Chapter 17 Theo
The stairway to the studio apartment smells like musty concrete and unwashed floors, lit just well enough to avoid a lawsuit.
It’s dark, dank, and gives off the distinct vibe that someone was once murdered here.
I step onto the fifth-floor hallway, passing the neighbors’ doors with the sounds of couples arguing, TVs blaring and more.
I hate this depressing-as-fuck building.
But the second I unlock my door and step inside the studio, everything loosens. My chest relaxes. I can breathe.
I fucking love this studio.
Lexie’s been putting me off for two weeks.
I told myself there was still a lot to organize and surely she needed me present for something.
But the need to see her gnawed at me until I broke my own rules and offered lunch, a drink after work—anything.
But she kept responding with the bullshit line “I don’t want to waste your time” over email, insisting we handle things offline or over the phone.
I don’t want her anywhere but in front of me where I know exactly what’s she doing. Not because I can’t resist her dangerously alluring green eyes or that lying, sinful mouth I can’t stop thinking about—but because distance gives her too much freedom.
I keep all the lights off, toss my keys on the countertop, grab a protein shake from the refrigerator, and make my way to the window. I hook a finger around the sheer curtain to look across the way. It’s dark, quiet, empty.
The clock shows its ten after six. She should be home any minute now.
I grab my phone and read the latest email from Olivia.
She’s still on the fence about coming forward, even though I have four other women who will publicly corroborate a similar story, and another five still debating.
I exhale sharply. The journalist I’m working with relayed the power of numbers.
The more voices, the bigger the story, the larger the take-down.
I want to push Olivia, just a little, tell her I’ll protect her, but deep down, I understand.
I really do. My father holds a ton of social capital, my mother holds financial capital, and it’s scary as fuck for those who don’t.
Instead of pushing, I respond saying I understand—that she should take her time. I’ve been investigating for years. Even if it takes a decade, I will find a way to see my father answers for what he’s done.
My phone rings. Seeing my mother’s name, I click it off. No more than a few moments pass when it rings again, this time with Michael on the other line.
“Yes?” I ask, peeking back out the window. Still no Lexie.
“Sir.” There’s a hesitation in his voice that I don’t like. “Your family would appreciate it if you could check in.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “So, they’ve got you playing messenger now? Could you just tell them to fuck off? That’ll be my check-in.”
An audible sigh. “I know they can be… challenging. But avoiding their calls will only delay the inevitable.”
My shoulders drop. He’s not wrong. “Fine. I’ll call them soon.” I click off the phone before I take my words back.
I was ten, maybe eleven, the first time I heard a rumor about my dad and a student.
At the beginning, there were hushed accusations from my mother and passive dismissal from my father, brushing it off as a gross exaggeration.
He became more infrequently present in my life, failing to show up to baseball games after promising me he would, convincing me that I’d imagined things even though I’d seen him leave the house dressed up.
Then there were more rumors. I spent a lot of time on campus growing up. My mother loved the attention that came with being married to the brilliant, gifted Dr. George K. Astor, parading her golden boy to his colleagues whenever she could.
I remember the first time I saw something.
The way the student looked at him—idealistic, starry-eyed.
The careful, manipulative softness in his voice.
How he straightened too quickly, pulled his hand from her back when we entered his office.
The defiant look he gave my mother as she greeted the girl with an overly bright, tightly wound thrilled to meet you. She knew something was wrong. So did I.
But when I started college, there was no escaping it. I avoided my father when I could—but part of me was trying to catch him, too. I went down an obsessive rabbit hole of tracking his movements and those of his students. I had to know how many innocents he’d manipulated.
Some of his student aides went on to graduate.
Some dropped out shortly after their appointments ended.
But then there were the deaths. Two girls.
Three years apart. Both ruled suicides. I knew, at the deepest part of my soul, that he caused them.
He fucks with minds. Preys on the weak. He’d deliberately choose to work with students without financial backing or influential parents.
Only ever girls. Scholarship recipients.
Young, impressionable, whose voices were easy to silence.
I glance back out the window. Where is she?
Through studying Lexie over the past eight months, I know she likes the Indian restaurant four blocks away, seen swinging a take-out bag in her hands several times a month.
Like clockwork, she picks up prescriptions at the local Walgreens a half a mile away.
She’s also a runner—but only in the summer.
It’s the evenings I pay the closest attention to her, though.
Because she’s often careless, distracted when she walks home.
I’ve only lived across from her less than a month, but more than once I’ve watched to confirm no one followed her inside the building, calculating how long it’d take me to race down the stairs and cross the street to reach her if something happened.
Inside her apartment, she flits between reading, watching TV and working on her laptop, sitting cross-legged on her couch in sweatpants and a hoodie. But sometimes, I catch her just staring out into the street through the window. Where does her mind go then? Work? Does she ever think about me?
The light in her apartment flickers on and my pulse stutters.
I slide into my usual spot and grab the lens.
As predicted, she locks the door, kicks off her shoes onto the mat, and does a full, cat-like, arched-back stretch.
I like knowing her routines. It eases the tension of trying to predict what she’ll do next.
In about ten seconds, she’ll step into the corner and return a short time later with leggings or pajamas.
And, yes… I knew it. Pink pajamas, huh? Those are new. Cute.
Jesus Christ. Cute? I shouldn’t care what she’s wearing.
I don’t care. Not at all. I’m just watching to make sure she isn’t doing something nefarious.
And, to make sure she’s safe. She doesn’t have protection detail like Anna, and I swear she doesn’t understand danger.
When that electric bike nearly collided with her, the vision of her hurt, bleeding, helpless ravaged me.
My heart didn’t stop racing until we finally sat down for lunch.
Fuck. I need to stop letting her have this much power over me.
For half an hour, I watch through the lens as she pops dry cereal in her mouth, stretches out on the couch, and reads a book.
This is good. She’s relaxing. Not scheming or planning. There’s no reason to watch her anymore. I’ve gotten what I need, so I should drop the lens.
Wait… where’s she going? She makes her way from the couch towards the table tucked against the window.
She tucks her t-shirt sleeves to her shoulder and reaches for the lotion, pumping some into her palm and running her delicate hands up those pale, smooth arms. Nothing is rushed.
Just long lingering swipes. Is her skin as smooth as it looks?
A powdered silkiness maybe, dusted with constellations of freckles?
Her thumb digs circles into the top of her shoulder and her eyes flutter close.
She’s tired. Stressed. And as much as there’s a piece of me that eats up her discomfort, there’s another piece, a bigger piece, that’s wants to swap my hands with hers and bring her some relief.
But she didn’t want to see me for two weeks.
The camera dangles from the straps on my neck as I reach for my phone.
Theo: You can’t ignore me forever. We have a wedding to plan.
I lift the camera again, focusing through the lens. She reaches for her phone, her shoulders rising in a dramatic sigh as her eyes roll. Even in annoyance, she radiates. Talk of the wedding should jolt me into making Anna my top priority, but I can’t tear my attention away from Lexie.
Lexie: It’s after hours and I’m off the clock. Can it not wait until morning?
I watch as she chews her lips, her thumbs hovering over the screen. She starts typing, then stops, her fingers manically pressing what I assume is the delete button. She takes a long sip of her drink and then types again.
I glance down at my phone.
Lexie: Or is your highness incapable of waiting?
Her sense of humor is dangerous.
Theo: Impatient, maybe. Incapable? Never. But I’m starting to think you like making me wait.
She reads the message, and I see the corner of her mouth twitch, a smirk threatening to break free.
Lexie: Seeing as you’ve already taken up my time, what can I do for you?
Oh shit. What was I going to say?
Theo: This is an emergency. I need your advice on the color scheme. I’m thinking orange, green, and purple.
I look up into the camera just in time to see horror spread across her face.
Lexie: Okay… Can I ask where the inspiration came from?
Theo: Because I like it. Is that a problem?
Lexie: It’s a wedding, not a Halloween party.
I can’t help but grin.
Theo: So, you’re saying it’s a no?
Lexie: Unless you want a new wedding planner, then I’m vetoing this idea.
Theo: Fine. We’ll go with sage and cream. Boring, but acceptable.
Her shoulders relax as she reads the message and takes another sip of her drink.
Theo: But just so you know, if you keep bossing me around like this, I might have to find a way to remind you who’s really in charge.
Lexie goes still as she reads my message. I watch as she shifts in her seat and brings the glass to her reddening cheek.
My hand grazes my stiffening cock.
Lexie: Great to have a color scheme locked in. Have you run this by Annabelle? I’d like to send a confirmation email so we can get started on decorations, place settings, etc.
I haven’t even asked Anna, yet. Shit.
Theo: Yes. But please don’t message until the morning. She’s had a lot going on with her grandmother.
The three bubbles pop up and they stop. Wait, no.
What’s happening? The dopamine high I’ve been riding from our messages drains away.
Through the camera I see she’s lifted herself up from the couch and is at the door.
When her hands unlock the deadbolt, my pulse drums against my chest. Who the hell is coming over at this time of night?
And then… fuck.
The person behind the door hands her a bouquet of flowers, bigger than half her body, and a box. She sets them on her desk and pulls open the card. When she reads it, her mouth widens into a smile.
I press the lens as close to the window as I can. She grabs a knife and slices open the box, and, dammit, I need a stronger camera.
Rage starts to boil my blood at some asshole who thinks he can win her over with meaningless gifts. As if she could be bought.
She is the gift. The way her silky skin would feel under my hands, the way her lips would part with a gasp if I let myself take what I’ve wanted for so long. She’s not something you throw flowers and chocolates at, begging for scraps of her attention.
She picks her phone back up and her thumbs tap against the screen. Finally. In a few seconds my lungs will stop compressing and my veins will shrink. I wait. I stare unblinking at my phone anticipating her reply.
Nothing.
She sets down the phone and sinks onto the couch. My body is burning. She’s probably talking with that guy who called her at the restaurant and is now deliberately choosing to ignore me. My jaw tightens. Unbelievable.
I exhale. I’ll give her one last chance.
Theo: I’m free this weekend to look at design proposals.
She reads the message. And still… nothing. She lays her head back on the couch, rests the phone against her chest, and stares at the ceiling. I can’t see her face from here, I can’t see what she’s thinking, I can’t see fucking anything. Why the hell isn’t she responding?
My knee bounces as I wait to see if she’ll change her mind.
I can’t pace because I might miss something, but my limbs are firing, screaming for movement, and yet I wait.
One minute turns into two then three. I yank my phone off the desk and even though I’m screaming at myself to stop, I can’t.
My thumbs shoot off a message before I can reason with myself.
Theo: We can get on a video call with Anna for her sign off if that makes you more comfortable.
Stop. Stop! I don’t fucking chase women.
She’s toying with me. Just like back then.
I let her do it to me all those years ago, and I’m letting her do it again.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Everything with her is so calculated and she knows exactly what she’s doing.
I’m falling right into her hands. Again.
And so, I stop texting and wait. I wait as she closes her blinds, and I can no longer see into her space. As I settle into bed and my eyes are about to close, my hands reach out to my phone on my bedside table for one last check.
No new messages.