Chapter 26
chapter
twenty-six
“Even the strongest drown when no one notices they’re sinking.” – Cyrus
HAVEN
The paper crinkles as I pick it up, and my fingers tremble on the smooth surface.
I carry it over to the sitting area out on the balcony, unable to take my eyes off of it.
The chairs are cozy with soft cushions. Despite the warmth of the night, the gas fire is going, giving off warmth as the shadows play against the wall.
I don’t know why, but it feels right being outside under the stars. There’s a small bar fridge, and I walk over to pull out a beer before curling up in one of the large chairs.
Then I don’t move. My stare is fixed on the building across the way, the sound of traffic is soft at this time of night, and soothing.
There is something reassuring about the fact that no matter how bad shit gets, the world still turns.
Lives move forward, and eventually you get swept back up into the rush and find ways to carry on.
Taking a sip of the beer, I set it aside and dare to untie the little string. Each rotation around the flimsy locking device makes my heart pound harder. My lungs hurt with each breath, as my hand slips inside the envelope and pulls out the thick wad of paper.
A USB drive falls out last and lands in my lap. Picking it up, I remove the top. It has an adapter made to fit my phone. Shit. No excuse.
The cover letter is from the PI service and provides a basic overview of what they found. Just reading over the words ‘Confirmation of affair’ sends me into a mild panic. Not because I didn’t feel that something was off between us, but because I did. I did, and I didn’t want to listen to my gut.
Setting the cover letter aside, I read over the financials first while my fingers mock me with the feel of photographs.
Flowers are sent every week to the address of Karen Scott.
I flip the page, and there she is in full color, a pretty brunette standing in front of a fancy condo building.
Then there are images of Charles greeting her with the same smile he gives me.
They kiss on the street before getting into his sports car.
Each photo is a barb to the insecurities that developed long ago, put there by another man who knew how to play me.
The worst part is that this is only one of many. Separating each affair is a cover letter, followed by a photo of the woman, and social media posts or information on events he attended with them. The logs are detailed and stretch back well over six months.
I cover my mouth as bile rises in the back of my throat.
I’m such a fool.
The very last set of pictures unleashes the tears I’ve been holding back.
The date is from the so-called work trip.
Instead of male colleagues on a golf course, he is in Tahiti with his pretty secretary.
It’s a slap in the face since that is where he said he wanted to take me for our honeymoon.
Every photo is worse than the last until I get to the shots of them having sex on the beach by the private waterside villa, and more on a boat.
The whole pile slips from my hands and fans out on the floor. The images sneer at me. I can almost hear the mocking words.
You’re a fool.
How stupid can you be?
Did you really think he loved you?
The engagement was a sham. He only proposed because you were getting restless, and you fell for it.
You haven’t learned your lesson.
All those late nights, did you really think he was working?
You’re ugly.
No one is ever going to love you.
You’re pathetic.
Our last conversation replays in my head. He sounded annoyed and out of breath. Jesus, did he answer the phone while having sex with another woman?
Closing my eyes, the tears stream down my face and wet my hand.
Nothing will stop the violent and painful reality that is tearing me apart.
The worst part is that I’m not upset our relationship is over.
What’s killing me is that I thought I’d changed.
I thought I was different, stronger, smarter… beautiful.
But nothing has changed.
Even though I know this isn’t going to make anything better, I pull out my phone and plug in the stupid USB. Touching the file, there are dozens of clips. My finger hovers over the first one.
I touch the small square, and the video pops up. Nothing will make the self-contempt better at this point, so I may as well go for the full loathing experience. I push play, and there he is in full sound and 4K resolution, fucking his secretary in his office.
Her dress is hiked up, and she has one knee on the desk.
Charles’s pants are half down, and his tie is over his shoulder as he takes her from behind.
I hit stop, get up, and run to the edge of the balcony to dry-heave.
I haven’t eaten all day, a small blessing, but it doesn’t stop my body and mind from trying to turn itself inside out to get away.
My fingers clutch the rough edge of the concrete, and my nails scrape as my body sinks to the ground. Tears cloud my eyes, but there is no blinding me from what I’ve already seen.
All the laughing faces and jeers from over the years come at me at once like ghostly faces zooming in at me. I hear the mocking words and can taste the old humiliation. It is as sour as rancid milk sliding down my throat.
I gasp and gag again, managing to get myself to all fours when arms suddenly grab me and pick me up.
It’s Cy, but I can’t find it in me to fight him. He can throw me over the edge right now, and I won’t care.
“Shh, it’s going to be okay,” he says, his voice soothing, but the words are lies. Nothing will ever be okay.
I’m the problem.
And there is nothing I can do to get away from myself. All I want is for the deep ache to stop.
A fresh wave of tears hits, as Cy lays me down on the bed.
Reaching for a pillow, I pull it into my chest, bury my face, and let it out.
Everything that I’ve beaten down. Everything that I’ve stood tall against is still lurking and waiting for this moment.
For me to realize that it doesn’t matter how much time has passed.
It doesn’t matter what I wear, what classes I take, how I do my hair, or what I do for work.
It doesn’t change a thing. It won’t, because the damage is already done.
The deep fissures in my soul hold a dark truth that I’ll never be able to escape, and I can only pretend for so long before I have to face it all over again.
I’m pathetic.
CYRUS
I shouldn’t be here.
But I can’t leave either.
The sliding door to the balcony is open, but I stay back and watch her from a distance through the clear glass.
Haven doesn’t know I’m still here. She thinks she’s alone with the envelope while the firelight paints gold over her hair.
Fuck she is stunning. I rub the spot where my heart is, knowing that she is the cause and the cure.
I lean against the wall and fold my arms over my chest, trying to convince myself I’m only here to make sure she’s okay.
That’s the lie. The truth is uglier. I want to see her open it. I want to see the moment the illusion shatters, and she realizes that she is free to be mine.
The paper crinkles in her hands. Even from here, I can see the tremor running through her fingers. She sits curled in the large chair like something fragile and breakable. It’s the same as when she used to sit at the edge of the pool when we were younger, and she thought nobody was watching.
Christ. I knew the guy was scum, but even I didn’t know how bad.
I only ever hire the best. I paid Thomas enough that he dug through every dirty secret Charles McMillian III thought he buried. Pretentious douche. I know exactly what is in that envelope. Every photo. Every timestamp. Every lie.
And I handed it to her like a loaded gun.
The first picture hits her like a punch. I can see it in the way her shoulders stiffen. She flips the page. Then another. Haven covers her mouth, and her breathing changes. Short and shallow, like the air around her suddenly weighs a thousand pounds.
Good, a cold voice in my head whispers. She needs to know the truth about the fucker. He doesn’t deserve her. No one does. Not even me, but I intend to keep her.
But another voice—one that sounds suspiciously like Patrick—asks a different question.
Does she deserve to find out like this?
I swallow and push the thought aside. What’s done is done.
She keeps turning pages. Each one slower than the last. The photos spill out of her hands and scatter across the floor like broken glass. For a moment, she just stares. And I realize something I never expected.
She isn’t angry, screaming, or throwing things. Hell, I expected her to at least burn the evidence…I even have copies. She does none of that.
The sound she makes is so quiet it almost doesn’t exist. A small broken breath that scrapes across the space between us and wedges itself somewhere deep under my ribs.
Fuck.
My fingers curl into fists. I can see Patrick in my mind, shaking his head before he fades away.
I didn’t expect her to love Charles, not this much. That’s stupid, I guess. She has her whole future planned with him. The house, the ring, the goddamn wedding. Anyone would break like this. Anyone would fall apart watching their fiancé betray them.
Then she pulls out her phone and plugs in the USB.
I almost sprint across the room to stop her, but it’s too late.
Haven doesn’t just cry.
She shatters like her soul is being torn out, and the sound she makes squeezes my heart. She runs to the edge of the balcony and bends over the railing, dry-heaving like her body is trying to reject something poisonous.
Haven collapses onto all fours, sobbing uncontrollably.
What the hell have I done?
I’m moving before I realize it…before I can stop myself. Haven doesn’t even hear me.
At one point, seeing her cry like this would have filled me with joy. Now it hurts so much that I may as well be on all fours with her. Her shoulders are shaking, and her nails scrape against the concrete as if she’s trying to claw her way out of her own skin.
Jesus Christ.
I crouch beside her and pull her into my arms. She doesn’t seem to notice me. For a second, she doesn’t even react. Her body just folds against mine like she’s too exhausted to resist. I pick her up and hold her tight as I kiss the top of her head.
“It’s going to be okay,” I murmur, brushing damp hair away from her face. “Easy, Butterfly.”
Her whole body trembles. The sound coming out of her is broken, and my chest aches with a sharp pain right over my heart.
I did this.
Maybe Charles lit the match, but I’m the bastard who handed her the gasoline.
“Shh,” I whisper against her temple, carrying her to my bedroom.
She doesn’t protest. Doesn’t even look at me. Her face presses against the side of my neck as she tries to hide from the pain.
I set her gently on the bed, and she immediately curls toward the nearest pillow, clutching it to her chest like it’s the only solid thing left in the universe.
Her cries subside, but they still hit me in waves, each one worse than the last. I’m at a loss as to what to do.
She finally turns her head and glares at me. The agony in her green eyes stops my next breath.
“Are you happy now? You got what you always wanted.”
She gasps for air, scrubbing at the tears on her face, as if they have offended her as much as I have.
I shake my head.
“I bet you’re dancing inside, seeing me break. It took you twelve years of torment, but you’ve finally done it.”
She wipes at her wet cheek and then runs her hand down my stomach, leaving my t-shirt damp.
“There you go. There are the tears you’ve worked so hard for. They’re all yours,” she says.
“No, Haven. It’s not like that.”
“Liar!”
She gets on all fours, her face a mask of fury.
“I mean it. That’s not why I did this.”
She lunges, fists coming for my chest, and I let her pound them against me. I deserve much worse.
“Lies! Lies! Lies! Stop lying to me.”
Grabbing her wrists, I force her to stop. She struggles against my hold, wailing like a back-alley cat, and then just as fast as it started, she stops.
“I never should’ve come back here,” she says, voice so low and lost that terror grips me.
My arms wrap around her, and I hold her tight, rocking her.
“Don’t say that.”
“It’s true. I’m a fool,” she says.
“No, you’re not. He is. Charles is, and I am, but not you.”
Haven doesn’t say anything. For a moment, I stand there trying to convince myself I should leave and give her space.
That’s what decent people do. But I’ve never been decent, and Haven has never been someone I can walk away from.
Especially, not now, not when she’s hurting.
Lying her down, I climb onto the bed beside her and pull the blanket over both of us before sliding an arm around her waist.
“Go away, Cy. Please,” she pleads, looking into my eyes.
“No. Never. You’re mine, Butterfly,” I whisper, smoothing the wild red strands of hair away from her face. “You may not see it yet, but I do. I’m never letting you go again.”
She stiffens for half a second, then relaxes, not bothering to fight me. I pull her close, and Haven buries her face against my chest as silent tears soak through my shirt.
In a flash, clarity comes, and I understand something terrifying. This isn’t the controlled anger she throws at me. This isn’t the woman who storms through life and stage rehearsals as if she owns them.
This is the girl who wrote in journals under her blankets late at night.
The girl who cried when Patrick died, and even though I heard her sobs, I never comforted her.
Instead, I told her that he was never her friend.
This is the girl I spent years pretending to hate, because wanting her felt like standing too close to the edge of a cliff.
My hand moves slowly through her silky hair, cradling her head next to my heart.
“Let it out,” I murmur.
For a long time, we stay like this, Haven crying, and my arm wrapped around her acting as a shield I should have used years ago. My initial thought was that this pain was about Charles, about his betrayal, about the man she planned to marry. And maybe some of it is.
A sick realization coils in my stomach at the way her sobs shake through her body. This goes deeper than that. Much deeper into something old. Something I helped to create. Something that still lives inside her bones.
I tighten my hold on her. Hating that I did this and hating that a sick and twisted part of me loves that I still affect her so deeply. I’m fucked. I know it, but I can’t help it. Deep down, I still want these tears to be mine, because everything about her is mine.
Right now, I don’t know how to fix it, and I sure as fuck don’t know how to love Haven without destroying her. But if she’s drowning tonight—I’m not letting her sink alone.