16. Cillian
sixteen
Cillian
Three Days Later
brAAAAAANNNNNG. brAAAAAAAANGGGG.
Jesus fucking Christ.
The sharp blare of my phone alarm slices through the haze of my whiskey-drowned slumber, dragging me back to a reality I can’t face. I jam my finger on the off button with more force than necessary to shut it off.
My head is pounding. A thumping reminder of last night’s poor decision. Trudging out to the kitchen to take some Tylenol, I spot the empty whisky bottle on the kitchen counter. It glares at me accusingly. Last night, I drained it in a futile attempt to quell my escalating panic about Ivy.
I’m a mess. A shell of a man. I’ve endured three days of unbearable silence from my girlfriend and the uncertainty is crushing. Ivy has vanished. She sent me a text telling me her parents were home early, and then nothing.
No texts. No calls. Nothing.
I’ve called and texted her a million times and still…nada.
Did I push her away?
Not knowing is killing me. It’s like she’s been wiped off the face of the earth. With each passing second, worry carves a pattern into my chest. I miss her from the bottom of my soul, it feels like my heart has been ripped from my body. All I’ve done for seventy-two hours is conjure up every horrific possibility of what’s happened to her. Each one claws at my brain with unrelenting ferocity.
What if she was in an accident? What if she’s hurt? Abducted? Dead .
The darkness of my thoughts is a black hole, pulling me under.
Why didn’t I insist on getting her address? I know she’s not on socials, but why don’t I know her parents’ first names? Why don’t I know what fucking school she went to? We’ve spent nearly every waking minute together for the past few weeks. I can tell you the location of every freckle on her body.
How do I not know how to track her down?
The thought of Ivy scared and alone is a dagger to my soul.
As I wait for coffee to brew, the empty bottle taunts me. Evidence of my failed attempt to cope. For all my talk of integrity, I’m a fucking fraud.
The thing is, her absence is suffocating. The silence in my loft is a stark contrast to our conversations and the sounds of our passion. Her laughter, once a beautiful melody filling my loft, now echoes like a ghostly reminder. Will I ever hear it again?
Dragging my weary body to the shower, I let cold water shock my system. Wash away the stench of alcohol and despair. I resolve to find her, no matter the cost. The fear I’m already too late is crushing.
When I find her—and I will—I’ll never let her go again.
I can’t believe the most important meeting of my career is in an hour. I have no idea how I’m supposed to get through it, let alone make a presentation. Yet, after nearly canceling two dozen times, something compelled me to keep it on the books.
The reality is, Ivy is probably fine. Safe with her family. It doesn’t explain why she won’t text me back, but it’s possible she doesn’t want to talk to me after I rejected her idea of eloping. Maybe she’s ashamed about lying to me about her virginity. Maybe her dad has her on lockdown. Who knows .
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I’ve dedicated my entire adult life to McGloughlin Construction. Today is crucial, a potentially career-defining day. I have to suck it up for an hour. One goddamn hour . Surely, I can push my personal shit aside and manage.
Once I’ve scrubbed myself clean, I get dressed. Rather than my usual work clothes, I put on a pair of dark jeans and a button-up shirt. I keep my steel-toed work boots on, though. I don’t have the energy for pretense. I am who I am. A blue collar worker who’s made something of himself.
Shit. Was I enough for her? Her family is rich enough for a full house staff. It’s possible our story was always going to end this way.
I think her feelings for me were real. Mine certainly are. I love her. She says she loves me. It felt sincere. But, could I have been her summer fling? A walk on the wild side? I mean, the girl was a twenty-four-year-old virgin, for God’s sake. Who could blame her for wanting to sow some wild oats. I sure did at her age.
The fucking age difference. It’s always worried me.
Every moment we shared was precious to me and the thought of it being over like this twists a knife in my gut.
The thought of her fucking someone else makes me feel murderous .
Fuck it.
I grab my keys and head out.
The way this organization disclosed the meeting location to me was nuts. Enshrouded in layers of secrecy I’ve never experienced in my life. Yesterday, I was required to sign a new stack of NDAs. The address was finally sent to me in an encrypted email message a hour ago.
I guess it underscores the high stakes and confidentiality of the project, but it didn’t make planning easy. Luckily, the drive to the meeting isn’t far and I find myself at a compound close to the Port of Seattle with plenty of time to spare.
Trying to push thoughts of Ivy to the side for a moment, I sit in the car to visualize my presentation. It’s useless. Ivy invades my thoughts instead. Her laugh. Cuddling on the couch. Making love whenever and however the mood strikes.
Shaking the memories off, I decide to head inside. There’s no shame in arriving early. I’m shown to the designated conference room—a stark, modern space. Very cold and impersonal. Setting up my materials, I attempt to anchor myself in the moment, but my hands tremble when I lay out the sample blueprints on the polished glass table. The words and diagrams blur before my eyes.
Then the door opens.
Stanley Bright, titan of the shipping industry, steps into the room with a presence demanding attention. He’s a tall, imposing figure with a broad, sturdy frame. His hair is silver and neatly trimmed. His beard is impeccably groomed, which adds to his distinguished appearance.
His unusual blue eyes are sharp and assessing—yet familiar—as he scans me from head to toe before extending a hand. “Stanley Bright. Thank you for coming today.”
“Cillian McGloughlin, sir. It’s my pleasure.” I grip his hand tightly as we shake. There’s something about this man. I’ve never met him, but it’s like we know each other. I can’t seem to place him, though.
A few minutes later, a string of executives wearing dark suits whose faces are a blur, follow him in. The last woman to enter the room stops my heart.
Dressed in a sharp black suit, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek knot, Ivy Davies takes a seat next to Stanley. She flicks her gaze to my surprised face and everything becomes clear. Those beautiful turquoise orbs I’ve gazed into for hours on end—are her father’s eyes.
Ivy Davies isn’t her real name. She’s Ivy Bright, and looks every inch the business prodigy her father is training her to be.
What. The. Actual. Fuck .
More lies. Am I in the twilight zone?
She flicks those eyes to mine with a message. A plea for discretion, perhaps? I see the flash of the pain and confusion I’m feeling mirrored in her hollow, haunted expression .
Leaving me in a surreal fog as the meeting commences.
Stan introduces his team, ending with Ivy. As if the day couldn’t get worse, he drops another bombshell eviscerating my entire being. “Cillian, this is my daughter, Ivy. She just turned eighteen, but finished both high school and her undergraduate business degree this year. I’m proud to say, she’ll start her master’s program at Stanford Business School this fall before she takes her executive role at Bright Shipping.”
Every drop of blood freezes in my veins.
I feel like I’m about to pass out. The room spins. The walls close in.
Eighteen.
Every moment with her, every conversation, every discussion about the future crashes down around me. Lies. All summer long. About her age. Her virginity. About who she is.
Everything .
And yet, as Stanley continues to describe the project and the impending timeline, the only thing I can think of is the raw, undeniable pain etched into her features.
Why does she look like a ghost? What’s happened to her in the days we’ve been apart ?
Stan stands up. “Cillian, I’m looking forward to discussing our new vision and how McGloughlin Construction’s capabilities line up.”
How I manage to nod and begin the presentation, I do not know. Probably muscle memory, at this point. I’ve never been more discombobulated in all my life. “As you can see from the plans on my most recent project…” I project detailed blueprints on the screen behind me, “…we’re prepared to not only meet but exceed the current standards for environmental efficiency and safety in construction.”
I continue answering the questions tossed in my direction. Stan seems oblivious to the glances Ivy and I steal. It seems like she’s trying to get a message across. Maybe an apology. Or, warning me not to say anything. I also could be making this shit up in my head. What the fuck do I know?
As the meeting wraps up, against all odds, Stan seems pleased. “Impressive, Mr. McGloughlin. We’ll be in touch shortly with our decision.”
My plan was to stay behind and talk to Ivy, but I’m ushered out and my pass is taken away. Back in my truck, I stare at the building. Wonder if I should sit here and wait until she comes out. I’m sure there are security cameras everywhere, though. At some point, someone’s going to ask questions.
She’s okay. Alive. Out of harm’s way.
Which means? Fuck .
Gripping the steering wheel tightly, my thoughts are still a chaotic swirl. Now, with new emotions. Anger, betrayal, and confusion wrestle for dominance in my mind.
Eighteen. I fucked Ivy on her eighteenth birthday. She was a virgin.
Holy. Fucking. Hell.
Thank Christ we kept to ourselves. If my friends or family knew, I’d be a laughingstock.
Oh, Jesus.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
If her father finds out I stole his precious daughter’s innocence, he’ll kill me. Literally kill me.
I feel like a disgusting creeper. I can’t even count about how many times my cock’s been inside her body. Her pussy. Her mouth. Her ass. How many times did I make her come? How many times did I fill her with my seed?
She’s fourteen years younger than me, not eight.
I’m wrecked. I’m done .
I hope the deception was worth it for her.
Because I’ll never recover from this betrayal.