Chapter 19
IZZY
Dominic: Are you awake?
Dom’s text comes as I’m walking across the parking lot to my car.
I lean against the car, looking at the hospital.
Grandma is safe and sound, sleeping heavily.
I had to visit and make sure after the call with the hospital staff.
None of them would look at me as I walked down the corridor, not even the nurses or cleaning staff. It’s like they’re all ashamed.
Izzy: It’s not late. I’ve just left the hospital.
Dominic: How is Maggie doing?
I’m touched. Tears threaten to prick my eyes yet again, but I force them away.
I’ve felt physically ill ever since handing over those documents to Aaron’s man.
And still, I haven’t come clean. A twisted part of me wishes Aaron didn’t have my grandmother as leverage, but what does that mean? What am I even thinking?
Izzy: She’s doing as well as can be expected. She was sleeping. Otherwise, I’m sure she would’ve mentioned you.
Dominic: She’s a funny, kind, beautiful woman. Just like her granddaughter. I need to see you, Isabella.
Izzy: It’s late and I’m still a little sore from yes—
I stop typing, rereading his message. Isabella. Since when has he called me that? I can’t think of a single time he’s used my full first name. I delete my message and ask something I know will be my unraveling.
Izzy: Is something wrong?
Dominic: Unfortunately, yes. I’ll come to your apartment.
Izzy: I’m not there.
Dominic: Then I’ll wait.
I can feel his rage through the phone.
Izzy: Maybe we could just text?
I feel like a coward the moment I send the message. His reply cuts sharply.
Dominic: After all the lies, Isabella, don’t you think you owe me this? In person?
I shudder, feeling like all the air’s been sucked from my lungs. There can be no question about it now. He clearly knows what I’ve done. He clearly knows what I am. A liar. A traitor. A woman who had the best sex of her life with the man she stabbed in the back.
Izzy: You’re right. I’m driving home now.
As I drive home, I stop fighting the tears. Ever since Grandma got sick—then Aaron started bullying and blackmailing me—I’ve hated myself for crying. It’s felt like weakness. But now? I let the tears fall.
This romance was like a hot air balloon, filling and filling, with me telling myself we’d just fly away. But the whole time, I knew it was going to burst. I knew, and I did nothing to stop it.
I park outside my apartment, wiping my tears on my sleeve.
Izzy: I’m outside. I’ll wait here for you.
Dominic: I can see you. I’ve been here for half an hour, trying to convince myself to leave. If I leave, I can remember our relationship how it was. I don’t have to think about what comes next.
I try to bring myself to resent him as I read the message.
We didn’t even have a relationship, if that’s what he wants to call it.
We had some tension, some kissing, amazing sex, some jokes, lots of closeness…
but a relationship? But I can’t resent him.
All I can do is wish this connection had been allowed to grow.
He walks up the street, hands in his pockets. His expression is savage. He stands near the car, looking at me with dark, intense eyes.
I climb out, arms wrapped across my middle as if in protection. I know he’d never hurt me, obviously, but his glare alone is enough to make me afraid.
“Invite me up,” he says gruffly.
“You’re scaring me,” I murmur.
“What sort of man do you think I am?” He says in disgust.
I go to the lobby door and open it. He stands close by my side, but he doesn’t touch me. He’s so much his work persona now—the Chad, the grump—that I’m starting to wonder if I imagined the other version of him. He’s silent as I lead him up the stairs and into my apartment.
“Do you want a drink or anything?” I ask.
He makes a noise halfway between no and a grim laugh, like he thinks it’s hilarious I’d offer him anything after what I did.
“Sit,” he says bluntly.
His voice is a command. I sit on the couch, rubbing my hands up and down my legs nervously.
His eyes flit to them, hunger flaring for a moment.
Then he gives me an almost angry look that breaks my heart.
It’s like he thinks I’m touching myself in an attempt to distract him, seduce him, even when it’s the last thing on my mind. I let my hands fall away.
He remains standing, his arms behind his back, as if I’m an employee he’s reprimanding. Wait, no. Not as if. That’s literally what I am.
“Tell me why you did it,” he says plainly. “You can lie to me if you want, but I’d prefer if you didn’t.”
“I’m not going to lie,” I whisper.
“Anymore,” he adds.
“I have lied,” I admit. “But I never planned on…”
“What?” he barks. “Stealing from me?”
“No,” I croak, a sob distorting the word.
“On… us. I didn’t plan on that. I didn’t have a choice.
No, that’s wrong. I had a choice. But it was an ugly, horrible choice.
Aaron pretended to care about Grandma. Long enough to get her into a hospital he was paying for.
Long enough for her to get settled. That’s when he told me what I had to do.
Infiltrate your business. Steal from you.
Facts, plans, records, whatever I could get my hands on. ”
He nods slowly. “You weren’t doing this for money?”
I shake my head. “No. Not for me. It was all for my grandmother. I tried to hold off on giving him anything, but he threatened her. That’s how he knew about that politician, McLaughlin.
And about… the records.” I squeeze my eyes shut, but the tears don’t care.
They press hotly through my stubbornly closed eyelids.
“I didn’t want to give him those, Dom. I swear.
But he called the hospital and said he’d end their care. It was either give him the records or—”
I stop, choking on a sob, when I realize he’s sat down and has pulled me into his arms. I don’t deserve the warmth that he offers, but I cling to him desperately anyway.
This connection goes beyond the time we’ve spent together, beyond betrayal.
It’s urgent and animalistic. It’s fiery heat battling away the cold of existence. It’s us.
“The records were fake,” he says.
I look up at him through tear-filled eyes.
He nods. “It’s a test I give to all new employees. A memory drive with supposedly sensitive information. You haven’t hurt my company, Songbird…” He swallows, like he’s annoyed with himself for using the nickname.
“I just hurt you,” I murmur.
That hardens him. He lets me go and sits back, sighing heavily.
“I won’t sit idly by as Pike uses an innocent, sick elderly woman as a tool.
I’ll pay for her care myself. I’ve already approved a higher status of health insurance for you, meaning she’ll be able to stay at her current facility under the new provider.
This means you’ll need to technically stay on as an employee, but effectively, you’re fired. ”
I shudder, nodding. What else did I expect?
His tone has gone ice-cold.
“I’ll reduce your salary to a nominal amount, enough to qualify for the insurance,” he grunts. “Otherwise, we’re done.”
“Thank you, oh, Dom, thank you,” I whimper. I reach over and cling to his hands. “And I’m so, so sorry.”
He holds my hands for half a minute, maybe more, staring at me with heartache in his eyes. He looks like he might cry too.
“I want to forgive you,” he says, his tone dark. “But I can’t trust you. I thought we had something. I thought it was real. Now, any time I look back, I’ll never know if you really wanted to be with me, or if it was all part of the plan.”
“None of it was part of the plan,” I hiss. “He didn’t tell me to be with you, Dom. That part was real. What we had in this apartment, just last night, that was real.”
He brushes hair from my cheek, smiling sadly. “We had a good run. We had more than I expected I’d have. But it has to end.”
“Does it?” I ask, pressing my hand against his, adding pressure to the warmth against my face.
“It does,” he says firmly. “I’m going to help you.”
“You help too many people already,” I murmur.
He pulls back suddenly, curling his lip. “Is that a dig about Liam?”
“What? No!”
“My secret didn’t involve hurting you, Izzy.”
“It wasn’t a dig,” I snap.
“Hmm,” he grunts, rubbing his jaw.
“Are you trying to force yourself to be mad at me?” I demand. “Are you trying to make yourself hate me?”
His eyes widen with a moment of acknowledgement, then he turns away. “Have a good life.”
“Dom,” I yell when he’s at the door.
He turns, staring at me with wounded eyes. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He doesn’t look hateful. He looks like a lost little boy who’s discovered Santa isn’t real. It’s more devastating than if he threw something.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him wholeheartedly. “You deserved better.”
“Yeah,” he says. “I thought so too, for a little while.”