No weakness.
He’s just a man.
Except Benedict is so much more. My deep-seated respect for him makes all the anger and disdain feel out of place and wrong. But he hurt Arabella. He hurt his daughter, and he used mine to do it. And in all my thoughts, what ifs and daydreams about her…there was never a single moment where I would’ve hurt my child to bolster my own ambitions. I would’ve never put anything above my daughter. I would’ve died before I let myself or any other fucker hurt her.
Except you didn’t die. Did you?
I may not have died that night, but every day since it feels like I die a thousand deaths with every thought and recollection of her.
The curtains billow slightly, the nets blowing through the small gap between the heavier tapestry like ones that muffle the noise from the busy road down the street. Peach-and-gold brocade and filigree shimmer with the warm light from the lamps dotted around various surfaces.
The varnished chestnut, silk, cotton, and crystal that are meant to bring opulence and rich warmth do nothing to settle my overwhelming need to retaliate. Every part of me is screaming Attack! and that fucking voice in my head keeps telling me I need to pull back. I need to chill—be the iceberg Benedict has always told me to be.
Opening the door, I drag in a deep, cool breath and step out to the sitting area just as the bathroom door cracks open and Arabella walks into the bedroom.
It feels like my body might physically split in half. That’s not possible though, so I take a couple of small steps back into the bedroom, coming to a stop when our eyes meet. Her hair is dripping wet around her puffy face. Her slim frame looks thinner, waifish almost, and her small height looks shorter.
I want nothing more than to envelop her in my arms and press her so tightly to me that she physically melts into me. It won’t just be her soul living in me; it’ll be every part of her infiltrating every part of me. But without saying a word, her dark eyes glint coldly and destroyed.
Not now.
I’m not ready.
I need space.
I need time.
I need you to leave.
Desperately, I try to shut that voice in my head up, but the harder I try, the louder it becomes. Because it’s not my voice, it’s not my conscience. It’s her.
We’ve always been like this. Talking to one another in crowded rooms with a single glance. Comforting one another without saying a word.
Our connection runs deep like still waters. Calm on the surface. However, beneath it’s all current and storm. Pushing and pulling. Giving and taking. Fighting and saving.
That’s who we are. She inhabits me and I inhabit her.
Tonight, though, she doesn’t need me or us. Arabella needs herself. Although I want to push and fight to save her from her pain, I know it’s the selfish thing to do.
You’ve been selfish enough, Christopher.
The longer I look at her, the tighter she holds on to her towel, still pressing my phone to her chest. Like she wants to do to it what I want to do to her.
Stepping back, I hold her in my sight for as long as I can. Telling her all the things I need her to know.
I love you.
You are everything.
I’m sorry.
I promise to make it better.
We will make it through this.
Suns, moons, and stars.
Forever and eternity.