83. Kaz
I’ve set her free,but I can’t completely let her go. I need to know everything. I receive notifications whenever Caelia uses my card. I’ve assigned someone to track her every step. She settled in Paris after traveling for a while, fulfilling her desire to see the world, and a couple of days ago, I received some photos of my sister and Caelia together in Paris. I can’t fathom what Kat is doing, but I don’t mind sharing my sister’s company with her.
“We can build it underground,” Dmitri suggests, but I haven’t noticed what’s happening. I lean against my desk, casting a glance over my shoulder at the map, but all I can see is her—Caelia—replaying every moment she was sprawled naked on my desk, panting with need, her flushed body etched in my mind.
“He’s not listening,” one of my men says.
He’s right. I’m not. I also don’t care about expanding my business right now. Vanya’s not here to save me from myself, as he has done in the past few months. He’s preoccupied with his affairs, trying to clean up the mess Sevastyan left behind.
“I’m listening,” I say. “Built the ring wherever you want. I don’t care.”
I need to take a walk to clear my head. I can’t continue like this. Caelia’s absence is driving me insane. My phone has been ringing incessantly, but I don’t want to talk to anyone. I’m only in this meeting because it has been postponed for far too long, and the construction plans will fall behind schedule.
“Maybe it would be best to call it a night, sir.”
“I think it would be best.” I agree. “Just take care of this, Dmitri. Come back to me when you have everything ready.”
Everything will crumble if I keep delegating my responsibilities to my employees, but at this point, they do a better job than I do. The office empties, leaving me alone. Caelia showed me the life I desired, only to take everything away. Perhaps it’s just karma for all the messed-up things I’ve done in my life. Maybe I deserve it. I turn off my phone for the night and ascend the stairs to sleep alone in the same bed we once shared for months. Standing before the window, I peer into the gloomy, quiet garden that feels incomplete without her. Sometimes, I see her—reading on a bench, strolling around as if she belongs here, as if this is her home. I must remind myself of who I was before her and of the person I was when I was doing just fine. There must be a way to return to that, and I know it’s not by marrying someone else, as my aunt suggested. She keeps babbling about alliances as if I care or need them. I never wanted to marry in the first place, and I certainly won’t do it again. I should focus on my legacy, on children, and all that crap that suddenly lost its importance in the blink of an eye.
I hear the door to my bedroom open, but I don’t turn around.
“Didn’t you learn how to fucking knock?”
“It felt weird knocking. This was once my bedroom, too,” a low, familiar voice replies.
I’m so broken that my mind is playing tricks on me, desperately trying to hold on to whatever shred of sanity I have left. She can’t be here.
We broke up, and I broke down.