Cheers (and go fuck yourself),
Gemma
I hit save, a sense of finality washing over me. It’s done. It’s over.
Now, all that’s left to do is get on that plane.
Costa Rica, here I come.
CHAPTER 44
Liam
The rocking of mysailboat doesn’t even come close to matching the storm inside me.
I glare at the laptop screen, Gemma’s “dear diary” entry taunting me with every word. Talk about a parting gift. I almost preferred the cat shit on my desk.
The rain’s coming down like god’s own personal shower, pissing all over me. Even with its top-of-the-line waterproof cover, the laptop’s got minutes before it’s as fucked as my mood.
I should go inside. But I don’t. I’m soaked to the bone, my clothes clinging to me, and I barely feel it. Hell, part of me likes it. It feels good to let the rain beat me.
Water drips from my hair, plastering it to my forehead. I can taste the salt on my lips.
Despite myself, a harsh laugh tears from my throat at her parting shot.Cheers, and go fuck yourself. That’s my Gemma, all right, always with the razor-sharp tongue. Even when she’s gutting me, she does it with style. I’d applaud if I wasn’t too busy rotting in my own bad mood.
I read her words again and with each line, my irritation grows.
I never lied to her. I might be a bastard in a dozen other ways—a hard-ass, demanding, always pushing for perfection—but I’m noliar. I don’t make promises I can’t keep. From day one, I was straight with her, no bullshit.
Well, almost. There was one lie. I told her the coffee carts were getting an upgrade when, really, Jimmy had slipped up and was back in rehab—the reason he got involved in the charity in the first place. I handled it. Paid for the best rehab money could buy, made sure he was taken care of because I knew she cared about him. Maybe I should’ve come clean, told her what was really going on, but I didn’t want her carrying that weight at work. So yeah, I bent the truth, but it wasn’t about deceiving her. It was about protecting her. I would have told her eventually but in a safer place for her.
Now she claims she was falling in love with me. Is she trying to fuck with my head? Because in my world, you don’t betray the people you love. I’ve had enough backstabbing to last a lifetime. I don’t need another knife in my back.
The truth? I was the one falling for her. Hard. Harder than I’ve ever fallen for anyone. And look where that got me.
I tried to do right by her. I met her challenge; I found a way to keep the charities going. But it still wasn’t enough.
My fist slams into the deck before I can stop myself, the same deck I spent hours meticulously scrubbing this morning. Pain rockets up my arm, sharp and biting, but I welcome it. I fucking embrace it. Physical pain is a hell of a lot easier to deal with than the emotional shitstorm raging inside me.
This is why I don’t do relationships. Because the moment you let someone past your defenses, the second you show a hint of vulnerability, they use it against you. They drive the knife in deep and then walk away, leaving you to bleed out on the deck of your own damn yacht.
Mum shipping us off to boarding school the minute that bastard snapped his fingers. Alastair, always scheming, looking for ways toknock me down. Whitmore, making me jump through hoops like some trained monkey, only to walk away in the end.
And Gemma . . .
They tell you you’re a piece of shit when you’re poor, that you’re not good enough, not worthy of their time or attention. Then you go and make something of yourself, and they hate you for that, too. Can’t win for losing.
“Fuck!” The word tears out of me, loud enough to cut through the rain. Some girl on the dock jumps like a startled deer. “Sorry,” I grunt, not really caring if she hears me.
I’ve got to get out on the water, burn off this rage before it consumes me. The rain’s pelting down, but I don’t care. If anything, I wish it’d hit me harder.
The Solent Coastguard issued a storm warning this morning—something about a system coming in off the North Atlantic. The smart move would be to wait it out, but right now, I’m not feeling particularly smart.
As I prep the boat, my mind keeps circling back to that one line in her letter:I’m going to Costa Rica for a very long time.
What the hell does that even mean? How long is “very long”? And why Costa Rica? It’s not the usual tax haven my retirees choose. Cayman Islands, sure. But Costa Rica?
Is she moving there permanently? Is she running away from me?
