Eric knew something was off when I called him at six this morning to tell him to come pick me up immediately. We’re on our way to Brussels for a meeting that doesn’t exist yet, one I’ll schedule later as an excuse. I look terrible after a whole night of tossing and turning, unable to sleep. I notice Eric glancing at me in the rearview mirror occasionally to assess the situation, but wisely, he stays silent to avoid making my foul mood worse. Given that he knew I had dinner with Nora last night, he probably pieced together half the story already. If he thinks I’m about to fill him in on the rest, he’s sorely mistaken. I have no intention of spilling anything about this.
The faster the landscape rushes by and the greater the distance grows between me and last night, the more the chaos in my head gives way to calm. Or maybe I’m mistaking emptiness for calm? I might be getting calmer, but I’m not getting any happier. The plan was simple: win Nora over, rid myself of the frustration, and move on. But something went horribly wrong, even though I got her into my bed and we’re now nearly a hundred kilometers away. She’s far from out of my system. She’s under my skin, and it’s driving me mad.
I ran, and I’m having trouble looking myself in the mirror. What I did this morning was downright cowardly.
Dinner with Nora had been a challenge, never had a woman made it so difficult. Usually, they bat their lashes, laugh at my jokes, and don’t ask too many hard questions. Nora, on the other hand, was brutally sharp, relentlessly probing. Her cross-examination made me uncomfortable. At times, I wanted to strangle her out of sheer frustration, and yet, I didn’t want to be rid of her either. Quite the opposite. The more she pushed my buttons, the more I wanted to press hers. The more she resisted and stirred up my frustration, the more sexual energy surged inside me. The desire to make her mine last night only grew stronger. I wanted to shut that smart mouth of hers, but clearly, things didn’t go as I’d envisioned.
Sex with Nora was all-consuming. I should have stopped, shouldn’t have stepped into that bathroom, shouldn’t have touched her, shouldn’t have tasted her, shouldn’t have claimed her like I did. Maybe I should’ve never started, but my flesh was weak. I wanted to please her, make her come undone, possess her. I wanted her to cry my name, wanted to lose myself inside her. I’m a selfish bastard. In my defense, she wanted it too. She even begged for it. I gave her plenty of time and space. The way she looked at me—like I was the first man in her life, as if her very existence depended on me. The questions she didn’t voice, the hope in her eyes—those broke me. She shouldn’t hope for more than I can give. I can’t resist her, but I can’t give her what she truly wants and deserves. She shouldn’t long for a heart where only a body is on offer.
She fell asleep so quickly while my mind was still working overtime. I could only stare at her, hypnotized. She looked so beautiful, lying there so peacefully yesterday. She doesn’t even realize how stunning she is, and that only makes her even more attractive. Her full lips, witnesses to our passionate kisses, glowed as if her body had finally been cherished the way it deserved. The sight of her natural beauty, with minimal makeup, her wild hair sprawled across the pillow, even the soft, subtle sounds she made as she slept—all made me lose my grip on reality. She has no idea what she did to me last night. The peace she exuded while sleeping was in stark contrast to the storm raging inside me. For the first time, a woman was in my own bed. For the first time, sex had been so intense, so satisfying, that I felt completely lost afterward. Never before had a woman made me feel like I could lose control, especially not during or after sex. I feel as though, if I were to dive into her depths, I’d never come back up. She had such a satisfied smile on her face, as if she were blissfully happy even in sleep, and it hurt. Being the first to taste her, to feel her warmth enveloping me—I could’ve died on the spot and gone happily to hell.
What was I doing? I can’t drag her to hell when she so clearly belongs among the angels. I’ve already ruined one good soul. And so, there was nothing left to do but flee as far as possible to Brussels, for an imaginary meeting. The sooner she realizes I’m no match for her, the better. Though the way she’s learning that lesson now is particularly harsh.
Chapter 9
Nora
Around noon, Anna sends me a message asking how the dinner went. I had desperately hoped she’d forgotten about it, but she wouldn’t be my best friend if she didn’t check in. If I don’t reply, she’ll show up at my door to interrogate me, and that’s the last thing I want right now. I don’t want to lie to her either, so I tell her it was a very interesting and intense evening and that I’ll give her the full report in person tomorrow night. Anna still assumes it was a business dinner with the three of us, so despite her bold advice, she’ll never suspect what really happened last night and… this morning. Since I plan to cancel tomorrow, I estimate I have about twenty-four to forty-eight hours before the inquisition really begins.
After watching four episodes of Outlander and breaking down in at least seven sobbing fits, I give up. I can’t manage to “do nothing” and “think about nothing.” I desperately want to know why Andreas left me completely alone this morning. Is this really who he is? A man with money, power, and a new pleasure every night? A man without a heart, without scruples, who doesn't look back? Could it have something to do with that woman he was talking about, Isabella? He didn’t seem too thrilled with her—an ex, maybe? Are there other women in the picture? I realize I actually know nothing about Andreas, and I decide to do what I should have done much sooner: Google the name Andreas De Graeve.
I grab my laptop and get to work. I immediately find a lot of information about his career in newspaper articles and a few mentions in popular magazines. Plenty of photos of Andreas with women on his arm, but only at red carpet events, not in private settings. The women are all stunning—models, actresses, rich heiresses, and TV personalities. The list goes on, and my heart sinks as I take in all that flawless beauty I could never compete with. I shudder at the thought that Andreas probably had sex with these women. Did he have them all? How many are there? Did he rip off their panties too? Did they call out his name? Did he say the same sweet yet rough things to them? A cold shiver runs down my spine.
Not that I should be hoping for anything in particular, but none of these women are mentioned as “the girlfriend.” The jealousy ebbs away slightly, replaced by a strange sense of relief. Overall, the focus in every article seems to be on what Andreas has achieved with B-Tech, rather than his private life. Interestingly, I find no information about his childhood, and no photos from the past six months. It’s clear that Andreas only shows what he wants to show, and the media seems willing to play along. Andreas isn’t such a public figure that paparazzi are constantly lurking, and he has no online profiles beyond LinkedIn—how dull.
Just as I decide this isn’t really getting me anywhere, I notice a message from someone on LinkedIn offering condolences for the loss of his brother. The post is from six months ago. I stare motionless at the screen, my fingers frozen above the keyboard. He had a difficult year, he said. He’s looking for peace, which was why he was searching for a house. I try to piece the puzzle together, and even though it doesn’t fully make sense, this might explain some of his cold behavior. He’s grieving for his brother, carrying pain and perhaps anger. I can understand that Andreas is struggling, that he’s in pain, and that he doesn’t have to tell me everything right away, but still, that’s no excuse for what he did to me this morning. If he only used me to forget his sorrow, to have a distraction, then he’s just as bad as I thought.
He’s protecting himself by not telling me anything, but I need to protect myself from him too. He has baggage, and that’s fine, but he’s not letting me in, and that could ultimately destroy me if I let myself get pulled into it. I won’t go through that again. Today needs to be the last day, not a preview of the real pain he could bring. I solemnly decide Andreas can go fuck himself.
* * *
After a tumultuous night I desperately want to forget, it’s now Friday, almost ten o'clock. I’m ready for the inspection visit with Andreas’s architect. Ready means washed, dressed, and on-site. Given the circumstances, I’d say that’s pretty impressive. Normally, Andreas would join this inspection, but I’m realistic enough to know he won’t be here.
His architect turns out to be a woman, the kind who wouldn’t look out of place on the red carpet hanging off Andreas’s arm. She’s tall, slim, with long blond hair that falls well past her shoulders. Unlike me, walking in heels seems to come as naturally to her as breathing. It’s as if she has Barbie feet that could never touch the ground. Did they ever share a bed? She seems to be his type—hell, she seems to be every man’s type. If I were lesbian, she’d probably be mine too. She’s drop dead gorgeous. She introduces herself as Elena, greeting me warmly and with genuine friendliness. That makes me hate her even more. Why can’t she have a terrible personality or some kind of flaw? Anything? She carries herself with confidence, as if this house could belong to her. Clearly, she knows her stuff, and I can’t help but watch her in both awe and jealousy. The inspection feels like a blur to me. My mind isn’t really present, and I’m relieved when it finally ends.
There are no major issues—just some minor repairs here and there—so from Elena’s perspective, the sale is good to go. We say our goodbyes, and I stay inside to pack a few last things I had strategically placed to create a more homely feel. I fill a box with scented candles, a fruit bowl, and some throw pillows, realizing this truly is the very last time I’ll be here. Opening the front door, I hear Elena on the phone, standing a few yards away, her back to me. She probably didn’t hear me come out.
“Oh, and by the pool, there are a few loose tiles, and there’s a faucet in the garage that’s not working anymore, but structurally, everything is more than fine. I’ve made a list of all those minor issues, but let’s just say you won’t have any significant expenses here for the next twenty years. It really seems like a solid property, Andreas.”
At the realization that she’s talking to Andreas, I freeze for a moment, my hand resting on the key in the front door lock.
“No, I checked, and that crack doesn’t go beyond the plaster layer, nothing serious.”
I try to make as little noise as possible to keep listening intently to the rest of the conversation.
“You mean the lady from the real estate agency?” she suddenly asks.
I’m immediately alert. Is he talking about me?
“Yes, she was here, of course, she was very helpful. Should I pass anything along? I think she’s still inside.”
At that moment, she turns around and looks in my direction, waving briefly to indicate she’s seen me. I wave back, give a weak smile, and walk as casually as possible to my car.
“No, no problem. I understand. See you later, Andreas.”
No message to pass along, then. Admittedly, it would have been a bit weird if Elena had to relay a message that he was sorry. “Andreas says sorry for the best sex ever and for ghosting you afterward,” I can almost hear her saying. Or worse, that he’s not sorry—that’s also a possibility. I clench my jaw and feel the anger bubbling up again. Elena walks over to her car and looks at me with a smirk. I feel caught, in some way. What did Andreas tell her? How well do they know each other? Before she can say or ask anything, I suggest she drives out first so I can close the gate behind her, and then I immediately get into my car. Master move. Crisis averted.
The rest of the afternoon, I work through my schedule on autopilot. I’m relieved that the weekend is almost here. My plans in order of priority are sleep, food, and scrolling aimlessly on my phone. As I’m still debating whether to move food up the list, my phone rings. It’s Anna—time to cancel for tonight, so I answer.
