TIERNEY
I haven’t left the room for twelve hours, and the longer I stay here, the harder it is to make myself move.
The air is stale, my stomach twists with hunger, and the heavier painkillers are finally wearing off, leaving me too aware of the nightmare.
Everything I need to survive is within reach. There’s bottled water on the bedside table. I don’t remember arranging my pills in a neat row, but they’re there. And a new phone, screen-side down. I know there aren’t any messages waiting because I haven’t given my number out to anyone, not even to Connor.
At one point I thought about reaching out to Damien, but every time I typed his number, I deleted it again before I could hit call.
The sickening truth is that walking away from him didn’t break me. Not like this has.
Instead, I drifted in and out of sleep and let whatever was on the TV play, taking none of it in. Now I’m waiting forroom service to bring a chicken burger and fries, even though my stomach aches and the thought of eating feels like an effort I don’t have.
Even I know the first rule of recovery is to eat for strength and then figure out where I go from here. Because I sure as hell won’t go home to my da.
I glance at my wedding finger and take a deep breath, hating the absence of his ring, the way my hand looks bare without it.
Just as it should be.
I’m not Mrs Viacava anymore, and maybe I’m not a Blake either.
I close my eyes for a moment, but all it does is drag me into the relentless memories of Bronx’s cocky grin, the way his bare chest looked when it was slick with water, the small details my body remembers even when my head is trying to forget.
I drag a hand over my face and let out a low groan, forcing the image away.
“Pull yourself together,” I mutter. “That version of him isn’t real.”
There’s a loud knock on the door.
I weigh up whether I still want the food. But I need energy so I can get the hell out of New York.
I slide my legs off the bed, push myself upright, pull the robe tighter and knot the belt, covering bare skin underneath. The last thing I wanted to do after leaving the hospital was shop for clothes.
This is as good as it gets.
I came to the States with nothing, and I’ll leave the same way.
By the time I reach the door, I’ve already passed the mirror and ignored my unwashed hair and ghostly pale skin.
Truth is, I don’t care anymore. I gave my heart to a liar and expected him to protect it. That’s on me. Now, I’ve nothing else to lose. And I’ll never make that mistake with anyone else.
The door seems heavier than it should be when I open it halfway; the stretch along my side forcing a quick breath out of me before I step back to let the trolley in.
“Tierney.”
My breath catches hard enough to hurt.
Bronx is standing at my door in pressed dress trousers and a black shirt with the sleeves rolled just enough to show the strength in his forearms. His presence hits me all at once, dragging heat low and unwelcome through my chest.
“Go away,” I say, already moving to shut the door.
He shoves the trolley forward, blocking the door before it can close.
“Don’t you want your dinner, princess?”
“Not anymore.” I fold my arms and immediately regret it; the pull along my side makes me wince. “If you put another foot inside my room, I’ll scream.”
“Go ahead,” he says, pushing further into the room. “There’s no one else on this floor. No one gets in or out without my say.”
