It wasn’t until last month I had finally admitted the truth to myself. About why I kept watching Charlotte. Why I clung to her routines like clockwork—classes, study group, tutoring, work, home.
Why I needed to see her thriving.
Because five weeks ago, she broke routine. She had vanished somewhere between work and home. No stop at the library. No light at her place.
She wasn’t even at her favorite campus terrace. A place she rarely skipped, watching sunsets while peacefully listening to something in her earphones.
I felt so incredibly close to her in those moments, yet so considerably blocked away from her at the same time.
But that night, I lost her trail, and I fucking panicked.
Then I found her. Sitting across from some slick-haired bastard in a dimly lit restaurant. Smiling. Laughing. On a fucking date.
My chest caved in. I told myself I was just making sure she was safe. The guy could’ve been a predator. A scammer. A murderer.
But I watched her. Watched her finish the damn date. Watched him drive her home. Watched him fucking kiss her for sixteen goddamn seconds. Then watched him leave a smiling Charlotte at her apartment entrance.
That night ruined the lie I’d been telling myself. This wasn’t guilt, not anymore. It hadn’t been guilt for a long time.
Truth was, I wanted Charlotte. I didn’t even know when the change happened. Or maybe it was simply buried somewhere under my rage.
But I could never deserve her. Not after what we did. WhatIdid.
So instead, I let Sarah drag me through our toxic cycle one more time after I came back. Maybe I should make her my Ol’ Lady and shut her up for good. Maybe that’ll settle her paranoia. But I know I won’t, because Sarah isn’t it—isn’t her.
She’s an escape I created. A symptom of my own fallibility. The dull, bleak monotony born out of my guilt, in contrastwith the golden glow of Charlotte’s face during those beautiful sunsets.
That isn’t mine to cherish. I could never be worthy of that. I never was.
I slip out of her apartment and ride back to the clubhouse.
After a quick shower in my room, I head to the club kitchen. My stomach growling.
It’s just past 4 a.m., so the dim light in Prez’s office surprises me. I creak the door open and Wolf looks up, shadows etched beneath his eyes. He looks hollow.
“Why are you up?” I ask quietly.
My voice has stayed soft since we lost Charlotte. But tonight, there’s more to it.
Yesterday, we buried Savage, his father. The bastard had somehow clung to life for five fucking years after his first stroke. But the second one, two weeks ago, took him out.
Good riddance.
Wolf thought Charlotte might come to the funeral, but she didn’t. Why would she? This club holds nothing but pain for her.
He clears his throat. “Just going over the will.” He frowns down at the papers, confusion flickering in his expression. He shakes his head like he’s trying to forget something. “Did you need something?” he asks, still not looking at me.
I walk over, sinking into the seat across from him. My fingers tap absently against the edge of his desk. “Has she responded?”
He doesn’t need clarification. We both know who I mean.
Every week, he writes Charlotte letters. She’s never replied. I’ve written to her, too. A couple times, and we know she gets them. We’ve been informed she picks them up from the hallway floor. But we don’t know if she reads them.
Wolf shakes his head, a weary sigh escaping him. We’d hoped the news of their father’s death might bring her back, even briefly. But then again, Savage was never really a father to her.
So, yeah. It tracks that she didn’t attend.
“You should get some sleep, Prez.”
