Page 70 of Last Destination

“I’ve gotta go,” I mumbled, averting my gaze from every single fucker in the room now questioning my sanity.

I pushed through the door and made a beeline for the glass-walled corner office I was once so proud to have earned. It now felt like I was a guppy in a fishbowl. Collapsing in the leather office chair, I swung it around to face the other two walls of windows, hoping the micro privacy would garner me a smaller audience while I fell to pieces.

I’d tried so hard to convince myself I wanted this. The expensive luxury meals, my silk sheets, the title, the wealth, the purpose. None of it sang to me now — not a single off-key note. Who the fuck was I?

A changed man, Ambrose. Only took you a fucking plane crash to get over your fucking self.

I dropped my head into my hands and took several more lung-cleansing breaths, my stomach undulating like I was back on that stupid ship.

“Fuuuuuuuuuuck.”

“What is wrong, aduel?”

I snapped my head upward at my father’s voice. My legs whipped my chair around, and my father’s stern yet calm presence occupied one of the chairs in front of my desk. One leg crossed over the other, his hands folded in his lap — his thinking pose.

A fierce drum pounded inside my head, and I struggled to focus on him through half-lidded eyes. What could I possibly tell him? Sorry Appa, I fell in love with two people — one of them is a man, actually — while fighting for my life, and now I want to walk away from everything you’ve ever given me.

“Appa …” My voice trailed off, for once in my life at an actual loss for words. I blew out an obnoxious breath and tried again as he waited too patiently for me. His patience made me more nervous than anything. For once in my life, my father was listening and would hear me. And what I had to say wasn’t what he’d want to hear.

“Appa, this is — this is not my life anymore. In the jungle …”

Fuck, why was this so fucking hard? Facing down a bloody jaguar in firelight had been less scary than this admission.

“I don’t want to live a life in a boardroom. And I don’t want to do it alone. I... met someone. A few someones, actually. A beautiful woman and … andaman.” I blurted those last words out in such a rush, I fumbled over them with my tongue. The cat was out of the bag now, but my stomach still roiled at his potential — and likely — disapproval.

“And I need to get back to them. As soon as I can, really,” I rushed to add. “Trevor is a good stand-in. Keep him.”

My father stared at me, unblinking, and sweat poured off me in my noose suit, less comfortable than my two-week-old khakis saturated with jungle juice. Fuck, what was he thinking?

“That is … unexpected.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

A heavy silence hung over our heads like the humidity of the jungle, and I sat like a hostage under it, unable to even defend myself. That was the truth, wasn’t it? No matter how it sounded — how unorthodox, how batshit — it was the truth.

Thankfully, my father spoke, or I might have willed myself to melt into the floor.

“Ambrose, you have cheated death. When you cheat death, you do not come back as the man you were.”

Well, that paused my rhythmic breathing for a second. He made the statement as he always did — matter-of-factly, as if no one could ever sway his opinion, so don’t even try, as if he also cheated death and was now an expert on the situation.

“I suspected you returned to me a different man. This is not the life you want anymore, even if I held a place for you?”

Every vertebra clicked into place when I lifted my head to meet his gaze. His brown eyes, much darker than mine, stared at me with clinical kindness, assessing, but compassionate.

My throat bobbed with the hard swallow before I nodded my head. “No, it’s not,” I agreed.

My father dipped his head in a sharp nod, as if that admission solved all of my problems.

“This will pain me, but it pained your mother more to see you live a life you did not want.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but his sad smile snapped it shut.

“She always knew you were unhappy, Ambrose. With your career, with Theresa. I was the one who pushed you in this direction. It will honor her death, and your renewed life, to live by your own choices. You may start today.”

I choked on the snort tickling the back of my throat. My father couldn’t help himself. He was giving me permission to make my own choices — one hell of a paradox — but my heart immediately felt several pounds lighter in my chest, and the collection of sweat at the base of my spine started to dry.

“I’m going to have to leave,” I admitted while staring at my hands. They’d already become soft again from desk work, all reminders of our jungle escape erased from my skin. “As soon as possible.”