8. Vincent #2
Stand there for long minutes, maybe longer. The crying quiets, then stops. I imagine her curled in bed, hating me.
Finally, I force myself to walk away. Go to my own room, close the door, sit on my bed.
The house feels enormous without her. Empty, even with her just down the hall.
I don't sleep.
Can't sleep.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying every word of our fight. Each thing I said sounds worse in retrospect. Treating her like a child, weaponizing her age, refusing to admit how I really feel.
She's right. It was bullshit, all of it.
The truth is I'm terrified of how much I need her. And the Monaco project is a way to create distance, to protect myself.
But at what cost?
I check my phone repeatedly. No texts. Consider messaging first, but don't know what to say.
Around two in the morning, I can't take it anymore.
I get out of bed, walk down the hallway to her room. Open her door as quietly as possible.
Violet is in bed, lying on her side facing away from the door. Moonlight through the window illuminates her form. I can't tell if she's asleep or awake.
I approach carefully, sit on the edge of her bed. She doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge my presence.
I lie down behind her, on top of the covers. Wrap my arm around her waist and pull her back against my chest.
For a long moment she's rigid, resisting. Then she softens, lets me hold her.
I bury my face in her hair, breathe in her scent.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
She doesn't respond, but her hand comes up to cover mine where it rests on her stomach. The gesture breaks something in me.
We lie in silence. I know she's awake—her breathing is wrong for sleep. But neither of us speaks. Words have done enough damage tonight.
I hold Violet through the long hours until dawn, memorizing everything. The feel of her body against mine, the scent of her hair, the sound of her breathing. Three to six months without this stretches ahead like a prison sentence.
And suddenly, with crushing clarity, I understand.
I'm in love with her.
Not just obsessed. Not just possessive. Actually, completely in love.
The realization should be freeing. Instead it's terrifying. Because love means vulnerability. Means giving her the power to destroy me.
And I'm leaving anyway, too much of a coward to say it out loud.
Violet's breathing eventually evens into genuine sleep. I stay awake, holding her, knowing this might be one of the last times. My thoughts are dark. What if she moves on while I'm gone? What if she realizes she deserves better?
The thought of her with someone else makes me physically ill.
But maybe that's what should happen. Maybe she does deserve better than a stepfather twenty-eight years older who's too fucked up to admit he loves her.
I must doze off toward dawn because when I wake, sunlight streams through Violet's window. I reach for her, but she's gone. Her side of the bed is cold—she's been gone awhile.
I sit up, look around. No note, no indication of where she went.
My phone shows 9:47 AM. A single text from Violet, sent at 7:30: Going to campus early. Don't wait up.
The message is cold. Distant. So unlike her usual texts full of emojis and playful comments.
I drag myself out of her bed, go to my own room to shower and dress. The house feels empty without her, echoing with absence.
Downstairs, the kitchen looks exactly as we left it last night. The pasta sauce still sits on the stove, congealed and ruined. Evidence of our destroyed evening.
I throw it away, clean up mechanically. Try calling Violet, but she doesn't answer.
I send a text: We need to talk
No response.
I sit at my kitchen island, the house silent around me. Three days until I leave for Monaco. Three days to fix this, to make her understand.
But understand what? That I love her but I'm leaving anyway?
The realization hits me with devastating clarity: I've made a catastrophic mistake.
The Monaco project doesn't matter. My career doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is Violet.
And I'm about to lose her because I'm too fucking scared to admit it.
I should call Marcus and Patricia, tell them I can't go. But pride stops me. I already committed, already said yes. And maybe part of me still thinks distance is necessary. A test of whether this relationship is real or just obsessive intensity.
But looking around my empty house, I know the truth.
Real or not, healthy or not, I'm completely in love with her.
And I'm leaving anyway.
I wait all day for Violet to come home. She doesn't.
Another text arrives around six PM: Staying at a friend's tonight
I want to demand she come home, to use my authority over her. But I have no right. Not after last night, not after my cruelty.
I sit alone in the house I designed, the house I've shared with her for three years since her mother left. And I realize it's not home without her.
Night falls. I don't turn on any lights.
I sit in the dark living room, phone in my hand, waiting for a text that doesn't come.
Three days until Monaco. Three days to fix this.
But no idea how.
I love you, Violet. The words echo in my head, unspoken. And I'm about to lose you because I'm too much of a coward to say it.