41. Chapter Aria
T hree weeks have passed since Damian's arrest, and he's been avoiding me like the plague. That day, he was supposed to stay over at my place, but stood me up.
He said he was busy, so I let it go.
I tried to meet with him the day after, and he said he was still extremely busy with meetings and coming up with a game plan for the indictment. I understood and decided to let it go— again —trying my best to be understanding.
But now he’s blatantly avoiding me. And it stings, especially with what happened at the gala right before everything went to shit. In other instances, I would be the good little patient girl who sits and waits for him to show his face. My new self, though? The exact opposite.
Hence why I’m outside of Vortex after Isabella gave me access to his calendar. I don’t care if I seem like a crazy stalker. I’m worried. So fucking worried. I heard from Isabella that the indictment is next month, and he didn’t even tell me.
I’m trying not to take this personally. I really am.
From what the calendar showed—which was extremely vague—his meeting should be finishing up right now.
I lean against a building across the street, looking at the club entrance. Once I spot him, I cross the sidewalk and stand in front of him, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow expectantly.
His gaze snaps up, surprise lacing his features. “What are you doing here?”
His voice is slurry, and he smells like a distillery. I’m not too sure now if the calendar was right. He doesn’t drink more than one glass of bourbon during meetings, saying that it clouds the mind.
“You’re avoiding me. And you’re drunk,” I state in a matter-of-fact tone, void of emotion.
He takes his phone out of his pocket, avoiding my gaze. “I’m not drunk.” His slur is more pronounced now. “And I told you, I’ve been busy.”
I take the phone out of his hands, which is relatively easy since his movements are slower than normal. “Twenty-four hours a day? You can’t take a moment to call me? Text me?” I gulp, trying my best to compose myself. “You stood me up.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, still avoiding my gaze. His eyes are glassy, though. His face flushed from the alcohol. His words are cold, and a little sharper now. “I’m trying to get my shit together, Aria. I don’t have time for this,” he mutters, walking to where his driver is waiting for him.
I follow after him like a pathetic fool, but God, I don’t care. He’s not getting away with this. I deserve more than this. I don’t deserve to be brushed off.
I grab his arm, stopping him. “Damian, talk to me. What’s wrong? Why are you drunk in the middle of the fucking day?”
He snaps, shaking off my grip rudely. “Aria, I will fucking talk to you when I can. Now, I have another meeting to go to.”
“With who? Your bottle of bourbon?”
He snarls. “Stop worrying about me, you look pathetic.”
His words are like a whiplash; a slap to the face.
A wave of emotion crashes over me, and my eyes well up with tears as I reluctantly take a step back, nodding in silent understanding. A heavy ache tightens around my heart, squeezing it in a vise of conflicting emotions. Just a few weeks back, he told me he loved me and that he believed in me. The words felt real. Now, it's like those moments never happened.
I brush away a tear from my cheek. “Pathetic, huh?” I mutter unsteadily.
His face drains of color as he tries to close the distance between us. “Darling, no. I—”
I take a few more steps back, keeping even more distance now. “Save it. I don’t want to hear your excuses. I’m not some toy you get to play with when you feel like it, Damian. You don’t get to pick up the broken pieces and put them together when you have the time and patience, and crumble them when you don’t. I’m fucking human. I deserve more than this. I’m done.” I throw his phone at him, which he surprisingly catches.
Guess his senses are coming back.
I storm the other way, walking back home. And the worst part? He doesn’t follow.
I’m an emotional wreck. Have been for the majority of the week. The girls have been checking in regularly, but I can’t even bother to come up with a reply that doesn’t sound pathetic.
What was I fucking thinking, falling in love with him? Since the beginning I’ve known that he has two different lives .
The ruthless, selfish, arrogant asshole—the mask he’s so carefully built and perfected for the world, a job he’s exceeded at.
Then, there’s the real him—or so I thought—kind; thoughtful; loving; patient. The man I fell in love with. The man that navigated through my heart and took it when I least expected it. But was that even the real him? Or was this another mask that he made me believe in? Am I an idiot? Have I been taken for fucking granted?
God, my head is pounding, surely because I haven’t eaten anything.
Someone’s knocking on my door now, and as I get comfortable on the couch watching Friends reruns, I yell, “Go away!”
“Ari, open up!” Isabella yells from the other side of the door.
“I’m not in the mood, Isa. Go away!” I yell back.
“That’s it,” Sophia says from the other side of the door as I hear her keys rattling. “We’re coming in!” she yells as she opens the door.
“I knew giving you that key was a mistake,” I groan.
“I would have found my way in. Don’t underestimate me, Petrov.”
I glare at her. “Don’t last name me.”
She points a finger at me. “Don’t give me a reason to. ”
I love my friends, I do. Truly. They are there for me every time. But I want to be left alone. Can’t a girl wallow in peace?
Isabella sits next to me, giving me a side hug. “How are you holding up, hun?”
“Gee, I don’t know, let’s see.” I sigh. “Damian tells me he loves me, then right before I was going to say it back, an FBI agent walks in and arrests him. Then, he gets out, excited to see me and suddenly drops off the face of the earth. In summary, I’m great , thank you for asking.” I smile sarcastically.
“He’s miserable, you know,” Isa whispers.
And what good does that do to me? Why is he miserable? Why is he not talking to me? He just disappeared. Poof . No explanation whatsoever. I get he’s going through a hard time, but fuck , I’m here. Right here. Ready to support him in whatever he needs.
I’m ready to pick up his pieces, just like he did with mine.