, making my stomach churn. I ripped off the lid, my breath catching as I spotted the card nestled among the blooms. The cream-colored cardstock bore Foster’s familiar handwriting, bold and commanding.
I don’t care who he is. I want you back, and I’m fully prepared to do what I need to make that happen. Call me.
His number was scrawled at the bottom, and I dropped the card onto the counter as if it burned my fingers. A wave of dizziness hit me, and I clutched my stomach, bile rising in my throat. I barely made it to the garbage can before I was retching, the bitter taste of vomit searing my throat. Tears stung my eyes as I expelled the last remnants of my lunch, the smell assaulting my senses and threatening to send me into another round of heaving.
I yanked the bag from the can, struggling to keep my breath shallow as I made my way down the hall to the trash compactor. The box of roses was clutched in my other hand, and I took grim satisfaction in shoving it down the chute. Foster didn’t deserve a place in my life, not after everything he’d done. He had his chance, and he blew it.
My cell phone rang as I returned to my apartment, the sound piercing through my headache. I fumbled through my purse, irritation flaring when I saw Lincoln’s name on the screen.
“I thought I said I need space,” I snapped, pressing the phone to my ear.
“You’re not pushing me away, Erika,” Lincoln’s voice was soft, but there was a steely edge to it. “We can work through this.”
“You’re pushing me away by not respecting my wishes,” I countered, my voice trembling with a mix of anger and fear. “Let me have some alone time.”
“Erika,” Lincoln’s voice cracked, the vulnerability in it tugging at my heartstrings. I could almost see the pain etched on his face, the pain I was causing him, but I was too scared to stop.
“Please. If you love me, give me time,” I pleaded, my voice barely a whisper.
“I... I don’t want to lose you,” he confessed, his fear mirroring my own.
“You won’t,” I promised, though I wasn’t sure if I believed it. “Just let me be.”
He sighed, the sound heavy with resignation. “Time. I’ll give it to you. I love you.”
I couldn’t bring myself to say it back. Instead, I muttered a quick goodbye and ended the call, the silence that followed was deafening. Morgan’s wedding had stirred something in me, a fear that had been lurking beneath the surface for years. How could I commit to Lincoln the way Morgan had to Slade? I was terrified of disappointing him, of not being enough.
I headed to the bathroom, the taste of stomach acid still burning in my throat. After rinsing my mouth and brushing my teeth, I gulped down a glass of water, trying to wash away the lingering bitterness. As I changed in the closet, Lincoln’s words echoed in my mind.
When he told me I’d said Foster’s name in my sleep, it was like a punch to the gut. The dream I had about my old boyfriend was vivid, disturbingly erotic. Foster wasn’t my first, but he was the first to make me feel things no one else could—until Lincoln.
I didn’t understand why I’d dream about Foster after all this time. It had been years since I’d seen him, and for most of those years, I wanted to scratch his eyes out. But seeing him at Surge, out of nowhere, blindsided me. Last I heard, he was in Florida, snapping up waterfront real estate to turn into luxury condos. I’d been relieved when he left Manhattan, but now I couldn’t help but wonder why he was back.
Returning to the kitchen, I spotted the crumpled card on the counter, mocking me. I snatched it up, ready to toss it in the trash, but then I remembered I needed to replace the bag. I hesitated, the card crumpled in my fist, before smoothing it out. My fingers traced over the familiar handwriting, and a faint whiff of his cologne drifted up—a spicy, sexy scent that made my stomach turn. God, I hated him.
How could Foster think I’d ever be interested in him again? I shoved the card into the top drawer of my mahogany desk, out of sight but not out of mind. There was work to be done, and I retrieved my laptop from the kitchen, determined to focus on anything but him.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of phone calls and appointments. I tried to lose myself in negotiating a deal with an agent who was apparently out on his boat somewhere on the Long Island Sound. His phone kept cutting out, and with each dropped call, my frustration mounted. But no matter how busy I kept myself, Foster’s words lingered in the back of my mind, like a dark cloud I couldn’t shake.
Monday morning arrived in a haze, the alarm’s shrill ring pulling me from the last remnants of sleep. I dragged myself out of bed, groggy and sluggish. An appointment at 8:30 a.m. with a new client awaited, and while I wasn’t thrilled at the early hour, the fact that the apartment was only two blocks from mine made it bearable. The client sounded eager to settle in Manhattan, which could mean a quick deal—a fat commission, and maybe even a client for life.
The city was in the grip of a relentless heat wave, and despite the air conditioning blasting in my apartment, I felt sticky and uncomfortable after my shower. Deciding to keep things simple, I left my blonde waves to air dry, figuring the heat would melt away any makeup I applied anyway. I opted for a knee-length black skirt and a sleeveless gray silk blouse. Colvin wasn’t joining me today—he’d taken a long weekend to visit friends in New Jersey—so it was just me and my briefcase as I headed out.
By the time I stepped onto the sidewalk, it was 8 a.m., the heat already stifling. I hurried down the street in my four-inch black heels, my mind on the apartment. The current tenants weren’t the tidiest, and I wanted to make sure there weren’t any stray towels or dirty dishes lying around before the client arrived. You’d think they’d be more meticulous if they wanted a quick sale.
The building was a prewar gem, its lobby an elegant blend of dark wood and creamy marble, with a front desk that looked like it had been carved by a master craftsman. I handed my business card to the female concierge, who checked her list and then handed me the key. The elevator ride was quick, and a glance at my watch told me I had twenty minutes to make sure everything was perfect.
Everything was in order by the time the lobby called up to announce that Carson Jacobs, my client, was on his way. I had the sales sheet ready, the apartment’s stats memorized and rehearsed. The bell chimed, and I moved to the door, my breath catching in my throat as I pulled it open.
Foster.
I wanted to slam the door in his face, but he was quicker, slipping inside before I could react.
“F-Foster, what are you doing here?” I stammered, my heart pounding. “I have an appointment.”
“Your appointment is with me,” he replied smoothly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Carson Jacobs is my assistant.”
I backed away instinctively, feeling like Little Red Riding Hood facing the Big Bad Wolf. Foster’s gaze raked over me, and he licked his lips, a gesture that sent a shiver down my spine. He closed the door behind him, and I stood my ground, crossing my arms over my chest.
“The floors are all oak hardwood,” I began, my voice shaky as I tried to focus on anything but him. “The ceilings are eighteen feet high, and the chandeliers are crystal.”
“I’m not interested in the finishings, Erika,” Foster said, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m interested in you.”
He was on me in a heartbeat, closing the distance between us with alarming speed. I stumbled back, but he caught me, pulling me into his arms with a strength that left me breathless. I struggled against his grip, but it was futile—he held me tight, his chest solid against my face. The scent of his cologne, the same one that had clung to the card he sent with the roses, filled my lungs, and I fought the urge to gag.
“Let me go,” I demanded, my voice muffled against his shirt. “We’re not together.”
Foster ignored me, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “What a mistake I made letting you go. I was a fool.”
“We were young, and we were both fools,” I shot back, trying to keep my voice steady. “We had no business being engaged. I wasn’t even out of my teens, and you were twenty-two.”
“You were like a drug to me,” he murmured, his breath warm against my hair. “I wanted you all the time.”
I pushed against him again, and this time he released me. I staggered back, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I bumped into the black granite island. My heart was racing, my skin tingling from the proximity of his body.
“You can’t have me now,” I said, my voice firm despite the tremor running through me. “I’m with someone.”
“Who?” he demanded, his tone sharp.
“You don’t know him.”
He chuckled darkly. “You’d be surprised who I know.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I snapped, frustration and fear mixing into a potent cocktail. “You can’t just come back after nine years and expect me to welcome you with open arms! What’s the matter, haven’t you found enough hearts to twist? I saw you were engaged twice more after you left me. Why didn’t they work out?”
The words were out before I could stop them, and I cursed myself for revealing that I’d kept tabs on him. Foster’s expression shifted, a flicker of something—satisfaction? crossing his face.
“They weren’t you,” he said simply. “I spent the past nine years trying to find someone like you, and you know what I figured out? No one is like you but you.”
“Too bad,” I huffed, trying to put as much distance between us as possible. “You can’t have me. Now, are you interested in the apartment or not?”
“Will you go out on a date with me?” he asked, ignoring the question entirely.
“It’s not possible,” I croaked, moving around the counter to put something solid between us. Foster followed, his hands gentle but insistent as they gripped my arms. His fingers stroked my skin, sending a rush of unwanted warmth through me. I closed my eyes, fighting against the pull he still had on me, trying to remind myself that the man I loved wasn’t standing in front of me.
But it was hard to forget the memories Foster evoked—the passion, the intensity, the way he made me feel like the center of his world. I opened my eyes, meeting his gaze with a determination I wasn’t sure I truly felt.
“Your skin is still so soft.”
My eyes snapped open. “Stop trying to seduce me.”
A wicked smile curled on his lips. “You’re not trying very hard to stop me. It was always so easy to make you come, remember? I loved hearing those sounds you made when you did.”
“Get off me!” I cried, the sudden loudness of my voice startling even myself. Foster released me as if my words had scalded him.
“Christ, you scared me.”
“And you’re scaring me!” I shot back, my voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. “I don’t like what you’re doing.”
His eyes narrowed. “And what is that, Erika? Professing my undying love to you? Telling you I’m ready to spend the rest of my life with you? Who is he?” he demanded.
“Lincoln Elliott,” I blurted out, the name escaping before I could think twice.
“The playboy? He can’t be serious about you. Lincoln loves the ladies.”
I raised my eyebrows. “How could you possibly know Lincoln?”
“Rumors. Things get around the city. We’ve shared women. I’ve heard his name before. I don’t know him personally, but he’s not for you.”
“And neither are you,” I retorted, my voice sharp with defiance. “How dare you tell me what he is.”
Before I could react, Foster backed me against the refrigerator, his lips crashing against mine. My initial instinct was to push him away, to beat on his chest and demand he stop, but when his tongue parted the seam of my lips, I faltered. My resolve crumbled, and before I knew it, I was molding my body against his, my core tightening, heat flooding through me until a fine mist coated my skin. My brain screamed at me to recognize the danger, to pull away, but I wasn’t listening.
He kissed me until I was breathless, then finally pulled back. His eyes had darkened, pupils blown wide and obscuring the mossy green of his irises. His cheeks were flushed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. I could feel his arousal pressed against my stomach, a stark reminder of how close we were to crossing a line.
“Your mouth is still so delicious,” he murmured, his voice low and husky. “I haven’t forgotten what you can do with it.”
I nearly responded that I hadn’t forgotten what he could do with his mouth either, but I bit back the words. We stood there, staring at each other, the throbbing between my legs an undeniable pulse of desire. But then, as if a fog was lifting, the realization of what I’d just done began to creep in. I was betraying Lincoln. Betraying his trust, his love. The weight of it settled on my shoulders, making them sag.
“I need to go before I take you right here on this counter,” Foster said, planting his palm against the granite, his voice thick with lust. “Unless you want me to. Do you?”
I shook my head, too afraid my voice would crack if I spoke.
“This isn’t over,” he declared, his voice firm. “I won’t give up.”
He turned on his heel, the squeak of his shoes on the floor making me wince. I watched him walk away, and the moment the door closed behind him, I crumpled to the floor, tears streaming down my face. What had I done?
“Sweetheart, is there anything wrong?” Lincoln’s voice was soft, but his gaze was sharp as he watched me pick at my plate of pasta primavera.
“Nothing,” I replied, my eyes fixed on the spiral of fettuccine that I hadn’t touched.
Lincoln’s brow furrowed. “Something must be wrong. You haven’t said much since you got here. In fact, I’m surprised you came for dinner. I thought you needed space.”
After locking up the apartment I was supposed to show to Foster, I dragged myself home, misery weighing down every step. I changed into my old pink sweatpants—the ones with a hole in the knee, a relic from my college days. Morgan used to call them my breakup sweats, worn whenever my heart needed mending.
Sitting across from Lincoln now, I could feel the weight of what I hadn’t told him pressing on my chest, crushing the air from my lungs. I knew the truth about Foster could end us, but when I walked through Lincoln’s door and saw his face light up like a kid on Christmas morning, I couldn’t bear to break his heart. Not yet.
“I’m just tired. It’s been a busy day,” I lied, still unable to meet his eyes.
“Do you want to go to bed early?” His concern was genuine, his love palpable.
“I’d like you to make love to me,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Lincoln’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Are you sure? You don’t seem like you’re in the mood.”
“I want you to do it slowly,” I said, my voice barely above a murmur.
Lincoln dropped his fork, the clatter of metal on porcelain loud in the quiet room. Without a word, he stood, scooping me up into his arms as if I weighed nothing. He kissed my face, his lips warm and soft, each touch a gentle reminder of the love I didn’t deserve. Tears pricked the back of my eyes. He had no idea what I was hiding.
In his bedroom, Lincoln undressed me with reverence, kissing every inch of my skin as if committing me to memory. When he finally laid me down on the bed, his touch was achingly tender, and when he moved inside me, the slow rhythm of our bodies was a bittersweet symphony. I felt the tears welling up, and I was grateful when he pulled me into his arms afterward, his embrace hiding the silent sobs that wracked my body.
“Erika, are you okay?” Lincoln’s voice was thick with concern as he held me close, his hand stroking my back.
“Fine,” I choked out, my throat tight.
“You’re not fine. Did something happen today?” He pulled back slightly, trying to catch my eye.
“I’m just tired and ready for bed.”
“It’s only nine. Do you still want to sleep?” He sounded unconvinced, worried.
“Yes, I need it.” My voice was a whisper, barely holding together.
Lincoln hesitated, then reached over me to switch off the bedside lamp. Darkness enveloped us, but sleep was a distant dream for me. The encounter with Foster had shaken me to my core, leaving me sick with guilt and fear. I knew I should have told Lincoln the moment I walked through his door, but the words stuck in my throat like poison. Foster was relentless, and I knew from experience that he wouldn’t give up easily. The worst part was the tiny spark of feeling still lingering for him, a flicker I couldn’t extinguish.
I lay awake long after Lincoln had fallen asleep, his even breathing a painful contrast to the storm raging inside me. When he stirred to go work out at 7, I was briefly roused but quickly drifted back into a restless sleep. At nine, when he returned from the shower, he peppered my face with kisses, his wet skin cool against my fevered cheeks.
“Hey, I’m sleeping,” I mumbled, trying to feign normalcy.
“You look too good to ignore. Do you feel better?” His voice was laced with hope, the hope I was about to crush.
“A little,” I lied again, the weight of deceit making it harder to breathe.
“Did someone hurt you?” His tone sharpened, concern turning to suspicion.
“Lincoln, I don’t want to talk about it,” I snapped, more harshly than I intended.
He frowned, the playful light in his eyes dimming. “I worry when you call me Lincoln.”
“Elliott,” I corrected, trying to bring back the banter. “Better?”
“Not really.” He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
Lincoln pulled the towel from around his waist, wiping at his chest as he stood before me. Naked, he was a beautiful sight in the morning light, but my stomach churned with dread. The longer I kept my secret, the more it festered, growing uglier by the second.
“I should go home. I have clients to call.” I sat up in bed, rubbing at my tired eyes, the exhaustion seeping into my bones.
The bed dipped as Lincoln sat beside me, his fingers threading through my hair. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me,” he said softly, pleadingly.
“There’s nothing to tell,” I replied evasively, pushing the covers off me and slipping out of bed. I needed to get away before Lincoln’s gentle persistence broke me. I wasn’t ready to confess, even though I knew I should.
I hurried to the bathroom, turning on the shower and stepping under the cold spray before it had a chance to warm up. I was out in three minutes, drying myself with one of the thick white towels as Lincoln prepared to shave, his eyes following my every move.
“Don’t,” I said, my voice tight as I tried to hold on to some semblance of normalcy.
Lincoln paused, razor in hand, and raised an eyebrow. “Don’t shave?”
“I like you with stubble,” I murmured, forcing a smile. “It’s sexy.”
“Unfortunately, Mrs. Ducane likes it better when I’m clean-shaven,” he replied, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“Oh, so you take your client over me?” I shot back, my tone sharp.
He smirked, not catching the shift in my mood. “You bet your ass I do when the commission is around two hundred grand.”
But I wasn’t amused. I bent over, drying my legs with a quick, agitated motion.
“Erika, that was a joke,” he said, his smile faltering when he saw my expression.
“Shave,” I snapped, tossing the towel at him with more force than necessary. “I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your money.” The bitterness in my voice was impossible to miss as I stormed out of the bathroom.
Lincoln caught my arm as I tried to pass by, spinning me around to face him. His eyes darkened, the playful teasing gone. “I swear to God, Erika, you tell me what’s wrong, or I won’t let you leave,” he threatened, his voice low and dangerous.
“And what about your precious client?” I shot back, venom lacing my words.
“I don’t give a fuck about her. I care about you.” His grip on my arm tightened, not in anger, but in desperation.
The dam inside me broke, and I burst into tears, my shoulders shaking with the force of my sobs. Lincoln stood there, stunned for a moment, before he pulled me against his bare chest, holding me as if he could physically keep me from falling apart.
“Please, sweetheart,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “What happened?”
The sobs came harder, my chest heaving as I tried to catch my breath. Lincoln guided me to the bed, gently pulling me onto his lap. His hands rubbed soothing circles on my back, but the comfort only made the shame worse.
“It’s so shameful,” I whimpered, burying my face in his neck. “I’m so sorry.”
“Tell me,” he urged, his voice pleading, but gentle.
“I can’t,” I choked out, my words barely audible. “I need time.”
His heart was pounding against mine, the rhythm frantic and fearful. “Do we need to involve the police?”
“No,” I shook my head, feeling the weight of his concern. “It’s nothing like that. I’m just… I’m not ready to tell you.”
The fear of losing him gripped me as I slipped off his lap, the connection between us fraying with each step I took away from him. I grabbed my clothes from the dresser, pulling them on with trembling hands. Tears streamed down my face, unchecked, as I dressed in silence, knowing that once I told him, what we had would be shattered beyond repair.
Lincoln watched me, his eyes filled with a mix of hurt and confusion, but he didn’t stop me. He just stood there, helpless, as I prepared to leave, the unspoken words hanging between us like a heavy curtain that neither of us could lift.
I avoided Lincoln for the next few days, dodging his calls and making excuses to stay away. But the guilt gnawed at me, and with Morgan still on her honeymoon, I needed my best friend. I hesitated before dialing her number, hoping she wouldn’t tear my head off.
When she answered, her voice was sharp. “Are you out of your fucking mind?” she yelled after I told her.
“I don’t know what came over me,” I sobbed, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I shouldn’t have let Foster kiss me.”
“The minute he walked through the door, you should’ve stood your ground!” Morgan snapped. “He’s been fucking with your head for years, and now I’m getting the fallout from that mess. He doesn’t deserve you, and he never did,” she added, her voice dripping with venom. “Why the hell would you risk your relationship with Lincoln for Foster?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled, feeling pathetic. “He was… convenient.”
“Convenient?” Morgan’s disbelief was palpable. “Why are you so afraid of committing to Lincoln? If he’s anything like Michael, he’d be perfect for you.”
Her words struck a nerve, and I lashed out, my voice sharper than intended. “Then why didn’t you marry him?”
Silence. The weight of my words hung heavy between us, and I immediately regretted it. I knew how much Morgan struggled with her feelings for both Slade and Michael, and how Michael’s sudden disappearance had left her shattered.
“Morgan?” I whispered, my voice trembling with remorse. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. Please forgive me.”
Morgan’s voice softened, tinged with the pain I’d caused. “You know how it tortured me when Michael came back,” she said quietly, the hurt still fresh.
“I know. But Foster won’t leave me alone,” I admitted, my voice cracking. I’d already told her how he’d been bombarding me with calls, flowers, and small gifts since that day. He was relentless, trying to worm his way back into my life.
Meanwhile, Lincoln had been calling too, leaving voicemails that grew more heart-wrenching with each message. He was just as miserable as I was. Telling him about my encounter with Foster would destroy him—and us. Lincoln was a proud man, and once he found out, it would be over.
Morgan’s tone turned icy. “Send him packing once and for all, Erika, or maybe… maybe you like the attention.”
“I don’t,” I protested weakly, but even I didn’t believe it.
“You need to end this,” she said firmly. “Kick Foster to the curb, confess to Lincoln, and start over.”
“I love him,” I whispered, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Morgan’s voice hardened. “Who? Which one do you love?”
Before I could answer, I heard Morgan pull back and say something to Slade. His voice came on the line a moment later, deep and authoritative. “Goodbye, Erika. I need time with my wife.”
I heard Morgan giggle softly in the background as Slade hung up.
“FUCK!” I screamed into the empty room, the frustration boiling over. I needed Morgan’s help, her guidance, but instead, I was left with her words echoing in my mind. Did I still love Foster? And if I did… what the hell was I going to do about it?