Chapter 18 Phoenix
PHOENIX
Something's off with Jade.
She came back to bed last night, but she was different. Stiff when I pulled her close. Too quiet. I could practically hear her thinking, her mind spinning somewhere far away from me.
This morning she barely looked at me. Made some excuse about needing to write, needing space. Slipped out of bed and practically ran to the guest house before I could ask what was wrong.
I let her go. Gave her an hour. Two.
But now it's past noon and the distance is making my skin itch.
My phone buzzes. It’s Marcus.
Investor dinner is in 5 days. Thursday.
I stare at the message.
Need confirmation she's coming.
Another buzz.
And do you have any photos of you two together? That would really add a lot to building trust.
Photos. He wants to package us up nice and pretty for the investors. Proof that Phoenix Crawford is stable, settled, the kind of man you trust with millions.
I text back: I’ll handle it.
I toss the phone on the bed.
Whatever's going on with Jade, I need to fix it. She's pulling away and I don't know why, and that's unacceptable. I've waited too long for her. Worked too hard to get her here.
I'm not losing her over some mood I don't understand.
I head across the lawn to the guest house. The sun is bright, the ocean sparkling, everything picture-perfect. The kind of day that should have us tangled up in each other.
I knock. "Jade?"
Nothing.
"Jade, open up."
Silence.
The key is in my pocket. I shouldn't use it. Should respect her space, give her time, all the things a good man would do.
But I’m not a good man.
I unlock the door and step inside.
She's not here. The room is empty—her sandals gone, her bag missing. Probably walking on the beach, putting more distance between us with every step.
Her laptop sits open on the desk.
I shouldn't look.
I know I shouldn't look. It's a violation. But I need to know what changed. I need to understand what's happening in her head so I can fix it.
I cross to the desk and look at the screen.
A magazine article. Old, by the look of it. Glossy photos of my parents on the terrace in Maui, the ocean behind them. The headline reads: "Paradise Found: The Crawford Love Story."
I've seen this photo before. It's hung in my parents' hallway my entire life.
But I've never read this article.
I lean closer, scanning the text.
"Nicholas Crawford first spotted Olive at a charity gala. 'I knew the moment I saw her,' he says. 'I had to have her.' Within weeks, he had tracked down the struggling artist and sent her an anonymous gift—enough money to pay off all her debts."
The words don't make sense.
I read them again.
Anonymous gift. Pay off all her debts.
That's not—that's not how my parents met. They met at a dinner party. Friends of friends. That's what they've always told me. Love at first sight, but normal. Romantic, but ordinary.
Not this.
I scroll down, heart pounding.
"Olive flew to Hawaii to meet her mysterious benefactor in person. 'It was like a fairy tale,' she recalls. 'This beautiful estate, the ocean, this incredible man who had chosen me out of everyone in the world. How could I say no?'"
I look at Jade’s search history. The queries lined up in the browser bar like an accusation.
Nicholas Crawford Olive Crawford how they met
Nicholas Crawford paid Olive's debts
Crawford family Maui
My legs feel unsteady. I sink into the chair.
My father sent my mother a check. Brought her to his island. Made her dependent on him before she even knew what was happening.
Exactly what I did to Jade.
I thought I was being romantic. Original. Sweeping her off her feet in my own way. But it's not my way at all, is it? It's his way. A pattern I absorbed without ever knowing it existed. A blueprint I followed without ever seeing the plans.
Like father, like son.
The phrase rises up like bile in my throat.
Is this why Jade pulled away? She read this article and saw herself in my mother's story. The struggling artist. The anonymous money. The beautiful cage.
She thinks I'm trying to control her.
For a long moment I just sit there, staring at my parents' faces on the screen. My father's arm around my mother's waist. Her smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
They lied to me. My whole life, they lied about how they met, how they started, what their love was really built on.
And I became him anyway.
The realization should horrify me. Should send me spiraling into guilt, into self-loathing, into desperate plans to prove I'm different.
But that's not what I feel.
What I feel is something darker. Something that coils in my chest and tightens its grip.
She's mine.
The thought surfaces from somewhere primal, somewhere I don't usually let myself look.
I don't care if the pattern is the same. I don't care if I'm my father's son. I don't care if she's seen the blueprint and recognized her place in it.
She came here. She stayed. She let me touch her, taste her, have her. She's mine now.
And I'm not letting her go.
I close the laptop and stand up.
So she knows about my parents. So she's scared. So she's out there right now convincing herself that everything between us has been a game.
Fine.
I'll find her. I'll tell her whatever she needs to hear. I'll make her understand that what we have is different—even if I have to lie through my teeth to do it.
Or maybe I won't lie.
Maybe I'll tell her the truth: that yes, I paid her debts. Yes, I brought her here. Yes, the pattern looks the same.
But I don't care.
And neither will she. Not when I'm done.
I step out of the guest house and scan the beach. I see a figure in the distance, walking along the waterline. Small and alone against the vast blue of the ocean.
It’s Jade.
I start walking toward her. Then faster. Almost running.
She can be scared. She can be angry. She can hate me for what I've done and what I'm going to keep doing.
But she's not leaving.
I won't let her.