When I'm done, there's nothing left to break.
I collapse into the chair, blood pouring from my hand and leaking from a dozen shallow cuts, my breath coming in broken gasps. The city outside is starting to wake up, and I fucking hate it for that.
I check the phone, more out of reflex than hope. There's nothing but her last message, glowing on the cracked screen.
I'm done.
I rest my head on the desk, my cheek pressed to the cold wood, and close my eyes.
"I love you," I say, a confession nobody will ever hear.
Maybe that's how it should be. Maybe no one should ever have to know what damage I do to the things that matter most.
I let the Scotch and the blood and her absence take me under.
And I hope to God that I don't wake up.
Chapter Seventeen
Asher
"Fucking Christ," I groan, staring at the phone vibrating on the countertop, face down. I don't bother to pick it up. There's no point when every notification lately is yet another grenade aimed at my head.
Clients are leaving, board members are resigning. There are new headlines every day about my "fall from grace." I could stopit. I could answer questions, grease a few palms, call in every debt I'm owed, or actually act like I give a shit.
Frankly, I could do a lot of things.
But I don't. I drink instead.
The whiskey I bought yesterday is gone. So is the bourbon. All I have left is the $3,000 bottle of Macallan I was saving for a day I'd actually want to celebrate. It's funny. There's fuck-all to celebrate now. I doubt there ever will be again. So I might as well drink it, right?
I pour three fingers into a tumbler and carry it to the window to watch the world grind on without me. Every single person down there thinks they're the main character. Every one of them is convinced they're just one good day away from whatever it is they think they deserve.
I could tell them that life doesn't work that way. It doesn't give a fuck about main characters or good days. And the only things you're given are the things you claw out of someone else's hands and wage war to keep. Everything else is someone else's for the taking.
They wouldn't believe me even if I screamed it from the fucking rooftops, so I tip my cup back and down it instead. The same fucking way I have every day since I destroyed everything.
It's been fourteen days since Brielle walked away. Eleven since our first client jumped ship. Four since the judge let me come back to New York, probably figuring it was safer to exile me to my tower here than to keep me in the same city as Miles Andrews.
Brielle hasn't tried to call me once.
I drain the glass at the reminder, already striding back to the bar. The penthouse is too quiet. It's always too goddamn quiet these days, her absence magnifying just how fucking empty my life truly is.
No one checks in. No one wonders how I'm doing or if I'm still breathing. I never let anyone get close enough to dare. No one except for her, anyway.
When the phone rings again, I flip it over, curious which client I'm losing tonight.
It's not a client.
Liam's name flashes across the screen.
I consider letting his call go to voicemail, but I hesitate with my finger over the button instead, reluctant to just ignore him. Maybe it's the reminder that, once upon a time, he was my only friend. Or maybe it's because I know that isn't the case anymore.
Whatever friendship we had ended fourteen days ago. I have no illusions about that, just like I have none about why he's calling now. It isn't because he's worried about me. No. He's calling because he's pissed.
If I ignore him, he'll just show up at my door to finish the job the alcohol isn't doing fast enough.
I answer, not because I deserve to keep breathing, but because he doesn't deserve to have my death on his conscience.
