Chapter Eighteen #2
I thought maybe that's where I needed to be to find some part of me that was worth saving.
You know what I realized? You're that part of me.
You're the only thing that's ever brought me peace, given me hope, or made me want to be someone worth saving.
Thank you for doing it again tonight, when you owe me nothing. I love you.
Even though I swore I was done crying over him, I cry again anyway.
And when I finally go to bed, I lie awake, the words of his text haunting me.
I keep picturing the look on his face when he was on his knees outside the door week ago—the way he seemed so empty, like he'd finally realized I meant it when I said never again. Like, maybe, he was dying, too.
I wake up to a news alert the next morning.
BILLIONAIRE CEO ASHER BLACKSTOCK ISSUES PUBLIC APOLOGY FOR ANDREWS SCANDAL
There's a photo of him at a podium, his jaw set like he's ready for a firing squad.
My thumb hovers over the link. It would be so easy to read, to know what he said, to gloat in his shame. I almost do it, but then I remember the way his hands shook at my door last night, and I scroll past.
Just after noon, my phone rings again. But this time, it's not him.
Liam's name flashes on the screen. I stare at it for a full ten seconds, not sure I want to talk to him right now.
I answer on the fourth ring anyway, my voice a whisper. "Hey."
"You sound like shit," he says after a long pause.
"I feel like shit."
He laughs, but it's not the kind that fixes anything. "Still ignoring him?"
"Isn't that the point?" I ask, picking at a loose thread on my comforter. "I don't want him to think I'll forgive him just because he crawled."
Liam sighs. "He's not doing great, Brie. I know you don't care, but he's really—"
"You're right. I don't care," I snap, louder than I mean to. "I'm not responsible for him anymore."
Liam doesn't say anything.
"Was he really in rehab?" I ask into the silence, unable to stifle the question.
"Yeah." He clears his throat. "Yeah, he was."
"Why?"
"I'm not sure you're ready to hear that answer," my brother says, his voice soft.
"Just tell me, Liam."
"He tried to drink himself to death."
I blink, my hand clenched tightly around the phone. "What?"
"He almost destroyed his company after you left.
He almost destroyed everything," Liam says softly.
"I think you've been the only thing keeping him off the ledge for a long goddamn time.
Once he pushed you out, there was nothing for him to hold onto.
" He pauses. "I think maybe he didn't want anything to hold onto after what he did to you, so he started drinking, and he just didn't stop. "
"Why are you telling me this?" I whisper, my throat so raw the words hurt.
"Because he never will," Liam says simply.
"He's carried his guilt and shame over the accident for a long time, trying to hold onto you to keep himself going, and trying to make you hate him because it's the only way he thought he deserved to keep going.
But he'll never tell you how much his secrets cost him, because it's not your burden to carry. "
"I hate him so much," I whisper.
"I know."
"I love him, too."
"I know that, too, baby sister." He's quiet for a second before he sighs. "You know, you're allowed to be happy."
The line goes silent. He doesn't hang up. He just waits, letting the words settle between us, like he knows that if he pushes, I'll bolt.
"I don't know how to be anything but angry," I finally admit.
"Start with that," he says. "It's better than nothing."
He's right. Anger is better than nothing. It's the only thing keeping me warm these days.
I thank him, though I'm not sure he hears it, and hang up. I put my phone down and try to pretend, just one more time, that I'm the kind of person who can let go and move on.
But I know I'm not.
I'm leaning over my kitchen counter, eating cereal straight from the box, when my phone rings again.
This time, Joel's name flashes across the display. I haven't talked to him since he broke the news that Asher had me blackballed.
"Hey," I say, my mouth dry from the cereal.
He skips the pleasantries and goes straight to yelling. "Brielle, you're on fire!"
"What?" I blink, bleary-eyed. "Did the building catch—"
"Not literally! You're trending. Have you checked your email? Your Instagram? The fucking news?"
I frown, shoving a handful of cereal into my mouth. "No. Why?"
"The whole world is losing its shit over Blackstock admitting that you're the love of his life."
I choke on the cereal. "He…what?"
"You seriously haven't seen his statement?
" Joel asks, and then clears his throat.
"After watching the love of my life get struck by a car, I felt helpless.
But lashing out at Mr. Andrews, who was only trying to help, was wrong.
I'm sincerely sorry for the damage I've caused, not only to Mr. Andrews and everyone at Blackstock Agency, but to Brielle Dabry, who deserves better.
Brielle, I'm so fucking sorry, princess. "
"What the fuck?" I whisper, stunned. Asher was there when I got hit by the car? He saw it? I never even questioned how he found out and ended up at the hospital with me. I just assumed Miles got ahold of him. But…he was there.
How? Why?
"You're big news right now," Joel says. "And the best part? You're no longer blacklisted! Blackstock sent recommendations out to every agency in New York early this morning. Nina wants to see you."
"Nina?" I blink again. "As in, Nina Livingston?"
Joel snorts. "No, the other one. Yes, that Nina. She wants you on our team. You should see the offer. It's—shit, Brielle, it's impressive."
I set the cereal box down, my hands suddenly unsteady. My fingers clamp down on the phone so hard the case makes a faint popping noise. For a second, I think I've cracked it, but it holds. I wish I could say the same for my brain.
I try to focus on what Joel is saying, but every word brings a fresh, stinging flash of memory…
the inbox full of rejections, the way Asher smirked when he confirmed that he had me blackballed, the desperate, hungry look on his face when he made his proposition.
The way the pen rolled off the desk before he asked me to get it.
The feel of the marker against my skin while he wrote his filth across it.
The way he looked when he told me that making me hate him was his biggest regret.
Every time I try to escape, I end up back in his fucking office, reliving another memory.
Even now, Joel's voice comes through as if from the bottom of a chasm, warped by distance and the rush of blood in my ears. "Brielle? You there? Say something."
"Yeah, I'm here," I manage, but it sounds like a lie. "Sorry, just…processing."
Joel is too hyped to notice. "It's a six-figure starting package. Nina says you can name your own hours. This is it, Brie. You did it."
Except…I didn't do it. Asher did it. Joel wouldn't be on the phone right now if I weren't all over the news. If Asher hadn't sent a recommendation for me. He's not here, but he's still everywhere, haunting me.
I try to picture myself accepting the offer anyway. I try to imagine working for Nina, taking meetings, and managing talent. I try so fucking hard to picture it. But my brain won't cooperate.
Every fantasy ends in that corner office, with me on my knees, or bent over his desk, or pinned to the wall with his hand around my throat and his breath in my ear. It ends with him, always with him.
My heart starts thumping too hard, too fast. I can't breathe. I can't even pretend.
Joel is still talking. I hear him say "powerhouse" and "influencer" and "press conference" in rapid succession, and I feel like I'm about to vomit.
"Hey," he says, softer now. "You okay?"
I force my fingers to unclench, but they barely move. My breath comes in short, shallow bursts, like I've been running for years.
"I can't do it. I'm so sorry, but I can't do it," I say, and then hang up. I don't mean to, but I just…fucking can't do this. I can't.
I stare at the screen for a few seconds before launching the phone across the room. It ricochets off the arm of the couch, bouncing onto the rug before landing facedown. There's a split second of satisfaction—finally, something that doesn't bounce back—but a split second is all it lasts.
"Damn you, Asher," I whisper, grabbing the edge of the counter until my knuckles turn white. I want to scream, but nothing comes out. Not even a whimper. "Damn you."
The only thing worse than loving him is living in the shadow he leaves behind.
No, that's not true.
The only thing worse is realizing that, even after everything he's done to me, the hatred isn't permanent. The love is. There's no escaping it. Just like I told him on the plane, what feels like a lifetime ago, I never stood a chance. Not even once. Not even a little bit.