"No." I don't turn around. Can't turn around or I'll lose my nerve. "I can't leave. Not completely. I promised Madison three months. I have a case with your distillery. I won't uproot everything because you can't stop trying to control everything."
I reach the landing and look down at him. He's still standing in the same spot, like he's been frozen.
"So here's what's going to happen," I say, steadier now. Clearer. "I'm locking my door tonight. And every night until I can find some place else to stay. We'll be civil for Madison's sake. We'll coordinate schedules so we're not together more than necessary."
"We can work this out."
"No. No, we can't. Because you'll never stop trying to fix things that aren't broken. You'll never trust me to handle my own life. And I can't be with someone who thinks caring means removing every obstacle from my path, even when I specifically ask you not to."
I turn toward my room. "If you do find my door unlocked, it is open for Madison. But not for you. Not anymore."
"And Thorne?" I pause, don't look back. "Don't you dare try to 'fix' this. I mean it. No more interventions. No more money. No more anything."
I walk down the hallway and into my room. Close the door and turn the lock. Madison won't be back until morning.
I sink onto the bed, push the helmet to the floor, and burst into tears.
Chapter Thirty
Ivy
The Brazilian cherry floorboards creak under my bare feet as I descend the stairs at six a.m. Each step sends a dull ache through my temples and my eyes feel scraped raw from staring at the ceiling. My throat is tight from all my tears.
I'd locked my door last night. Cried myself into exhausted numbness. Then stared at the ceiling, replaying every word of our fight until the words lost meaning and became just sounds. Hurt. Anger. Betrayal.
Last night, close to midnight, I'd heard the distinctive Ducati growl starting in the garage. I'd rolled over, pulled the pillow over my head, told myself I didn't care that he was leaving. But I listened for him to come back anyway, hope overruling reason every time a sound pulled me from sleep—a car on the distant road, the house settling, the wind against the windows. It was never him.
In the kitchen, I go through the motions. Fill the French press. Boil water. The mechanical routine keeps my hands busy while my mind circles the same questions.
This is when he'd usually appear in the doorway, hair still damp from his shower after our morning swim. He'd come up behind me, one hand sliding around my waist while the other reached for a mug. His mouth would find that spot behind my ear that makes me shiver, and he'd murmur "Good morning" like a promise.
My hands are still on the press as my body remembers what my mind wants to forget. The weight of him, the heat, the way I'd lean back into his chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
What now?
I can't go back to those moments. I can’t go back to Huntsman & Fellows, where I’ll know I didn’t earn my place but slept my way into it. But if I leave, where do I go?
The coffee steeps. I press the plunger and it shoots down too fast. Shit. The grounds float in my mug. I skip the cream. Keep it bitter as my mood.
Cup in hand, I curl into the corner of his oversized leather couch and pull the throw blanket around my shoulders. It smells like bourbon, leather, and that cedar aftershave he uses. My lids flutter close, and for a traitorous moment I'm back in his arms, his mouth against my neck, his hands—
I snap my eyes open, fury replacing the ache in my chest. I hate myself for not throwing the blanket aside. Hate myself more for burying my face in it instead.
In the distance, a car navigates the road. My pulse stutters before I remember. He's on his motorcycle. That's not him. The vehicle passes the gate.
The car passes without slowing. Setting down my coffee on a marble table, I pick up my phone. I need a distraction. Something to focus on that isn't the man whose house feels like a mausoleum without him in it.
Work emails. I should catch up on work emails. But opening my inbox brings it all back. Bill's smug face, Thorne's arrogance. The way he threw money at my problem like the solution was his to give. Never mind that it was my job, my choice, mine to figure out.
Three messages from Bill. "Of course there are," I mutter to my phone. "Couldn't wait to gloat, could you?"
The first subject line: "Congratulations!"
"Fuck you, Bill."
The second: "Let's schedule lunch to discuss the Blackstone account."
"Not in this lifetime."
