Only silence responds.
I walk through the expansive living space, furiously scanning around for any sign that she’s been back. But the place is pristine and exactly how we left it.
But when I reach the bedroom, something’s off.
I walk right through it and into the bathroom to find Ciara’s makeup bag gone from the counter, and when I enter the dressing room, her carry-on is missing and so are the clothes that she hung in the closet.
My stomach drops.
She left.
“Fuck.” I reach into the inside pocket of my dinner jacket and pull out my phone. I dial her number and start pacing the room. “Come on.”
“You’ve reached Ciara McCarthy…”
“Dammit, Ciara.” I hang up and try calling again.
And again.
And again.
Until eventually, the call connects, and Ciara’s furious voice fills my ears.
“What the hell do you want?” Her voice is hoarse as if she’s been crying.
Fuck.
Relief hits me first at hearing her voice, but it soon turns to fury at the realization she left without telling me.
What if something had happened to her?
“Where the hell are you?”
“Don’t you have a tracking app for that?”
“Ciara…”
There’s a pause, and I catch the sound of an overhead flight announcement in the background.
“Why the hell are you at the airport?”
“Because I’m about to board a flight back to New York.”
A bitter laugh escapes my lips. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. You’re leaving just like that?”
“Wasn’t that what you did? What did you think I was going to do, Ronan? Sit around and wait for you to come back?”
“Well, yes.”
Deciding to be honest is apparently the wrong choice.
“You’re a prick, you know that? You left me stranded in a restaurant after deciding to drop some ridiculous bombshell about my father.”
“Ciara—”
“Wait, scratch that. You didn’t even drop a bombshell. It was like a sprinkle of fucking gunpowder.”
I frown. “Am I meant to be following your ridiculous analogy?”
