He answers immediately, like he’s been waiting. “Mr. Mancini.”
“Stop,” I say.
A pause.
“Stop searching,” I repeat. “Delete everything.”
His voice lowers. “You want me to erase the file?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not standard practice.”
“I don’t care what’s standard.”
Silence. Then, very quietly, “Understood.”
“Bill me,” I add, because money is the only language men like him trust. “I don’t want details. I don’t want backups. I don’t want copies sitting in some drawer I don’t control.”
“I’ll handle it,” he says.
I end the call. My hand rises to my ear, and this time I let it. Let my fingers press that stupid pulse point like it can physically hold me together.
I sit there for another full minute, letting the decision settle. It tastes like loss. It tastes like restraint. It tastes like the only kind of love I’m capable of right now, the kind that doesn’t take.
* * *
Back at the estate, everything is too polished. Too controlled. The house is a display of power that pretends it isn’t a prison.
I go straight to my study. Close the door. I pour whiskey. I don’t drink it. The glass sweats on the desk. The amber liquid catches the light like a small flame.
I stare at it for a long time. Then I pick it up. And I throw it against the fireplace stone.
It shatters. The sound is violent. The only outward sign of cost I allow myself. Whiskey splashes dark across the hearth like blood.
I stand there breathing, shoulders tense, hands empty, pulse uneven. My fingers go behind my ear again. I don’t stop them. I don’t correct the habit. I don’t punish myself for needing something. I stare at the mess and feel my throat tighten until it burns.
I tell myself this was the right choice. That she deserves freedom more than I deserve relief. That my wanting doesn’t give me the right to intrude. That a man who truly understands power knows when not to use it.
I tell myself all of it.
And I believe it. That’s the worst part.
I believe it, and I still feel like something inside me is bleeding.
