We say our goodbyes, and I flop back down on my sofa, flipping my cell over in my hands, trying to make sense of that last conversation with Darius.
The way he looked at me, disgust in his eyes. His cutting words, “Did you?” His voice was low and dangerous, laced with furious accusations. The way he tossed that money at me, trying to get me to leave as quickly as possible.
He didn’t even want me in his sight.
I’d never told him I’d come to his hotel that night looking for inspiration, but I’d been pretty open about the fact I’d included a lot about our sex life in that book. And he didn’t seem to mind. While I was busy looking at my phone, sinking down onto my knees, reading and re-reading Sarah’s texts—this book will sell like crazy, best one yet, you made me laugh, you made me cry—what had he been reading on his screen?
It must have been this article. The one about the chapter that I didn’t, that I would never write. The one written by his bitter ex. No wonder he was so hurt, so angry.
But why did he send me away so fast? Why didn’t he trust me enough to ask me about the article, before paying me off and kicking me out.
If he loved me, if he really loved me, wouldn’t he have demanded we ‘talk this out’ as he always does?
Why was it so easy for him to let me go?Chapter 18DariusIt’s been three days since the news station did their exposé on Katie and her book. On day two, I got a certified mail package with every single dime I gave Katie, every stitch of clothing, every item of jewelry. I search it, furiously, looking for some shred of an apology.
No note. Nothing.
I whip it in a closet and stomp away.
On the fourth day, I can’t take it anymore. Everything reminds me of her. The clothing I bought her, hanging in my closet, her toothbrush and body wash. Even her scent lingers on my pillow. I leave the penthouse with strict orders for the cleaners to give it a thorough cleaning and to box up anything even remotely feminine.
To scrub my home of every memory of her.
I consider actually fucking moving. Everything is here, everything is her. The hot tub where I first touched her, the sofa where she straddled my lap and I made her climax, the barstool where she perched, happily eating anything I ordered her.
I was smitten with the woman. And now, she’s crushed me.
I’m angry with myself for letting myself fall so hard.
So I pack a bag, I get a ride, and I head back home to Georgia. I need some clean air and a change of pace. I call Gran on the way.
“Darius, how are you?”
I sigh and don’t reply at first.
“Coming home for a bit.”
“Alone?”
“Alone.”
“Oh, dear,” she says sorrowfully. “Did something happen with Katie?”
“How do you know from a sigh?”
“Oh, you don’t raise a man like you without getting to know when he isn’t himself anymore. But I also had some help. Just wanted to hear straight from the horse’s mouth.”
A pang hits my chest. I swallow hard. “Guess you didn’t watch the news, then?”
“Of course I did,” she says with a huff. “You know I despise the things, but wouldn’t you know, Rawley and Tiffany showed up the night it aired to tell me what happened.”
Suspicion rises in my chest. Did they?
“Oh?”
“Yep. But I’m surprised to hear you sound upset, son. Surely that didn’t really impact your relationship with Katie?”
Anger rises in me, but I quickly stifle it. “Of course it did. How could it not?”
Now it’s Gran’s turn to sigh. “Come home, Darius. I’ll be waiting for you.”
“One request, Gran.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want Tiffany and Rawley there when I arrive.”
“You have my word.”
I mull things over as I take a flight back. I order a completely different private jet to take me home, so none of the memories of Katie resurface like they do at my penthouse. It doesn’t work, though. I remember the way she held my hand when we took off, her head on my shoulder, her fear that I soothed for her when we landed.
Where is she now? What’s going on in her head?
How could I have been so mistaken about her?
And does Gran know something I don’t?
I get a ride to her farmhouse, trying to find comfort in the fields we pass, the late summer flowers, and the distance between me and the Vegas drama. But it doesn’t work. There’s a heavy weight on my chest I can’t push off. I pinch the bridge of my nose. My phone dings—my secretary waiting on signatures for a contract—but I’m too drained to look down. I look at it a hundred times a day, hoping to hear from Katie.