Chapter 16 #4
Circling my knees with my arms, I rest the side of my face on top of them.
If only I could disappear. Vanish. Wouldn’t it be easier for everyone?
I could leave the bit of savings I have for Dad, and Tristan would…
He would find someone else, richer, prettier, and I would perform the best service for everyone.
Something from Dad’s drawer. Enough not to wake up again.
That should do it, right? My hands shake, and I squeeze my eyes shut multiple times, praying for the universe to give me a sign.
My existence hurts others, see? Someone is using it against Tristan.
If that is not proof enough. I should just open a window, and everyone would thank me for it.
No one would miss me. No one would even…
“Ella?”
Tristan’s voice pierce through my misery.
Tears fall down my face as I try to steady my breathing, concealing the embarrassment of who I am, hiding under his desk.
Steps come closer, fast at first, then slower once he reaches the desk.
I hear him stop. A silence follows. He must have seen the photograph.
Something rough leaves his throat, too low for me to understand.
“Ella? Where are you, sweetheart?” His voice carries a hint of fear, and because I cannot even whimper for him to hear, I grab his ankle, squeezing once, accepting the mortifying moment that is about to come.
Please don’t laugh, Tristan. Please. Slowly, he kneels, taking in how I have managed to hide in here, sitting curled into a ball, surely with streams of mascara all around.
“There you are,” he sighs, as if something had been choking him before finding me.
“I thought…” He looks away. “Can I hold you?” he asks gently, yet his voice is dry as gravel.
I nod, a single tear rolling down my cheek as he offers his arms, and I welcome them like the doors of heaven.
Him. The sign sent from the universe, telling me to stay, silencing the broken record of my mind that keeps telling me to leave this world.
“I got you,” he murmurs against my ear, carrying me in his arms until he sits on the armchair by the chess set, me on his lap, hiding in the crook of his neck. “I got you,” he repeats again and again, and I wonder if he is trying to reassure me or himself.
Tristan
There is fear, and then there is terror.
Those two, as similar as one could think they are, are not alike.
Fear is looking over your shoulder when you walk into a luxurious hotel, having bodyguards at functions and a mechanic who checks your brakes every Monday sharp.
Terror is being unable to see Ella on the cameras for more than two seconds after she approached my desk, as if she had vanished.
The camera catches the chess set and the front half of the office, but my desk sits outside the clean angle, half swallowed by shadow.
Once she moves behind it, the screen gives me nothing visible but a black rectangle mocking me on the surveillance screen.
Be patient, I told myself, as I watched her ever since she set foot in the main hall with her colleague, chuckling shyly in the elevator, then working tirelessly with, dare I say, dedication and perhaps a tiny portion of method that I would qualify as borderline perfectionist, but, well, on that end, I suppose we are not that different.
I enjoyed watching her approach, moving from one corner to another as if the floor were lava and she had to spot every speck of dust until she was done with the room.
She even spotted Alicia’s breastfeeding equipment, which I had replaced with the best on the market.
I installed curtains and a Himalayan salt lamp too, which, according to my mother, was the best way to help her relax and pump for her baby whenever she pleased.
When you have the best team, you treat them accordingly, and I will not have my people lacking anything.
Especially not a mother. It is one of the things I insist on here.
No matter their position, everyone should be able to go home at a decent hour and see their family.
I don't need people sitting at their desks for appearances' sake, scrolling through social media while pretending to work.
I need them sharp, efficient, and good at what they do.
If they can deliver, I trust them to manage their time.
Hence all the perks I allow my team. Gym.
Free healthy food in the kitchen. No meetings past six.
No work calls after working hours. The only exceptions are reserved for my closest collaborators, like Brenton, Matt, and Saoirse, who, I suspect, are far more nocturnal than the typical employee.
I have been watching Ella for two hours now from the IT floor, sitting in a not-so-comfortable squeaky chair, one I mentally note will need to be replaced.
Midnight has come without a blink as I watch her, living effortlessly, like a ballerina, room to room, putting in the kind of effort only people who care would.
Every movement of her waist, every time she runs a hand through her hair and puts it aside on her shoulder, catches me like lightning.
My knees jump up and down as I fight myself not to disturb her peace.
She asked me to wait for her, which is a first. I cannot remember the last time someone ever dared to do that.
Only my Ella could. And I would wait no matter the length.
Hungry and tired, I would wait nonetheless.
Minutes pass, and I am more alert than after my first cup of coffee this morning.
Something in the air is telling me to watch her, not to stalk, but to protect.
As if she could disappear with a snap of my fingers.
Just like that. My office, to my disappointment, is half-merged in the dark.
My chess set is visible, yet my desk remains in shadow, and the camera can't capture anything past the middle of the room.
Having hired someone else to clean it so she does not have to, I observe her as she inspects the obvious already-cleaned space.
I hope it does not annoy her this time. But I will not have my… my… I will not have her do that.
She stands still, her back facing the camera.
Is she holding something in her hand? The image isn't clear enough; all I can see is her taking one step and disappearing from the screen. Pulsing under my temples, I sense a shot of terror coursing through my shoulders. The same one I felt when I learned about my father’s death at juvie.
I was not even there. Mother called, screaming for me to come home, and when I did, it was already too late.
I could have almost mistaken it for sleep, if not for his lungs refusing to release air.
I was not there. Not for Nate. Not for our mother.
I could not even hear, in his last breath, the things fathers are supposed to say to their eldest. Take care of this.
Become that. An apology would have been unrealistic on his part, but despite the hatred and tangled admiration, I did not know what else to say but goodbye.
But I am here now. To protect my family.
To protect Ella. To be there and correct all that was wrong in the first place.
Closing the laptop, I rush out of the room, running to the stairs, taking them two by two.
Thump. Thump. Thump. I catch the handle of the door opening to the thirty-second floor, almost slipping.
Damn it, why are my palms so sweaty? It never happens, and I know what I’m talking about since I’m practically living in a constant state of stress.
Maybe she is simply inspecting my bookshelves.
She must be, right? Barging into my office, heaving, I go straight to the desk.
A photograph is there. Ella, sitting on the bus, a red cross slashed over her face.
For one brutal second, my body forgets how to breathe.
Then I look around. Empty. Did she leave? Or did someone…
No.
No.
“Ella?” I call, petrified. “Ella? Where are you, sweetheart?” My voice breaks at the end, terror spreading like ink through my chest. She was here.
She was just here. I circle the desk, scanning the shadows, the space beneath it, the armchair, the chessboard, the bookshelves, every corner my eyes can reach.
Something grips my ankle. My lungs open in a violent rush.
Ella.
I kneel so fast my knee hits the floor hard enough to hurt, but I barely feel it.
My Ella is here, hidden under the table.
That, I can work with. The knot inside my heart unravels, my brain coming right back on track, the house that had exploded coming back in rapid motion with everything exactly in its place.
Ella needs me. Not freaked-out me. Calm.
Reassuring. Able to get us out of any fucking situation.
Kneeling on one foot, I get down, finding my woman hidden in the dark, shivering, curled into a ball, surely panicking for her life after seeing the photograph too.
No wonder. Anyone would. It is all my freaking fault.
I should have never left her without a bodyguard.
From the moment we left for the library, I should have done better.
“There you are,” I try, wishing I could diffuse her fear, only mine is not so far away, ready to catch me in the jugular.
Her beautiful long black hair falls over her face, hiding it like a bridal veil; the tip of her mouth parted, her hands clutch her knees, and her breathing shivers like she's been soaked in icy cold water.
She is in her white working blouse, the thing too large to see her figure, but at least it keeps her warm, and a pair of jeans and white sneakers.
Her little maid uniform. Contrasting with who she is—my silent princess. Royalty disguised as a servant.