Chapter 44
FORTY-FOUR
Ileft.
Within an hour of Millie slamming that door in my face, I was on her father’s private plane and on my way home because I fucked up and did the one thing I knew I shouldn’t.
I forgot.
I forgot who I am and the way she sees me. I told her the truth. That I’m in love with her. That I’ve been in love with her since the moment I met her—and it went exactly how I knew it would.
Afterward, I sat in that bed and stared at the wall that separated us, listening to the gut-wrenching sounds of her sobbing under the loud rush of the tub, so sick I wanted to throw-up, until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
I got up, put on the suit I wore to her wedding a week and a half ago, dry cleaned and pressed thanks to Mateo, and walked out the door.
Took the golf cart to the main hotel and secured a ride to the private airstrip that services the island.
As promised, the plane that brought us here was waiting to take me home and I let it because it’s over.
Millie’s never going to trust me again. She’ll never let me back in.
She’s managed to twist it all, everything that’s happened between us, into something dirty and meaningless.
She’ll believe them when they tell her I preyed on her for her money.
That all I wanted from her was access to her family.
The connections she could make for me. That I am just like Allister, only worse because I’m just a working-class guy from Fenway.
Nothing about me is special. Nothing about me makes me even remotely worthy of someone like her.
While everyone was busy watching the island, I snuck my way back onto Manhattan and into my apartment where I proceeded to hunker down like I was waiting out a natural disaster.
Kept my blinds closed. Black out curtains drawn.
Watched ESPN on mute. Barely showered. Hardly ate.
Slept on the couch when I was too exhausted to keep my eyes open.
Let the flyers and take-out menus shoved under my door pile up.
Let my phone go to voicemail. Stayed off social media.
At least I tried to.
I didn’t post. I didn’t check my DMs but I checked Millie’s Instagram page obsessively for anything new.
Something. Anything that would give me a glimpse of her but there was nothing.
Not even a Friday morning picture of her breakfast. It was like she’d disappeared, right along with me.
I started to worry. Considered calling her father, just to make sure she was okay, but before I could drive myself completely crazy, I got a phone call.
Hello, Dean—this is Gabby Rinehart from the New York Post. We’d like to talk to you about the status of your relationship with Millie Blackwell.
When she returned to New York this morning, she was alone.
I was able to obtain a copy of a flight plan that has you returning four days prior to her—also alone.
Look—the story is going to print today, with or without your side of things, so you may as well—
I fast-pitched my phone into the wall.
That was two months ago
Two long, hellish months.
After Gabby from the Post ran her story—without comment from either Millie or me—other celebrity news outlets came out of the woodwork, wanting an exclusive. A few of the more unscrupulous outfits offered me money for my story.
What really happened on that island between you and Millie Blackwell?
Have you seen her since returning to New York?
There have been reports that the two of you were seeing each other before the wedding—is that true?
Paige Blackwell is claiming that those texts between her and Millie’s ex were fabricated and she’s inferred heavily that you’re behind it. Do you have a response to her allegation?
I didn’t say a word. I didn’t answer one question. What happened between Millie and me is no one’s business but after that, I figured it was time to come out of hiding.
The first week was rough. So rough, I considered faking my own death and joining the French Foreign Legion.
The second week was easier and by week three, with nothing to fuel the flames of discord and speculation, it was like none of it even happened. Aside from a few stray stares and the occasional, behind-the-hand whispers, I’ve been allowed to become who I was before I fell in love with Millie.
No one.
True to his word, Preston Blackwell has left me alone. I haven’t been blackballed. No one has called to cancel their events. Secret Service agents haven’t stormed my apartment to drop a bag over my head and throw me into the back of a black SUV and take me to a CIA black site.
Even with hiring an additional forty bartenders, my schedule is packed solid for the next two years.
So packed that I’ve had to work some of the events myself.
I stick to the smaller parties. Ones I know there won’t be a Blackwell in attendance.
I’ll fill in at Level and Lotus—both nightclubs owned and run by the Bright group—but I leave Davino’s to Marcus or one of my other, more experienced bartenders.
Incredibly, I haven’t heard from Paige. I think she knows the well has run dry where I’m concerned and that reaching out to me will no longer serve her cause.
Things have, slowly but surely, returned to normal. Business is thriving. So much so that I managed to attract the attention of Jase Bright.
I’m particularly interested in the temp service you’ve started. I know it’s in its preliminary stages but you’ve managed to compile quite the client list, our own nightclubs and restaurants among them. I can see the growth potential and would be very interested in discussing a possible buy out.
I took the meeting with him last week and the offer is generous.
So generous that, if invested properly, I’d never have to work again.
I could travel. Get the hell out of New York.
Get the fuck away from Millie. Try to start putting myself back together.
I told him I’d think about it and I do sometimes.
Usually late at night when I’m lying in bed, missing the weight of her pressed against me.
Ten days.
That’s all I had of her.
But it was enough to ruin me.
Enough to tell me that I can pretend all I want.
I can sell my business and leave New York.
I can travel the world and pretend everything is fine.
That I got exactly what I wanted. That there isn’t this fucked-up thing inside me, getting angrier and more desperate by the second.
Angry at myself for playing the part instead of being honest. For not telling Millie how I felt sooner and angry at her for not even trying to believe me when I finally did.
Desperate to make her listen. Desperate to touch her. Fuck—desperate to see her.
Most of the time I can keep it under control. I can pretend it’s not there. That the angry, desperate, fucked-up thing inside me that needs her doesn’t exist.
I focus on work.
Growing my business.
Moving on.
I rented office space.
I hired an assistant to keep me organized.
I work-out until I’m so physically exhausted, I’m numb. I order Thai from across the street and watch TV. I ignore social media. Closed my DMs. Pretend that the week I spent with her didn’t completely destroy me.
That everything is fine.
That I’m fine.
And I will be.
I’ll be fine.
As long as I never see Millie Blackwell again.