33. Azaria
AZARIA
Four days of pristine silence and I'm losing my mind.
The Hamptons estate stretches across twenty-seven acres of manicured perfection, complete with tennis courts I don't use, a pool I haven't touched, and enough security to repel a small army.
Just me, three housekeepers who speak in whispers, and the sound of my own thoughts ricocheting off the vaulted ceilings like bullets.
I'm sprawled across the living room sofa in yesterday's clothes—silk pajama pants and one of Theo's sweaters that I definitely didn't mean to pack. The cashmere smells faintly like his cologne, which is either comforting or torture, depending on the hour.
Right now it's torture.
The morning news drones from the mounted television, anchors discussing market fluctuations and political scandals. I mute it and immediately regret the decision.
I shift positions, pulling my knees up to my chest. The movement releases another wave of his scent from the sweater, and I curse myself for being pathetic enough to steal it in the first place.
He's probably relieved. Back to his structured routines and color-coordinated schedules. No more chaos disrupting his perfectly organized existence. No more me leaving jewelry scattered or stealing his clothes or challenging every rule he tries to implement.
I wonder if he reorganized the guest room yet. Probably. Theo doesn't leave messes unresolved.
The thought makes my chest tight.
I grab the remote and flip through channels, landing on a cooking show. Two celebrity chefs arguing about proper knife technique while preparing something that requires seventeen ingredients I've never heard of. I watch for thirty seconds before switching again.
A documentary about Antarctic penguins.
Fashion Week coverage from Milan.
A romantic comedy from the nineties where the leads have the sort of chemistry that makes you believe in happy endings.
I turn off the television and toss the remote across the room.
I can hear the grandfather clock in the hallway marking time with mechanical indifference, each tick a reminder that I'm hiding while the world continues without me.
My father called this morning, his voice carefully neutral as he asked how I was adjusting. I lied and told him I was fine, grateful for the peace and quiet. He didn't believe me—I could hear it in the pause before he changed the subject to legal updates and PR strategies.
The investigation continues without me. Lawyers and publicists and private investigators working to clear my name while I sit in luxury exile, accomplishing nothing except wearing Theo's sweater and feeling sorry for myself.
I know I'm moping. The self-awareness makes it worse somehow, like watching yourself drown while being unable to stop reaching for the water.
By the evening, I've migrated to the floor.
The Persian rug beneath the coffee table becomes my designated wallowing space, where I curl into a tight ball with my phone pressed against my ear. The same album plays on repeat—Mk.gee's ethereal soundscapes filling the cavernous room with haunting melodies that make my chest ache.
I know you feel it too...
The opening track bleeds into the second, then the third. I know every beat, every breath, every pause between notes. I close my eyes and remember Theo and I listening to it together.
Now the same songs feel like punishment.
The album ends and immediately starts over. I don't have the energy to change it.
Somewhere around the seventh loop, I drift into restless sleep on the rug, still wearing his sweater, still clutching my phone like a lifeline to something I've already lost.
The nightmare comes like clockwork.
I'm fifteen again. Mama and I are hauling hurtful words at each other.
The door slams. Tires screech on wet asphalt. Mama is asking me why I killed her over and over.
I wake gasping in the unfamiliar bedroom, chest heaving like I've been drowning. The grandfather clock chimes three times in the hallway, but otherwise the house sits in perfect silence.
Just me and the echo of my mother's voice, asking why I killed her.
I lie there with tears sliding down my cheeks, staring at the ceiling until dawn creeps through the curtains, knowing tomorrow night will bring the same dream, the same gasping awakening, the same crushing weight of being utterly alone.
My phone buzzes against the marble kitchen counter at eleven-thirty the next morning. Lane Silva's name flashes across the screen.
"Tell me you have good news."
"Better than good." Lane's voice carries crisp.
"The FBI investigation expanded overnight.
They're not just looking at Massimo anymore—they've got his entire network under scrutiny.
International exposure, offshore accounts, the works.
" It’s probably those men Logan had identified that were also involved.
I set down my untouched coffee and lean against the counter. "How many others?"
"Seven confirmed, three more under review.
All of them wealthy enough to make this messy, all of them with enough to lose that they'll fight dirty.
" Lane pauses, and I hear papers rustling.
"When this breaks, Azaria, it's going to break fast and everywhere at once.
I've been building the public story carefully, but we need to be ready. "
"Ready how?"
"Complete timeline. Financial records. Everything you've got."
I think about the evidence files upstairs, the investigation board Theo and I built together, the recorded confession from Margot that we extracted weeks ago. "I have it all. The complete timeline, Massimo's financial records, Margot's confession on tape."
"Good. Because when the FBI moves, you need to be ready to make your own public statement immediately. Not after the dust settles, not when your PR team thinks it's safe. The moment they move."
The kitchen feels suddenly smaller. "You mean control my own narrative this time."
"Exactly. No more letting other people tell your story while you stay silent."
After the call ends, I climb the stairs to my temporary office—a guest bedroom converted into command central with whiteboards, printed emails, and timeline charts covering every available surface.
I spread the files across the bed and begin connecting the final dots.
My dad’s business investigation surfaced Massimo's financial activity around the European merger, transactions that align perfectly with the timeline of the Paris setup.
The numbers paint a clear picture: money moved, favors called in, people positioned like chess pieces.
I cross-reference dates, highlight discrepancies, and build the strongest possible version of the case. Each connection strengthens the foundation, each piece of evidence another nail in Massimo's carefully constructed coffin.
Two hours later, I sit back and survey the completed puzzle. It's airtight. Devastating. Everything I need to reclaim my narrative and destroy the man who tried to destroy me.
I should feel victorious.
Instead, I think about Theo's sweaters folded neatly on his guest room bed. Navy cashmere and charcoal wool. I left them there deliberately, telling myself I was being considerate, not stealing his clothes like some lovesick teenager.
Now I wish I'd taken them all.
My phone sits silent on the nightstand. His number is still in my contacts, still accessible with a single touch. I could call him right now. Tell him about Lane's call, about the FBI expansion, about how close we are to finishing what we started together.
I don't call.
I tell myself it's because I'm protecting him. Because his career matters more than my loneliness. Because walking away was the right choice for both of us.
The lie tastes bitter, even in my own head.