Chapter 28
It's been almost two months since I've seen Chloe. I have to admit, I miss her terribly. I thought that settling into a new routine would make everything easier. She even tried to reach out a few times, but I wasn't ready to hear her explanations.
My friend Jullian noticed my dejected expression and asked what was going on, probably thinking I'd already gotten over the brat.
As always, I don't keep secrets from him, so I ended up sharing everything—though without mentioning her name.
I'd avoided talking about her before, and he'd respected that, but time passed and I decided to open up.
He listened attentively and, with an easy smile, suggested I needed to get laid to forget the “girl who was taking up all my headspace.” But the problem was that it wasn't just physical attraction; I was really starting to fall in love with her.
After everything I went through with Abigail, Chloe was the first woman I'd let myself feel something real for.
Right now, I'm sitting in my comfortable chair in my office, reading a contract that, once again, needs corrections—the third one this month alone. God, I miss my girl, so meticulous and sharp. I always trusted her work because she did everything right. I never had to worry about a thing.
I need her back, urgently—at least at work.
I'm mulling this over and about to get up from my chair when my office door bursts open.
Abigail walks in, with Vivian running after her calling out, but she doesn't even acknowledge her, stopping right beside me.
I abandon my attempt to stand and sink back into my seat.
“It's okay, Vivian, I'll handle it,” I say, waving my hand. Vivian nods, casting one last worried look at Abigail before apologizing:
“I'm sorry, sir, I only saw her when she was already walking into your office.”
“It's no problem. Go ahead and get back to work.”
She leaves, closing the door behind her.
With the room silent again, I raise my head to face the woman standing beside me. Abigail has an enigmatic smile on her face, her eyes fixed on me with an intensity that makes me uneasy. Her smile seems to hold some hidden meaning, something I can't decipher.
“What are you doing here, Abigail? And who gave you permission to come in?” I ask, trying to stay calm, though her presence alone is enough to irritate me.
“Robinson was at the front desk, and since he knows me, I asked him to let me in,” she responds without a hint of remorse.
“I'll be having a word with him later. Now, spit it out—I'm very busy,” I demand, impatient.
“Oh, I just came to show you something,” she says with a malicious smile. “I have to admit, I was shocked when I first saw it, and I just couldn't resist showing you.”
Just then, my phone vibrates with a message.
I pick it up and type in the password to open the messaging app, “WhatsApp.” It's from an unknown number—probably hers.
I tap on it and see there's a video, which I have no desire to open.
I stare at the screen without reacting, wondering what could be so important or shocking that she'd want to show me.
Coming from this woman, it can't be anything good.
“Open it and watch. Trust me, you'll be surprised by what you see,” she insists, her tone almost anxious.
“I have no interest in watching any video of yours, Abigail. Excuse me, I have something to take care of,” I respond, trying to stand and show I'm not interested.
“Sit down and watch—it has nothing to do with me,” she says with a firmness that makes me hesitate. “Go on, open it!” she insists, as if she knows exactly what I'm going to find and is determined to make me see it.
She touches my phone screen, and music starts playing.
At first, I can't make anything out—just a dark room.
But as I focus, I notice a young woman dancing on a pole.
I stare, and yes, it's the same woman I saw months ago at the nightclub.
This time, she's dressed all in white—outfit and shoes—with a slight transparency that accentuates her silhouette.
I can't help but notice the beautiful mask she's wearing, white and adorned with stones and feathers.
But when she raises her head toward whoever's recording, she seems startled and, in a sudden movement, loses her balance and falls from the pole.
Her mask, which had been concealing her face, slides off and falls to the floor.
My heart races. When I look again, my gaze locks onto that achingly familiar face.
Her frightened expression, mixed with pain and surprise, paralyzes me.
I pause the video, incredulous. It can't be.
My whole body trembles at the possibility, but no matter how much I try to deny it, there's no escaping the truth: it's her… my little one.
The memory of her arriving at work injured hits me like a blow. No, this can't be happening. I feel a suffocating knot in my throat as I grip the phone tightly and, on impulse, punch the desk, unable to watch the rest of the video.
“Where did you get this, Abigail?” My voice comes out hoarse and furious as I grip her wrist firmly. She stares at me, eyes wide, and hesitates. “SPEAK NOW,” I shout, feeling pain and rage mingle.
She stammers, her voice trembling:
“My... my... my brother...”
“Tell me now, WHERE DID YOU GET THIS?” The words tear out of me in a desperate outburst, but my heart still refuses to believe that's my girl—so sweet, so pure.
“You... you're hurting me, Alex.” Her voice sounds fragile, and only then do I notice how hard I'm gripping her arm.
Only then do I notice I'm squeezing her wrist so hard that my fingers are sinking into Abigail's thin arm. I release her, and she moves away from me, walks around the desk, and finally speaks:
“She dances for men at a nightclub in the London suburbs. My brother found out from a friend who hired her too. I just wanted to show you she's not the saint you think she is.”
“Get out of here... leave, Abigail, LEAVE!” I shout, startling her. She turns and walks out the door. I hope she never comes back.
I collapse into my chair, grateful it's there to catch me, because seeing that video left me completely shocked and numb.
Still unable to believe it's Chloe, I pick up my phone again and watch it once more—I need to be sure it's her.
And again I see her, those sensual movements, the outfit hinting at her beautiful curves, until the mask falls.
Again, I feel that tightness in my chest and crushing disappointment—disappointment for believing I could finally be happy with her.
But just thinking about her selling herself like this fills me with disgust and revulsion.
I thought about going after her, hearing her out, finally understanding what happened and bringing her back, but I have to admit that urge has passed.
Still, I need to look her in the face—not to win her back, but to know why she lied to me.
And so, even as disappointment takes over, I decide I'll see with my own eyes the way she apparently prefers to show herself: “dancing for me.”
It seems crazy, and I know it is, but it's the only way I'll be able to look into her eyes and see for myself what she really does for money.
And that's exactly what I did: I called the nightclub and scheduled a day and time—apparently that's how she takes clients.
At first they didn't want to book me, but I offered good money and they finally agreed.
The day was approaching, and I was anxious to see everything with my own eyes.