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“Segura?” Sure?
“Yes.” He’s not actually Spanish, but because he knows who I am and my mother’s heritage, he keeps dropping it into our conversation. It’s so silly that Oliver has started calling him Pedro as a joke.
Sitting on one of the tall stools, I try to shake off the ominous feeling that’s clinging to me. There’s no reason for me to feel like the world is about to implode. The piano music is soft with trailing notes of Tchaikovsky’s “Autumn Song,” the chords echoing around me with their melancholy voice.
One minute it’s sad, the next it’s climbing to an exhilarating climax, and much like life it collapses on itself with heartbreaking pangs and jarring punches.
Taking a sip of the soft pink hibiscus tonic, I inhale deeply. I can barely fit the smallest gulp of air in my constricted lungs. My ribs ache like they’re being squeezed to a pulp.
“We’re closed.”
Oliver takes my glass from my hands, placing it on the bar.
“Doesn’t sound like it.”
Picking up my drink one more time, I take a healthy sip of it, focusing on the way the floral notes fizz on my tongue.
“You can’t be here tonight.” His rushed words are accompanied by grasping hands as he takes me down from the bar stool. “It’s a private party.”
The panicked edge to his voice is far too high-pitched for it to be the truth. Oliver has always been a shit liar. And as if to confirm my suspicions, Christopher and Freddie waltz into view.
“Really, Oliver?” Pulling myself from his grasp, I put enough distance between us that I can get a better view of the man haunting my every thought and nightmare. “You said I could come here whenever I needed to.”
“You can, Bella. Just not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t want trouble in my club,” he snaps back at me, just as my gaze clashes with Christopher’s.
He’s come for me.
Every part of me wants to jump ship and run to him, but then all the faces I’ve imagined of our daughter flit through my mind. The honeyed eyes and perfectly dipped cupid’s bow. The wild messy hair that looks rough but feels so soft.
I took that away from him. From me. From us.
He’s looking at me with that arrogant intensity that makes my insides buzz and heat and yearn.
Pain lances through me as his lips purse and his brow creases. He looks so angry. Like he could destroy me for good. But there isn’t anything left to ruin. And although he doesn’t know it, I’m doing this for him. It’s all I can do now.
Taking a step back from Oliver, I drop my gaze to the black-and-white chequerboard floor and head towards the piano lounge. I feel the fire of Christopher’s stare scorch my skin with every step I take. The closer I get to where he’s standing, the more my insides tighten and ache.
The music barely makes it through the pounding of my heartbeat in my ears. Every step feels shakier. It’s like my entire being is shrinking and I’m lost, completely and utterly adrift in Christopher’s presence.
I have to continuously remind myself to keep moving.
Don’t stop. Don’t look. Just move.
This mantra keeps repeating in my mind over and again. Until I’m about to walk past him.
When he steps in front of me, his arm grazing the side of my face, I pause. My sight never strays from the dark grey weave of his wool suit, his peppery scent fuzzing my senses.
“Leave,” he rasps darkly.
When I look up, it takes me a moment to find my voice. And another to swallow down the lump that swells in my throat at his contemptuous glare. By the time I’ve got myself in check, it’s too late for me to say anything at all.
Walking around him, I take a long, steadying inhale.
I’m sorry. I miss you. I’m so sorry.
