My world is brutal.
And my love is no different. Our beginning is just an example.
I was terrified that at some point she would see me for the monster I truly am.
I could have the world, yet it would always resemble an empty shell because I could never fill it with her.
Sighing, I stand up, palming the desk to support myself. Exhaustion and neglecting my body weaken me. So be it. I hurt the woman I love. Fuck if I care to take care of myself.
I dimmed the only bright light in my life.
She should hate me. I hate myself enough for the both of us.
Trudging out of the elevator, my men glance at me, the worry clear.
I don’t even have it in me to snap. I lashed out enough in the last days, but not even that brought me the release I desired.
Dropping into the driver’s seat, I turn on the engine. Her music floats around, dragging me into the pits of hell where I boil in endless torment.
Once I park, I take a glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. Bags under my eyes, heavy with the lack of sleep. My face is devoid of color. I resemble a ghost—a dead man walking.Stubble covers my chin as I haven’t bothered shaving. I look just as I feel—terrible.
Inside the concert hall, I pluck a champagne glass and down it in one go. Needing something harder to survive, knowing her playing will be that much darker—black, pointy claws fisting around my heart and squeezing it to death.
I’ll take it. I’ll take it all from her. In my weakened state, I’d give her fucking anything. She just has to talk to me.
In the corner by the stage, the curtain hides me.
I am so used to her keeping to herself, I almost stumble over my feet when I see that fucker, Tristan Kinkaid. He saw Dahlia play once and basically forced this renowned agent to listen to her, and the rest is history.
But what makes my eye twitch and my hands curl into fists at my sides is him standing next to her. I loathe that pompous ass.
Whatever he says, she smiles at him. I hate that they have known each other since childhood and are close.
That’s the last thing he’ll tell her if he doesn’t put some distance between them.
“I’m looking forward to hearing you play.” I hear him say, complimenting her hard work and talent.
“Could we grab drinks later?” she asks him.
I am about to lose my shit. Reaching them, I split them apart by shoving my body between them.
Dahlia rolls her eyes at me, and the asshole doesn’t even bother to hide his smirk.
“What are you doing here?” I grit out.
Tristan arches a brow, a cold arrogance sliding over his face. “I don’t need an invitation, Mikail.” Giving me one more intense glare, he kisses her cheek and goes to the balcony upstairs.
I grind my teeth hard enough that they might crack.
She whips her head to me, and those green-blue eyes find mine. The vivid color paled, the bright light dimmed—appearing lifeless that I want to slice my chest open, bleed out for her.
Her agent appears with a preppy guy holding on to a violin as if it’s his treasure.
Dahlia turns to him, giving me her back. “Can’t wait to play with you.”
What the fuck? She can’t wait. Who is this fucker?
He smiles as if he hit the damn jackpot and he can finally taste the luxury he always dreamed about.
