Chapter 23 Damian
Furious, I tore through the streets toward Woodstock. Tires shrieked with every turn I took too hard, but I didn’t give a damn. I’d given her time, forced myself to stay calm. For more than a week. The phone tracker I’d installed on her cell had shown, just two days ago, she was still in Woodstock with that friend. But now it was off—and that was no good sign.
I slammed the brakes; the car skidded to a halt. My heart pounded against my ribs, a dull, brutal rhythm, as I stormed up to the door. I hammered my fist against it. Seconds later, a woman appeared—chin-length honey-blonde hair, cool eyes. Jenn. Her gaze swept over me, measured and neutral at first. Then a flicker crossed her face. She knew who I was. And she already despised me.
“What do you want?” she snapped.
I stayed calm. Ice-cold.
“If you know who I am, Jenn, then you know why I’m here.” My voice was steady, though a storm raged inside me. “Where is she?”
“Gone. Far away.” Her voice was as sharp and cold as mine.
“I don’t have time for this. Just tell me where she is.” I stepped closer, the air between us pulled tight, a wire ready to snap.
“And I don’t feel like telling you a thing.” Jenn folded her arms across her chest. “She has a new phone. And she’s suffered enough. Leave her alone.”
For a moment, I considered shoving her aside, forcing her to talk. My hands itched for it. But I didn’t.
“You know I’ll find her. Sooner or later.”
“And I hope you know,” she shot back, “that if you ever hurt her again, I’ll kick your ass.”
Then she slammed the door in my face. The dull bang reverberated in my skull. I exhaled hard through my nose, spun on my heel, and stomped back to the car. Every nerve in me screamed to kick that door down, but I forced myself to walk away.
Back in my apartment, I slammed the door so hard a picture frame crashed from the wall. I hurled the phone. It shattered against the wall, a sound too small for what I felt. “Goddamn it!” I roared, ripping a vase from the table and smashing it onto the floor. Shards scattered like knives. A bourbon bottle followed, splintering against the counter. I was nothing but a monster, raging out of control. I hated this version of me. I hated that she could turn me into it with nothing but her absence. I told myself I should let her go. Men like me don’t chase. Men like me don’t beg. And yet Icould feel her everywhere — under my skin, in my lungs, in every goddamn heartbeat. Sometimes I wondered if the only way to silence her was to destroy the part of me that still needed her. Finally, I grabbed a chair and hurled it across the room until I was left panting in the ruins of my own living room. My chest heaved; my body trembled with fury and despair.
“I have to find her,” I muttered hoarsely. I lunged at my laptop, fingers pounding the keyboard, tearing through websites, chasing every lead. Nothing. Cursing, I yanked open a drawer and pulled out one of the spare phones—I’d never been stupid enough to own just one. Quick, practiced movements: SIM card in, power on, dial. Bastien.
When he picked up, my voice came out a rough growl as I ordered him to send men to Greenwood Falls, to question Daisy’s mother, to watch every shadow that moved too close to her. Every goddamn one.
I didn’t touch the laptop again. I just sat there, staring at the screen as if sheer will could conjure her out of the dark. Hours later, the new phone buzzed in my hand. Bastien. No trace. No damn trace.
I squeezed my eyes shut, rage boiling hot and corrosive, eating at me like acid. She wasn’t there either. She wasn’t there either. The screen blurred. My head dropped onto the edge of the table—defeat, heavy and final.
Pathetic. That’s what I was. Pathetic. But damn it, I still wouldn’t let her go.
Slowly, I lifted my head. One clear thought pierced the fog. There was still one place she could be—one person she would run to when she saw no other way.
My hand closed around the phone, mechanical, automatic, like it was the only part of me still functioning. The number dialed itself. I kept my eyes on the flickering display. That morning, I’d seen his missed call. I hadn’t returned it. Because what the hell could I tell him? That I had no idea where she was? That I’d failed at the only thing I was supposed to do?
The ringing droned in my ear, every heartbeat a blow against my ribs. My grip tightened on the phone. He had to know. He had to know where she was.
Chapter 24 Daisy
Together with Vincent, I stood in front of a display case, studying an artifact from ancient Greece.
“I’m certain. The inscriptions and the style match the era perfectly. But we can examine it again if you don’t trust me.”
Vincent smiled. “I trust you. Your knowledge is remarkable, Daisy.”
Vincent was the new director of theMuseo Nazionale Romano—a striking young man who had only just finished his studies the year before, stepping into the role of his predecessor with ease. For a week now, I had been working at the museum. A few days ago, my father bought me a small house in an idyllic spot. I’d wanted an apartment, but he’d found this single-story home that had just come on the market.
It was perfect—not too far from the museum and close enough to the hills that I could see them from my windows. And yet, despite the newness of everything, my thoughts kept circling back to Damian. I missed him so much my fingers ached to dial his number. Every time, I stopped myself. The distance was good for me. It gave me clarity. I refused to let his darkness swallow me again. Still, I couldn’t let him go—couldn’t kill the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, he would change. For me. For us. For love. Foolish.
For now, I poured myself into the work—the hush of the rooms, the stillness etched into stone and bronze. History didn’t ask questions. It just waited.
I analyzed and documented new acquisitions, maintained the collection, curated exhibits. Today I bent over a tray of coins from the early Roman Republic, examining their worn surfaces through a magnifying glass.
