But make no mistake. She's mine.
She just doesn't know it yet.
I finish my whiskey and pour another. The bottle is half empty now. I should stop, should go to bed, should let tonight end so tomorrow can begin.
Instead, I open my laptop and navigate to her blog.
No new posts yet. But she'll write something soon. She always does when she's processing emotions. She'll pour her confusion and anger into words, publish them where she thinks no one is paying attention, and I'll read every single one.
I've been reading her words for years. Watching her document her struggles, her dreams, her fears. Learning the rhythms of her thoughts.
Some might call it stalking.
I call it research.
I needed to know her before I made contact. Needed to understand what makes her tick, what she needs, and what she's afraid of. You don't invest hundreds of thousands of dollars without due diligence.
And Jade Catalano is the best investment I've ever made.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's not Marcus but a notification from the security system. Motion detected on the guest cottage pathway.
Jade is outside.
She's wearing the same dress from dinner, no jacket despite the cold. Her arms are wrapped around herself as she walks down the pathway toward the cliff's edge where a bench sits overlooking the ocean.
What is she doing?
My hand is on the door handle before I stop myself.
Let her go. Let her have this moment. She needs space to think, to process, to decide if she's staying or running.
But I watch. Of course I watch.
She sits on the bench, and even from here I can see her shoulders shaking. She's crying or trying not to cry. The wind whips her hair around her face, and she doesn't bother to push it back.
Something in my chest tightens.
I did this to her. I brought her here and made her feel things she didn't want to feel. Made her angry and confused and overwhelmed.
I should feel guilty.
I don't.
Because she came despite everything her mother and her friends ever said. She came despite her better judgment.
That means something. She must have felt it too.
She stays on the bench for twenty minutes, her dark hair whipping in the wind, her arms wrapped around herself against the cold. The ocean crashes against the rocks below, violent and relentless, and she just sits there staring at the water. When she finally stands, her movements are slow, reluctant. She walks back to the cottage with her head down, and I track every step until she disappears inside.
The lights flicker on in the living room, casting warm yellow rectangles across the pathway. A few minutes later, the bedroom light joins them. Then both go dark.
Only then do I turn away from the window.
My office feels cavernous now, the expensive furniture and custom bookshelves suddenly meaningless. The whiskey tastes like ash in my mouth. Everything in this house that usually brings me satisfaction feels hollow when she's not in it.
Tomorrow I'll show her what life could be like here. I'll be charming and attentive, careful not to push too hard. I'll give her the space she needs to breathe while making sure she never forgets I'm here. I'll prove that accepting my help doesn't mean surrendering her independence.
And if charm doesn't work, I'll find another approach. Because one way or another, Jade Catalano is not leaving at the end of this week. She's not leaving at all.
