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Drew curses.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“She left.”
“She’s what?”
“And she says she’s not coming back. She told me to tell you to check your emails.”
“What? Fuck!” I swerve to avoid a small fallen branch in the road. “Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fuck, okay. I’ll call you back.”
Unease claws its way up my spine making the back of my neck prickle as I hit the brakes and steer off the main road and into a small side street. I park at an angle, the engine still running as I pull out my phone and bring up my emails.
The latest one is from Maddy’s work account.
I click into it.
I spent so long hating you when you didn’t deserve it, Logan. Maybe it’s time you hated me for a change. Only, I will deserve it. I’m sorry. Mads.
I open the attachment and start reading the article she’s written about me.
Cold sweat gathers on my forehead, my fingers closing around my phone until my knuckles turn white.
“Logan Rich’s failed launch. How this bachelor billionaire is set to lose it all.”
My father, the marriage to Gabrielle, losing the investors, even the fucking seizure of goods at my parents’ house. Everything I ever told her, confided in her.
It’s all here in black and white.
Maddox Harper has written down just how much she’s hated me all these years.
And now she’s telling the world.
Chapter 35
Maddy
Ishufflealonginthe queue. The lights above are blinding. Far too bright and unforgiving. Then again, it suits the environment. Flushing out those who aren’t being honest about what they’re doing here.
Am I being honest?
I move forward another step and the man behind me bumps into my suitcase.
“Scusa.”
I give him a small, forgiving smile. I wonder what his story is. Is he running from something? From someone? Or is he trying to help them? Or is he doing all three? Am I doing all three?
“Sí.” The officer at the desk lifts an arm and beckons me over. I stand in front of his desk and hand him my passport. He opens it to the photo page and looks at me. I smile because doesn’t everyone smile when they do this? It feels rude not to. He doesn’t smile back. But as he holds it up, something falls out, and he pauses, picking up the piece of paper and looking at it before he hands it back to me.
“Nice picture,” he says in a thick Italian accent. His eyes flick to his screen as he types something in. Then he passes my passport back. “Have a nice stay.” He gives me the briefest nod and dismisses me.
I move to the baggage belt and look at the photograph in my hand as I wait for my luggage. I don’t know why I printed a copy. Denial? Thinking if I looked at it that I could tell myself we were nothing special. That I shouldn’t feel this gut-wrenching pain when I think about him. Or maybe self-sabotage? Because I need to punish myself. I need to look at this every day and understand what I did. Who I lost. Who I never deserved.
Why I did what I did to him.
