Chapter 47
“Bri. I love you. I need you. Please. Please don’t leave me.”
“All the money in the world couldn’t keep me by your side. The decay took over any decency a long time ago.”
My own Greek tragedy plays out in the expansive hallway of the Onyx One penthouse.
The marble floors are a delicate touch, an homage if you will, to the stories of old, their fought lovers broken on the steps while another dies a different death.
One of quiet pain, their internal organs no match for the voracious acid consuming muscles and flesh.
A drawn-out death like mine. Sabrina is the best of us all.
It shouldn’t be surprising, yet she remains a mystery.
I suppose with any play or opera, the character least likely of fire and strength is the one with the fortitude.
This ingenue deposited on our steps to wither and die, only she was the victor, of sorts.
She has the backbone and balls to walk away from the toxic wasteland of Mercer manipulation.
Not unscathed though. No, last night was the most appalling display of vile, unlawful behavior I’ve borne witness to.
And I’ve seen, and cleaned up, my fair share of vile shit.
Her face blazed a billboard of acrimony and hate as she stepped into the elevator as I finally stepped out.
Because I’d been frozen in place, one foot on the marble, the other on the elevator floor.
I’d like to think I stood there ready to accept any situation—spring from the box if required, or retreat and descend to ground level if the situation demanded.
Alas, my rigor of uncertainty mirrored my last fifteen years.
One where I was so desperate to be orbiting this ethereal celestial god, and the other knowing the inflicted trickle charge of damage would break me if I let it.
And that was the cruelty of it all. Nothing was blatant or shocking.
No, I was drip-fed, and over time would come to depend on the toxicity as nourishment.
Until my body craved more of his cruelty.
The vapid, vacant stare of a broken man greets me as I step further into the penthouse.
His face is broken, but it’s his soul that may well bear the brunt of the damage.
Mason epitomizes the look of a man who knows he’s gone too far and would do anything to reel back the rod and repeat time.
All of his money is useless with that too.
The prince who brought down the house now shelters in the rubble of his own ruination.
“Trystan.” It’s a whispered sob. “I love her. I fell in love with her and it wasn’t enough.”
The zealot in me wants to shout, to shake him by the shoulders and say, “See!” Loving someone isn’t enough to make them love you back.
Or want to. Christ, I have a healed break in my nose and fifteen wasted years to vouch for that.
I want to shove one of his sanctimonious teachable moments in his handsome face and say, “What lesson did you learn here today?” That real people can’t be bought, or that love isn't enough when you want it returned. The worst part of this entire scene is that Sabrina loves him too. She may have uttered those words to him across a pillow fanned with her basalt waves, or she may have kept that ammunition locked behind armored doors to protect not only Mason, but herself. And to protect me? Yes, she’s the very best of us all, and striding away without a backward glance is what I should have done, wish I had the spine to do, a decade ago.
“Mason, I love you and probably always will. You know that. But there are days when I really, really dislike you. Yesterday was one of those days.”
“Fuck!” he returns, fists pulling on chunks of unruly hair.
This is where I should gloat. Not for him or her, but for me.
I should take him in my arms and lie to him about it being alright.
Lift him into the shower and bathe him with the tender care a broken man deserves.
Dry him with reverence and lay him in bed before pulling him to my chest to soothe away the sting.
The urge to do all the things we divorced from our conversations half a lifetime ago, never to be spoken of, or even thought about, again.
I could be the white knight, the rugged hero, the rock.
Use the period of distraction and loss to carve out a new beginning for both of us.
His biggest secret was thrust onto the spotlighted stage six weeks ago.
Is the world ready for another? Am I? As a direct descendant of Magnus and Malice, his scene last night should come as no surprise.
Six months ago, perhaps, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelid, knowing the DNA he carries is some of the most malicious and morbid, still wouldn’t have made me question a thing.
What haunted and ate away at me and robbed me of sleep on the plane, was knowing I, too, failed Sabrina Broe.
My closest colleague, my courtier in the Mercer kingdom.
With the other EPAs, I had convinced myself that Mason would soon tire of wet pussy and soft skin and thighs without coarse hair.
That he’d page me into his office one day and demand me on my knees for him again, and I would sink without hesitation.
Sabrina changed him. Sabrina changed me.
If I manipulate his damaged state, then I’m no better than the malicious circle of raptors he shares genetics with. Of all the cruel predicaments, one path descends into a pit of fire and flame, the other a boiling geyser of acid and ash.
His muffled sobs carry through the idle space. “I love her, and it’s not enough.”
Ah, old friend. It rarely is. “Hurts, doesn’t it? A love you can’t control.”
His palms fall away and more of his face is revealed.
Swollen eyes that look painful. More untamed growth on his chin and cheeks than normal, unless on a rare vacation.
For the first time, I notice the lines creasing around the corners of his eyes and again near his temples and mouth.
Emotional lines that demonstrate feelings so very foreign.
He’s both beautiful and beautifully broken.
“Tryst.” It comes out as a whispered promise. A secret he will never tell.
“I get it, Mas,” I offer soothingly, yet the words ease none of the pain for either of us.
“I always thought she was bright. Perhaps the smartest thing she’s done was to walk away from both of us,” I offer with a hint of humor neither of us appreciates.
I tap the inside of his knee, drawing that hollowed face back up to my level.
“Mason, I understand Bri leaving is a thing. But I also understand why. I hope you will extend the same courtesy to me. You know I love you, and probably always will, but right now, I can’t stomach the sight of you.
I will work out my notice, and not a moment longer. I quit too, Mas. I’m done.”