Page 33 of Prince of Wrath

“Thank you. I’ll be there in a minute.” The line disconnects. Elias gives me a final nod before stepping into the hallway. I return it. The knot of chaos in my head is finally beginning to loosen. Good. A few minutes later, I head toward a financial strategy meeting with the insurance division. Emergency funding plans. Risk assessments. Numbers. Things I understand and master. The fog that had smothered me all morning is beginning to clear. Nate falls into step beside me, joining from his office down the hall.

“Would you look at that?” he mutters as we approach the conference room doors. “It’s almost like you’re not your usual miserable self.” I shoot him a look. “Careful. People might start expecting you to have a personality.” His grin widens, but there is an underside to his expression, like he is trying to hold something back.

“Fuck off,” I mutter, a slight tug at the corner of my lips reminding me what it feels like to smile again.

* * *

That night, when I come back home, Ella is asleep. According to Matt’s report, she has been resting most of the day, except for her checkup with the doctor and her appointment with the therapist. Exhaustion must be creeping into her bones now that her body no longer has to fight every second to survive. I fold the sheet up under her chin, then leave a chaste kiss on her temple, even if the sea in me rages with lust and hungry cravings. One step at a time. I don't let myself sleep next to her tonight, not unless she asks me to. We’re standing above a fine line in the sand, and I need to make sure she’s okay with moving forward before my body follows its own mind. Instead, I grab the other pillow, pull a blanket from my dresser, and lie on the floor near her.

Tristan Ashford, multimillionaire, heir of an empire, sleeping on the floor of his manor. That would make a great headline. Good thing there is no place I would rather be.

Chapter Ten

Ella

Four days have passed, and a fog made of doctors, kisses on the forehead, and occasional visits to the kitchen has become my daily routine. I still don't know where Tristan sleeps, since the other side of the bed always remains untouched, but I have a sad feeling he's been using the floor, and for someone who has slept on it, I don't like that at all. My brain did not allow much connection with him over the last four days, but I am determined to change that. This morning is different, though, as Anja crosses the doorway, arguing with Matt about things I cannot hear but that definitely contain the words stuck-up and outrage. I suppress a smile, my hands hidden inside the long sleeves of my navy shirt, one I stole from Tristan and tucked into a pair of high-rise jeans.

For whatever reason Tristan found, he figured out a way to keep my job, telling them I was sick and unavailable for the next two weeks. Surprise is an understatement; I thought he would have dismissed my work entirely, but I was glad when he left a note this morning explaining that even if he didn't approve and would rather have me studying, that wasn't his call to make. Anja, on the other hand, has been less compliant, something I should have expected from her. Not only did my phone have around fifty texts from her since the day of my kidnapping, but she also kept asking for me at work, at the front desk, and even came up to the thirty-second floor to ask, I believe, Tristan’s brother if they knew where I was. It has taken me the last two days to recover from the emotional roller coaster I have been on, and even now, I am not completely myself. Something feels off, like someone has moved the toothpaste and I keep reaching for it blindly, stunned that I didn't notice.

I am not who I was before.

I still do not know who I am now.

Yet, two text exchanges with Anja yesterday evening, and here she is at ten a.m., crossing the threshold of Tristan’s house in low-rise light blue jeans and a sticky pink top that goes so well with today’s choice of straightened hair. Chewing her gum with that familiar strawberry scent, holding two purses and slightly out of breath, she barges into the sleek, fancy, untouched kitchen and whistles.

“Ain’t that a sight for sore eyes,” she snaps her gum, looking around, then at me. “Ella.” Her voice drops ten levels into motherliness as she opens her arms. I shake my head.

“I can’t,” I say, letting her read my lips. “I can’t.” A sad pout draws itself over her face before she nods.

“Oh- okay, okay,” she says quietly, patience bleeding into her voice. “Let’s sit and catch up, then. All right? I was so worried.” We spend the next hour doing a mix of lip-reading, signing, and writing in my notes app so she can understand it all. And perhaps it is the fact that she is my only friend, or perhaps there is an unspoken bond between women you choose to let peek inside your secret garden. Still, I open up to her about the loss of intimacy between Tristan and me, about the wall that has risen between us and my inability to fully confront it.

The therapist recommended by the clinic visited me yesterday, and we spoke about PTSD and how to come back to reality as myself, in my body, instead of watching every scene from above. Still, I could not fully open up to this stranger.

“Damn, love,” Anja gasps, her glittery-nailed palm covering her mouth. “I mean, what in the world? Come on. Like you didn’t have enough shit going on, the universe thought you needed another serving of it? Of all people…” Tears gather in her eyes, but she looks up for a few seconds, blinking them back. A reflex I am afraid has become natural to her. I should really be there for her more in the future. A better friend. Being a single parent must take a heavy toll on a person too.

“And so you’re staying…here now?”

“I think so,” I sign, then type the rest. I’m not sure. I don’t think it’s long-term. There will come a time when Tristan’s guilt over this whole situation lessens, and with it, his affection for me. Of course he would be better off with someone whole. Someone social. Someone who knows her way around the world, strong enough not to collapse the way I just did. Tristan deserves better. So I will stay until he opens his eyes one day and realizes I am just a girl without a voice, nothing more.

“Why not?”

Do normal people move in together after two months of dating? I write in my notes app.

“Who’s normal?”

“I don’t know,” I say, almost smiling.

“No one’s normal,” she huffs. “Everyone is on their own timeline, really. Why not stay if it feels right?” Writing the word I would hate to be associated with, I show her the pad. She leans back into the sofa, almost spilling her soda. “A gold digger? You?” Then she holds her belly, laughing before stopping with a little exhale.

“Ella, Ella, you’re many things, but a gold digger isn’t one of them. And if he knows you, then he knows you’d never be that kind of person. You’re like the opposite. We have to force you to let us help.”

“What about you?” I ask. “How are you?” She sighs.

“It’s…a bit tiring. Nothing like what you’re experiencing, but…”

“Hey, you have the right to be tired too.”

“I know, I know.” She picks at the edge of her napkin. “I wish I could just turn off my life for a few minutes sometimes, you know? Drink my coffee hot. That kind of thing. Kids are…kids. I love them, and I want to soak it all in, but sometimes I just wish I could do nothing. Sleep. Close my eyes. Watch a full episode with no interruption.”