Chapter 9
Ryan
As soon as I can, I exit the stage. I scan the bustling crowd, searching for a glimpse of auburn curls and emerald eyes. My heart pounds as I push through the throng of revelers, desperate to find her. But Anastasia is gone, vanished like smoke.
"Damn it," I growl, raking a hand through my hair. How could I have let her slip away? The memory of her hurt expression haunts me. I need to explain, to make things right.
But she clearly wants space. I should respect that. I'm not used to being denied what I want, but Anastasia isn't some corporate acquisition to be pursued relentlessly. She's...different. Special.
Still, I can't just let her go. Not without a fight.
Back in my hotel suite, I pace like a caged animal. My tech empire has given me nearly unlimited resources. It would be child's play to track her down.
Is it wrong to use those means? To invade her privacy?
"You're doing it to apologize," I mutter. "To fix things."
My fingers fly over my laptop keys. Within minutes, I have her address and phone number.
I memorize the information, chest tight. Now I can reach her. But should I?
The right thing would be to leave her alone. But the thought of never seeing Anastasia again makes me want to put my fist through a wall.
I've never felt this powerless. This conflicted.
My fingers hover over the phone screen, heart pounding. I type out a message, delete it, try again. Nothing feels right. How do you compress regret, longing, and desperation into a text?
Finally, I settle on something simple:
Anastasia, it's Ryan. Can we talk? Please.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself. The message whooshes away, leaving me breathless with anticipation.
Seconds tick by. Minutes. No response.
"Fuck," I mutter, pacing the length of my suite. Each step is agony, my mind replaying her face—those striking green eyes filled with hurt, her soft lips trembling.
I want to taste those lips again. To run my hands through her auburn waves, to feel her curves pressed against me.
But I've ruined it all.
"You're a goddamn idiot, Caldwell," I snarl at my reflection. "You had her in your arms and you let her go."
My phone remains stubbornly silent. No buzz. No chime. Nothing.
I check it again, willing a response to appear. Still nothing.
The urge to throw it against the wall is overwhelming. Instead, I grip it tighter, knuckles white.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to the empty room, imagining Anastasia's warm smile. "I'm so fucking sorry."
The clock ticks past midnight. Christmas Eve.
I'm alone in my penthouse, surrounded by opulent holiday decorations that suddenly feel hollow. The twinkling lights mock me, reminding me of the spark in Anastasia's eyes when she talked about her charity work.
"Merry fucking Christmas," I mutter, pouring another whiskey. The amber liquid burns, but it's nothing compared to the ache in my chest.
I slump onto the leather couch, staring at the massive Christmas tree. It's perfect, professionally decorated. Anastasia would hate it. She'd want something homemade, personal. Probably covered in ornaments made by local kids.
God, I can picture her so clearly. Bundled up in one of those soft sweaters she loves, a bright scarf around her neck. Cheeks flushed from the cold as she hangs stockings for the less fortunate.
"You don't deserve her," I growl at myself.
The whiskey glass shatters against the wall. I'm on my feet, pacing again. My fists clench and unclench.
"But I need her."
The admission tears from my throat. Raw. Primal.
I slam my fist into the wall. Pain explodes through my hand, but it's nothing compared to the agony of losing her. I punch again. And again. Drywall crumbles.
"Anastasia," I pant, forehead pressed against the ruined wall.
Blood drips from my knuckles. I welcome the pain. It's better than the emptiness.