Chapter 40
The knock came at seven in the morning.
I was still in my pajamas, hair tangled, face bare, coffee mug halfway to my lips. I wasn't expecting anyone. No one came to this apartment. No one knew where it was. Except him.
I froze. He had shown up once. That didn't mean he would keep showing up. I walked to the door and opened it.
There was no one there.
Just a basket on the floor. A large wicker basket, the kind you saw in old movies about picnics in the countryside, with a white cloth napkin draped over the top and a small note tucked under the handle.
The smell was already drifting up, eggs, toast, something warm and savoury that made my stomach clench with a hunger I hadn't felt in weeks.
I looked up and down the hallway. Empty. The elevator doors were closed, the stairwell door was shut, and there was no sign of who had left it.
I crouched down and picked up the note.
My heart lurched. I knew that handwriting. I had seen it on a sticky note once, stuck to my counter next to three hundred dollars.
I stood there in the doorway, the basket at my feet, the note in my hand, and I felt the walls I had built start to crack.
No. I wouldn't let him do this. I wouldn't let him waltz back into my life with eggs and toast and expect me to forget everything.
I closed the door. Left the basket in the hallway.
Then I opened the door again, grabbed the basket, and carried it inside cursing myself for being so weak.
I told myself it was because I was hungry. Because the food would go to waste otherwise. Because I had paid for this apartment and I could do whatever I wanted, and if that meant eating breakfast that a liar had made for me, that was my business and no one else's.
The eggs were perfect. The toast was warm. The coffee was made the way I liked it, too much milk, a little sugar.
He remembered.
I ate every bite, and I hated myself for it.
The office was already buzzing when I walked in, and I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped off the elevator. People were staring. Whispering. A few of them glanced at my desk and then quickly looked away, their faces flushed with the particular excitement of office gossip.
I walked to my cubicle and stopped.
A bouquet of tulips sat in the middle of my desk. White ones, my favourite, arranged in a simple glass vase with a dark ribbon tied around it. There was a card propped against the vase, cream-colored paper with my name written across the front in handwriting I recognized.
My face went hot. I could feel the eyes on my back, the hushed whispers traveling from desk to desk like wildfire. Someone behind me murmured "kitten?" and another person giggled, and I wanted the floor to open up and swallow me whole.
I shoved the vase to the corner of my desk, as far from me as possible, and tried to focus on the spreadsheets open on my screen. But the tulips were still there, still pink and white and soft yellow, still smelling sweet. They reminded me of something I didn't want to remember.
He was embarrassing me. That was the worst part. He was making a spectacle, drawing attention, forcing me to think about him even when I was trying so hard not to.
Sienna walked by at some point, stopped, and raised an eyebrow at the bouquet. She didn't ask. She just said, "Interesting," and kept walking. Even Sienna!
I wanted to throw the flowers away. I couldn't bring myself to do it.
The hours crawled. I answered emails, attended a meeting, revised a presentation.
I didn't look at the flowers. I didn't take the card out of my drawer.
I told myself that I was fine, that I was moving on, that he didn't get to waltz back into my life with breakfast and flowers and expect me to crumble.
But by the time I packed up to leave, the sun had already set, the office was mostly empty, and I was exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with work.
He was waiting outside.
Of course he was.
A sleek black car was parked by the curb, the kind that cost more than I made in a year, and he was leaning against the passenger door with his arms crossed and his eyes fixed on the entrance.
He was wearing a dark jacket and pressed trousers, nothing as formal as a suit, but still expensive.
Still intentional. He looked like he had stepped out of a magazine, like he had always been this person and I had been too blind to see it.
The poor, unemployed escort who couldn't afford to replace his stained shirt. What a joke.
I walked past him without slowing down.
"Elera."
I kept walking.
"Elera, wait."
His footsteps followed me. Not running, just matching my pace, staying close enough to be annoying and far enough to avoid getting slapped.
"You're getting off work later than usual," he said. "It's not healthy. And it's not safe for a woman to be out this late alone."
I stopped and turned to face him. "I'm fine."
"You're working yourself into the ground."
"That's none of your business."
He ran a hand through his hair, and I saw that his jaw was tight, his eyes tired. He looked like he hadn't slept, like the dark circles under his eyes had gotten worse since the last time I saw him.
"Just let me drive you home," he said. "That's all. Just a ride."
"I'd rather walk."
"Elera-"
"I said no."
I turned and kept walking. I could feel his eyes on my back, could hear his footsteps behind me, but he didn't try to stop me again. He just followed, at a distance, his car abandoned by the curb, his presence a shadow I couldn't shake.
He followed me to the subway. He followed me off the train. He followed me down the dark streets of my neighbourhood, close enough to watch, far enough to give me space.
By the time I reached my building, my hands were shaking and my heart was pounding and I wanted to scream.
I unlocked the front door and stepped inside. Before I closed it, I looked back.
He was standing on the sidewalk, his hands in his pockets, his eyes on me. He didn't wave. He didn't call out. He just stood there, patient and silent, like he had all the time in the world.
I closed the door and leaned against it, my forehead pressed against the cold wood, and I tried to remember why I was supposed to hate him.
I couldn't. That was the problem.
I couldn't hate him at all.