Ours may not have been a romantic love, but I loved him, and I miss him dearly. I’m exceptionally emotional this morning, mostly, I think, because I’m leaving the safety of the Empress Hotel and moving on to the next phase of my plan. That means I’ll soon have to face my ghosts, and I still don’t feel ready.
The gates open, and with a deep breath, I pull the car inside. They close behind me as I drive up the short driveway, scanning the manicured lawn as it slopes toward the tiered gardens that are common in this area, all overlooking the Bay.
The house is elegant, with a stone façade that reminds me of the Empress Hotel. A navy front door is framed by white columns.
Growing up, I never imagined I’d ever call places like this home. My parents and I lived in a modest but cozy bungalow.After they died, I went to live with my aunt and uncle, who were older and didn’t have much, and I hadn’t spent much time there.
One, because it never felt like home. I felt like a burden they were saddled with, and my presence was a constant reminder to all of us of my parents’ deaths. And two, because when my grandpa started taking me to the MC clubhouse so he could spend as much time with me as possible, I only ever wanted to be there with Hayes.
I used to dream about what kind of home Hayes and I would have. However, I tried to kill those wishful thoughts once he harshly and firmly shoved me into the friend category.
My eyes mist with tears again, missing my former best friend so much that my body physically aches.
What will his reaction be when I finally see him after over a decade? Will he care that I returned to confront him for the part he played in my pain?
I know he was only trying to protect me, believing it was the right thing to do at that time, and I don’t blame him for the child I lost. Technically, I can’t even blame Guerilla or myself, because I might have lost the child, regardless.
Even before walking in on Guerilla and that shocking betrayal, I’d been having warning signs and pain. Hayes wasn’t at the compound that day, but Zeus encountered me as soon as I stumbled from the clubhouse after walking in on Guerilla and rushed me to the hospital, knowing something wasn’t right with the baby and me.
With Keifer’s help over the years, I’ve had to accept that it wasn’t solely, or even primarily, the fault of either of the Cartwright brothers. But facing and confronting them about the roles they did play is what I need for closure.
I’m not sure why these thoughts are swirling like a storm cloud in my head or why I’m so damn emotional today. Wiping away my tears, I turn off the car and get out. I go around to the back ofthe vehicle, pull out my bags, then climb the stairs to the house Luthor bought and renovated without telling me.
I pull out the key the lawyer had given me at the will reading, unlock the door, and enter. Then I stop and stare as I drop my bags.
The outside of the home is elegant and refined, almost regal. But inside…
I’m tearing up again because Luthor made sure the house felt like my childhood home—cozy and warm.
Instead of the cold, polished marble floors one would expect given the elegant exterior, rich hardwood runs throughout the main floor, along with a thick navy-and-brown rug in the living area. A large stone fireplace has been converted to electric—a detail Luthor would’ve seen to, knowing I hated real fires after my parents’ deaths—and shelves filled with books flank it.
The open-concept kitchen flows into the living space, with a wide island and a comfortable breakfast nook. But the star of the house is toward the back: a deep sofa facing the backyard terrace and the tiered gardens beyond, looking out at the Golden Gate Bridge. I imagine curling up there with the lights off and the bridge in full view. I could even have a picnic right here, savoring nostalgic memories of my parents and me.
“Luthor,” I say in a shaky voice. He was more of a dear friend than a husband, and I miss him so damn much.
Walking over to the kitchen, I see there’s a note on the island, and I pick it up. It’s in his distinct handwriting. He must have given it to the lawyer with instructions to have it here for me when I took possession of the house.
Sweet Leeva,
Find your home, wherever that may be, and always follow your heart.
Luthor
Fighting the urge to break down in ugly crying, I tilt my head back and blow out a shaky breath as I rein in my emotions.
I’m not close to starting my cycle, so these waves of teary emotion don’t make sense; unless you factor in that I’m finally beginning to do what I came back to this city for. Something I’ve been running from and putting off for more than a decade.
A ringing sound comes from the kitchen wall and the front door, and I jump, startled.
Wiping away my tears—hopefully the last of them—I go to the wall panel that’s making the noise. A video monitor flickers on, showing the front gates, where a man stands beside his parked car.
I press the green button. “Yes?”
“I have the grocery order for Kathryn Wentzell,” he speaks into the unit that’s mounted on the outside wall of the gate and holds up a piece of paper. “Here’s the confirmation number of your order.”
“Just a second.” I open my phone app and double-check the confirmation number. “Thank you. I’ll come out to the gate to grab them.”
“There are a few boxes, miss.”
