Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Isla
The next day
My eyes are swollen and raw from a night of tears that never really stopped.
I’m a wreck, all the way through. Not just exhausted, not just undone. I’m hollowed out. Cut to the bone by truths that refuse to loosen their grip—my father’s escort ring, Dorian’s lies, and Lena’s specter, pressing cold fingers to my chest like she’s still here, still watching, still waiting.
Calypso is curled against my chest, purring softly like she knows she’s the only thing holding me together. Her warmth is the only brightness left in this place.
The sheets are a tangled mess from my tossing and turning, and dawn creeps through the blinds without apology, casting long, pale lines across the carpet. The kind of light that doesn’t ask if you’re ready. It just shows up.
And in that moment, I face the truth I’ve spent the last twelve hours emotionally running from .
I can’t stay.
Everything that happened after they realized I was no longer in my office and that I’d locked myself in a guest room crashes back all at once: Dorian pounding on the door, fury bleeding into every syllable of my name as if volume could make me his again.
“I’ll take this fucking door off its hinges if you don’t open up immediately.”
The sharpness in his voice had rattled the hinges, shook the walls, shook me. Every demand felt like a slap, a reminder of how little choice I’d had in this whole thing.
I didn’t answer.
Instead I curled up tighter beneath the blanket, knees to chest, face buried in Calypso’s fur, her tiny body trembling with mine.
“Get me a goddamn tool to unlock this fucking door!”
Then Brennan’s voice—low, steady, regretful in a way that cut deeper than Dorian’s rage. “Give her space, man. Just…let her be for tonight.”
Space.
As if that could fix any of it. As if there was room enough in this godforsaken penthouse to escape the truth.
Last night, I never slept. Not really. I merely drifted in and out of a kind of grief-like trance, feeling the ache throb behind my eyes, in my spine, in my chest. The lock was my only weapon. It had clicked into place like a heartbeat, and it was the only part of me that held.
In the distance, I hear my men’s voices?—
Ruthlessly I shove away that thought.
Not my men. Not any longer.
The smell of coffee permeates the air, followed by the whirling of the blender. That would be for Brennan’s protein shake.
How familiar the sounds and scents have become. Part of me, our routine. Generally I’d sit at the kitchen island while Dorian poured a cup for me and splashed in exactly the right amount of sugar-free vanilla creamer.
Now, I force myself upright, though every muscle resists. My body feels weighted, like gravity’s stronger today than it was yesterday.
Calypso blinks up at me, her eyes steady and unblinking. I stroke her head with trembling fingers. “We’re going to be okay.” My promise cracks down the middle, like something that’s been dropped and glued back together too many times.
Then the penthouse feels still. Too still.
Despite her protests, I ease Calypso aside so I can creep to the door and press my ear against the wood.
Dorian’s voice slices through—frayed, coiled with tension. “You told me to back off. How the fuck well is that working for us? This can’t go on.”
Brennan’s answering silence is heavy enough to fill our entire home.
In the distance, a door slams.
For long minutes, I stay where I am, listening intently.
When the door closes again, much quieter this time, I exhale with relief and equal measures of regret.
The world inside me stills.
Then my pulse drops into overdrive. This may be my only chance.
I tighten the robe’s belt and crack the door open a little, double checking that I truly am alone.
Calypso winds her way around my legs and dashes down the hallway.
Resolved, I head toward their office…a line I’m not supposed to cross.
I’m sure it’s just my imagination, but the scent of Dorian’s temper seems to hang in the air.
As if I’m a criminal in my own home, I draw a deep breath before reaching for the knob. It turns, and I blink in surprise that it’s not locked.
Then again, why would it be? The penthouse is as secure as Fort Knox. And until now, I’ve been a good girl who does what she’s told.
Inside, the scents of leather and dominance wrap around me, familiar and deeply craved.
Resolutely I square my shoulders.
I’ve had my head in the clouds because of the physical and emotional pull they hold over me.
But last night laid bare the truth, and I can’t pretend anymore.
Knowing how pissed he would be, I drop into the chair behind Dorian’s massive desk. The furniture itself seems to be a monument to control. Sleek, precise, stupidly expensive.
My hands are shaking as I open the center drawer.
Inside is a photo.
It’s Dorian and a woman. And I stop breathing.
They’re at a beach somewhere, with sparkling blue water, sitting on white sand beneath an umbrella. Her blond hair gleams in the sunlight, and her smile is wide and easy. His arm is around her shoulders, and his face—God—his face is unguarded.
He doesn’t wear the practiced, calculating smile that’s so familiar.
This Dorian is a man I don’t know.
There’s a heart at the bottom of the photo, along with the words, Love, Lena.
A sob lodges at the base of my throat.
The photo is another undeniable truth. They were in love.
Frustratedly I swipe away a tear that is winding down my cheek.
I drop the photo back in its place and slam the drawer.
For a few moments, reeling from shock, I sit there .
Then my phone rings, shattering the silence and sending dread up my spine. At this time of the morning, it has to be either Dorian or Brennan. And I can’t risk talking to either of them.
Realizing that my time might be limited to make an escape, I push back from the desk.
My legs feel unsteady as I stand, then force myself to move across the room.
I pull the door closed behind me, part of me wishing I’d never opened it to begin with.
Numb, hardly able to think from the emotional roller coaster and exhaustion, I head to the kitchen for coffee. I need my brain to wake up so I can form a plan.
But when I pour a cup from the carafe that is waiting for me, the bitter scent isn’t appealing.
Hoping it will help, I add creamer. But the first sip tastes burned. There’s probably nothing wrong with the drink since I have it every morning. It’s me and the way I’m reeling. With a sigh, I dump the beverage down the sink.
My phone rings again, and I grab it from my purse. Dorian’s name appears on the screen, and my hand begins to shake. I ache to answer it, but I don’t dare. Instead, I decline the call.
Then before I can open our group chat or read the messages that are frantically demanding attention, I drop the device back into place.
Only then do I realize what a mistake I made. By sending him to voice mail, he knows I’m awake.
Suddenly afraid he’ll come home, I hurry to the bedroom I used to share with them to gather a few things. Anything more might arouse suspicions when I leave.
Dorian’s owl cuff links glint on the dresser and one of Brennan’s jackets is draped over the armchair.
So familiar .
So painfully familiar.
Trying to ignore the way the atmosphere seems to sizzle with tension, I tear off my robe and pajamas, and I dress in lightweight slacks, a pair of sneakers, and a comfortable T-shirt.
Next I grab a small tote bag and stuff my toiletries inside. My laptop and cell phone charger join them, then I place a rolled-up T-shirt on top to hide the contents from the prying eyes of the cameras that are just outside the penthouse, the elevator, and the parking garage.
I give the room one last glance and snatch up my battered copy of Jane Eyre . I’ll need the comfort.
Finally I grab the cat sling from the top shelf of my closet.
As each second passes, my heart thumps harder.
Curious as to what’s going on, Calypso pads over to me, wrapping her body between my legs and meowing. “We’ll be back home soon.” My voice cracks. “Promise.”
There’s only one last thing to do.
In the living room, I take out my phone again.
There are the missed calls from Dorian, along with multiple texts from both of them and one from my sister.
Knowing I dare not stall any longer, I open our group chat.
I force myself not to read any of them.
Instead, I type in the words I’ve silently been rehearsing.
Calypso doesn’t seem to be herself this morning. I made an appointment with the vet. Back soon.
The lie that part of me desperately wants to be true makes tears sting my eyes again.
Brennan replies instantly. I’ll have a driver meet you at your car.
That’s the last thing I want, but something I should have expected, especially after the incident with the reporter .
I type my response. That’s not necessary. I’ll take a car there and back.
Dorian jumps in. Not optional, little one.
Little one.
How I used to love that endearment. And this will probably be the last time he will ever use it.
Another message pops in, almost instantly. Driver’s waiting.
Of course he is. All Brennan or Dorian has to do is snap their fingers and they get what they need.
Since I have no choice and I don’t want to arouse suspicions, I let them think that I agree. Thank you.
All that means is that I’ll have to figure out another plan.
Back in the bedroom, I put Calypso in her sling. “We’re another step closer to being home.”
Once she’s secure, I have to adjust the strap because Brennan was the last to carry her on our honeymoon. A lifetime ago.
Once I have her in place, I pick up my tote.
As I cross into the living room, the morning sunlight catches my pink diamond, refracting everywhere and making me freeze in place.
Suddenly the promise behind it feels like a lie.
In that instant, the metal around my neck becomes too heavy, too cold, and I reach up to unfasten it. Since my hands are shaking so hard, I fumble the clasp several times.
Even though I hadn’t wanted the thing initially, it had become part of me.
Tears in my eyes, I shake my head. It wasn’t part of me. It was just another part of the lie I was living.
I pivot and make my way back to the kitchen and toss the collar onto the island.
The sharp clink of metal on stone reverberates off the ceiling .
My hands trembling even harder, Calypso mewling, I then slide off my ring and drop it.
That strike of diamond against marble is the sound of finality.
With determination, pretending my heart isn’t breaking, I walk to the elevator, each step feeling like a countdown.
Three.
Two.
One
The compartment is waiting, and as the doors slide closed, I exhale. It’s not a sigh of relief. It’s more like a quiet grief, maybe even a release.
As if sensing my distress, Calypso fusses again, and I pet her. “Shh, precious.” Though I don’t want her upset, if either of my men is looking at the camera feed, they’ll believe she’s not feeling well.
In the parking garage, I give my driver the address of the vet on Westheimer. “And since they were booked this morning, they’re working me in. They warned me it could take a while.” Suddenly the lies are coming easier.
“No problem, ma’am.” In the rearview mirror, he meets my gaze. “Mr. Vale has me assigned to you all day.”
Did they suspect I might run?
Calypso settles, and I can’t help but take out my phone. As I do, I notice the absence of the weight on my ring finger. Even though I hadn’t worn it all that long, the ring became part of me, and I miss it.
Shoving that thought and its emotional weight aside, I open my rideshare app and order a car to be waiting in ten minutes on the street next to the vet’s office.
Then, unable to help myself, I see the icon for our group chat showing several unread messages. Even as I tell myself I’m making a mistake, I open it .
In the long list, a few leap out.
Brennan: Just let us know you’re okay.
Dorian: Please, little one.
Then he follows up with: We’ll have dinner tonight. Talk, if you want.
Brennan follows the thread: We’ll let you choose the restaurant.
Heartbreakingly that makes me smile a little. We often disagree about where to go. I like a couple of nearby places that are locally owned, and we dress casually. But Dorian is gearing up for his run for office, and he likes to be seen.
The last one comes from Dorian. Don’t shut us out. Please.
I’m not sure why, but that’s the one that undoes me. Maybe because I’m not accustomed to hearing anything emotional from him.
When we arrive at the vet clinic, the driver opens my door. I offer a forced smile. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”
“No hurry at all, ma’am.”
“I’ve got a book to keep me occupied.” And to explain why I’m carrying a tote bag.
“Good plan.”
Gripping the sling tightly, I enter the clinic.
Inside, the receptionist is distracted by a barking lab mix. Perfect. I keep my head down, duck past the front desk, and head toward the back hall.
The service exit is just where I remember. The door opens with a squeak?—
“Ma’am? Do you need help?”
I don’t look back. I just keep going.
Metal and sunlight collide as I slip into the alley and freedom. Not taking the time to slow down, I hurry to the next block.
As planned, the rideshare is waiting .
I slide in, breathless, and I give him the address of my apartment complex on Wheeler Street.
The driver turns up the music he’s been listening to and doesn’t say anything, which is exactly what I need.
As he drives, I keep looking out the rear window.
How long will it be before they catch up to me?