She calls that evening, before she’s even had the chance to be fired.
I’m in a meeting with contractors when my phone buzzes. I should let it go to voicemail. Should delete it unheard and block the number.
I step out into the hallway and answer.
“Dimitri?” Her voice is small, uncertain, nothing like the confidence she’d shown when challenging me about gentrification or asking why I cared. “It’s Janice. I need to talk to you.”
“We have nothing to discuss.”
Silence. I can hear her breathing, shallow and quick.
“You weren’t there when I woke up.”
“I had business to attend to.”
“That’s not true. I thought we—” She stops. When she speaks again, her voice cracks. “Was I that bad? I thought you enjoyed yourself.”
“You thought wrong.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Believe what you want. It doesn’t change anything.”
“Then tell me why.” Her voice rises, anger bleeding through hurt. “Tell me why you’re doing this. If it meant nothing, if I meant nothing, then just say it.”
“You want the truth?” I let ice creep into my voice, the same tone I use when negotiating with men I plan todestroy. “You were a distraction. Entertaining for a while, but ultimately inconsequential. I have actual responsibilities, actual commitments. You were never going to be part of that.”
The silence stretches so long I think she’s hung up.
Then: “I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care what you believe.”
“Yes, you do. That’s why you’re still on the phone. That’s why you didn’t just let it go to voicemail.”
She’s right, and I hate her for it. Hate that even now, she sees through me.
“Don’t contact me again, Janice. Move on. Find someone your own age, someone who can give you whatever future you think you want. This—whatever you thought this was—it’s over.”
“Dimitri!”
I end the call before she can finish.
My hand is shaking when I lower the phone. I stare at it for a long moment, then block the number and return to the meeting.
The contractors are still arguing about timelines and budgets. I sign off on everything without reading it, barely hearing their words over the roaring in my ears.
When I get home that night, the penthouse feels emptier than it ever has. I pour a drink I don’t finish and stand at the windows overlooking the city, trying not to think about the way she’d looked at me that night. Trusting. Open. Wanting me despite every reason not to.
I pulled the trigger. Ended it cleanly, just like Damien ordered.
So why does it feel like I’ve made the biggest mistake of my life?
My phone buzzes. For one irrational second, hope flares—maybe she found another number, maybe she’s calling back—
It’s a text from Felix.
It’s done?
