20. Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
~DECLAN~
That’s the thing about life when it’s going well.
When you least expect it, it swipes your legs from underneath you, sending you on your ass.
It's Thursday evening, July ninth—nearly a week until the Meridian Gala—and I'm watching Darcy across the conference table, trying to figure out what the hell is going on with my goddamned wife.
Outside the fortieth-floor windows, Manhattan is awash in a rose-gold sky, the sun preparing to set over the city as the sidewalks below fill with people escaping their offices into the summer evening.
Inside the offices of Shaw Entertainment Group, we're going over gala logistics for what feels like the hundredth time.
Darcy's laptop is open in front of her, her color-coded notebook beside it, her pen tapping an agitated rhythm against the table.
She looks exhausted.
Dark circles decorate the delicate skin under her hazel eyes, the color stark against her pale skin. She's wearing a loose blouse that I'm pretty sure is new because I haven't seen it before, and she keeps shifting in her chair like she can't get comfortable.
"The vendor contracts are all signed," she says, scrolling through her spreadsheet. "Catering, florals, AV, photography. Everyone's confirmed for the eighth."
"Good," Wyeth says from his end of the table. "What about the investor introduction?"
"Prepared remarks are drafted. I've sent them to you both for review. Timeline is set—cocktail hour at seven, dinner at eight, investor announcement at nine-thirty."
"Security?"
"Coordinated with the venue. We have a dedicated team for the evening. VIP escorts for the sellers and the investor."
"Perfect." Wyeth closes his laptop. "I think we're good. Darcy, excellent work as always."
"Thanks."
She stands up, starts packing her things, and I notice the way she moves—slowly, like everything hurts.
Maybe it does.
It’s not like we’ve been alone much these last few weeks. Preparing for the gala has taken up every spare second, and an impromptu trip Wyeth and I took to Chicago has taken away more time with Darcy than I can bear.
She’d declined the invitation to go, mentioning that her best friend Bria was “going through something,” and she wanted to be there for her.
But the excuse is wearing thin.
As she packs, I stand, leaning against the conference table a foot away.
"You okay?" I ask so low that only she can hear.
"Fine," she responds, hands continuing to organize her things. "Just tired."
"You've been tired for two weeks."
"Gala prep is a lot."
“Jesus, Darce, if you’re overworked—"
"I'm fine, Declan." She gives me a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Really. I just need sleep."
Wyeth looks between us, clearly sensing the tension.
"I'm going to head out," he says, standing. "Early flight to Boston tomorrow. Darcy, take the day off tomorrow if you need it. You've been working nonstop."
"I'm fine—"
"Take the day," I say. It's not a suggestion.
She looks at me for a moment, then nods. "Okay. Fine. I'll take tomorrow off."
Wyeth leaves.
Now it's just Darcy and me in the conference room with the city spread out beyond the windows and two weeks of irritating distance between us.
Because that's what it's been.
Distance.
She comes to work, does her job brilliantly, responds to emails and texts with perfect professionalism.
But she hasn’t been back to my apartment since that one night.
These days, it feels like we barely hold eye contact.
And I have no fucking clue why.
"Darcy—"
"I should go." She's already heading for the door. "It's late."
“Stop,” I bark at her back.
She flinches, stopping and turning as I stalk closer.
“What the hell is going on?” I growl, blood pumping thickly through my veins as I stare down at her.
She still won’t meet my eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"You know the hell what, Darcy. You’ve been avoiding me for two weeks. Ever since you left my apartment that Sunday morning. Ever since—" I stop. “What the hell happened? Did I…hurt you?”
“Hurt me?” Her gaze rises to mine. "No. God, no. You didn't do anything wrong."
"Then what is it?"
Her gaze falls again.
She’s nervous—shifty, a new sight for me with Darcy Madison.
"It's nothing," she says after too much time has passed. "I've just been stressed. The gala, the new role, everything. I'm fine."
"You keep fucking saying that."
"Because it's true."
She's lying.
I know she's lying. I notice the same pupil dilation from when she hid from my Tulum contacts weeks ago.
I snort. “Fine. Whatever you say.”
“Yes, I do say.”
I turn to the door. “I’ll walk you out.”
"You don’t have—"
“You don’t have a say, Darcy. I’m walking you out. Not negotiable."
She sighs but doesn't argue, and we take the elevator down to the lobby in silence.
The night air hits us the moment we step outside—warm and humid, the heavy July heat making the city feel like a sauna.
Antonio is already pulling up in the Mercedes.
“Get in,” I say. "I'll drop you home."
"I can take the subway—"
"You're not taking the subway at nine P.M. Get in the fucking car, Darcy."
She stares at me now, hazel eyes defiant. “Could you be any more bossy?”
“No. It's literally in my nature."
She almost smiles at that, and for a second I see a flash of the Darcy I know—the one who gives me shit and challenges me and, every once in a while, looks at me like I hung the moon.
Then it's gone.
We're standing on the sidewalk, the car idling at the curb, and I realize I haven't asked her yet.
Haven't formally asked the question I've been planning to ask for days.
“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you—"
"Excuse me."
I turn at the sound of someone else’s voice—a masculine one.
Two men are walking toward us from down the block.
Both are in their forties, wearing expensive suits that don't quite hide the muscle underneath. Both move with that particular brand of casual confidence that comes from knowing you can handle yourself in a fight.
I've seen men like this before too many times to count.
Men like this lived and thrived in my father's world, in the gray-area operations we're trying to leave behind.
"Can I help you?" I ask, stepping slightly in front of Darcy.
The taller one looks past me, directly at Darcy.
"We're looking for someone," he says. "Maybe you've seen her."
"I doubt it." I answer.
"Darcella," the shorter, stockier man says, and I feel Darcy go rigid behind me.
I glance back at her and notice her face has gone practically white.
"I think you have the wrong person," she says, voice tight.
"We don't." The stocky one pulls out his phone, shows us a photo—younger, but unmistakably Darcy. "We just want to talk."
"I have nothing to say to you."
"That's not what we hear." The tall one steps closer. "We heard you've been busy. New job. New life."
"Leave me alone."
"Can't do that. We've got a message to deliver."
"I don't want to hear it."
"You don't get a choice."
He reaches for her arm, and I move before I think.
Grabbing his wrist, I twist it behind his back, slamming him face-first into the side of the Mercedes.
"Don't touch her," I hiss, my voice sharp enough to cut.
Within seconds, the stocky one moves toward me.
I see it coming—a telegraphed punch, sloppy footwork—and I duck under it, driving my elbow into his ribs, following with a right hook that connects with his jaw.
He staggers back, stunned.
Meanwhile, the tall one is trying to get free, so I pull him away from the car and sweep his legs, letting him hit the pavement hard.
"Declan!" Darcy's voice.
The stocky one recovers, coming at me again.
This time I don't hold back.
I jab at his throat, knee his solar plexus, finish with an uppercut that snaps his head back.
Antonio is already out of the Mercedes, driver’s door hanging open, metal rod in hand, ready.
The tall one stumbles to his feet, takes one look at Antonio, and suddenly doesn’t seem nearly as confident.
I straighten slowly, adjusting my cuff. "You gentlemen done?" I ask calmly.
He freezes, looking at his partner on the ground, then back at me.
"Tell whoever sent you that she's not interested," I say. "And if anyone else comes looking, they'll end up way fucking worse than you two."
He swallows, helps his partner up, and together they take off down the block, fading into the evening.
People around us barely react.
All I care about is one person’s reaction.
I turn back to Darcy and find her standing against the car, hand over her mouth, tears streaming down her face.
"Get in," I say.
"Declan—"
"Get in the goddamned car, Darcy. Now."
She does, and I slide in beside her, slamming the door.
"Antonio. My place."
The car pulls away, and I finally look at Darcy.
She's shaking—full-body trembling, tears still falling, breathing too fast.
I don't push.
But I do reach over and take her hand.
She doesn't pull away.
We ride the rest of the way to my penthouse in silence.
My knuckles are bleeding by the time we get upstairs.
Split skin across my right hand from where I connected with the stocky guy's jaw. Left hand is fine but starting to bruise.
Nothing serious.
I've had worse.
The moment we're through the door, Darcy drops her bag and walks straight past me toward the terrace doors.
"I need some air," she says, sliding the glass open before I can say anything.
I follow her, unable to do anything else.
The terrace wraps around the corner of the building—fifty stories up, the city spread out below us in every direction. The July night air is thick and warm, carrying the smell of the city—summer heat and something faintly floral from the planters along the railing.
Darcy is at the railing, both hands gripping it, her back to me, looking out at Manhattan like she's trying to locate the exit.
"You can stop following me," she says without turning.
“The fuck I can.”
"Listen—"
"No. You don't get to walk away from me and expect me to just let you go." I cross to where she's standing and stop directly behind her, close enough that she can feel my heat. "Especially not after what just happened."
"I just need some space—"