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Will she believe me?
Will she forgive me?
Will I ever forgive myself for . . . I don’t fucking know why I hate myself so much anymore. I was a stupid man who only wanted to protect the woman he loved. And unfortunately, I failed and lost my heart and myself in the process.
Do it for yourself, she said.
But do I even deserve that second chance? These thoughts swirl as I stare out into the darkness.
What do I deserve?
Chapter Nineteen
Brahms
Hell 2.0, week four . . . or is it five now?
The St. Clairmont home is officially worse than any other place I’ve stayed—even purgatory. Not that I’ve been there, but I imagine it’s a tropical island compared to this place.
Seraphina supervises the therapies, waltzes in every night to visit me, and we fight like an old couple that can’t stand each other yet sticks to the same routine they’ve had for fifty years.
This isn’t what I envisioned when I agreed to stay. What happened to make her fall in love with me? I’m shitty at groveling, and the wall she built between us is made out of Tungsten or Vibranium. No one will break through, not even me.
It’s around seven when Marcus arrives at the den to help me out of bed, get dressed and into my wheelchair. I’m exhausted after another restless night. More strange noises kept me awake.
Last night the commotion was mostly in the music room—voices and what sounded like laughter. Never distinct enough to identify who was down there. But I could clearly hear instruments being mishandled by someone who has no clue how to treat them properly.
I desperately wanted to get downstairs and put a stop to whoever was making that racket and disrespecting my equipment. But with my limited mobility, all I could do was lie there fuming while they banged haplessly away on the piano and guitars. It grated on every one of my frayed nerves. I value my instruments like children—to hear them abused by clumsy, ignorant hands was infuriating.
And where the fuck was Seraphina? All that noise could wake the dead, but apparently not her.
As Marcus helps me into the chair, I debate mentioning the noise. But I don’t want to come across as paranoid.
I consider texting Seraphina for some clue, but last night’s conversation ended . . . well like every conversation we’ve had at night for the past few weeks. Our time on the balcony isn’t what I expected. We always start with something trivial, and at some point she reminds me that I’m in my current situation because I’m a killer, the worst person in the world.
Shaking my head, I try to clear away the restless thoughts along with sleep deprivation. “How are you feeling today?” Marcus asks, cheerful as always.
I manage a tired smile. “Well,” I say, trying to forget whatever ruckus occurs downstairs almost every night. I glance at my leg cast. Maybe after it comes off I can focus on standing and walking. No one will see me coming, and I’ll catch whoever is in this house at night without permission.
So for now, I say nothing. Marcus chatters on about our schedule as he wheels me toward the elevator so we can have breakfast.
In the kitchen, Lucius and his team seem to be clearing up in a hurry. One of them is cleaning the floors. There’re sprinkles, chocolate chips, smears of frosting—or maybe whipped cream. “Did you have cake down here?” I ask, wondering why I didn’t get a piece.
They all freeze and turn to look at me with wide eyes. “Your breakfast will be ready in just a moment,” Lucius says brightly, rushing around and grabbing ingredients. “What kind of omelet would you like today?”
I study them for a moment, suspicion nagging at me. Something feels off. But they avoid eye contact, busying themselves with cooking.
Then, I spot the waffle maker on the counter. “Waffles will be fine actually. With whipped cream and fruit if you have it.”
“Of course, sir.”
When Marcus wheels me over, I notice a child’s drawing on the fridge—a sun, rainbow, and pancakes. There’s a cute scribble too: “Love, Ary.” It’s probably from one of Lucius’s nieces.
I frown, wondering if they had family visiting. Not that I’d mind normally. Lucius has a big, close-knit family. But something about finding this here, now, after all the odd noises, makes me suspicious.
Once I drink my first cup of coffee, I decide it’s time to message Seraphina. She has to know about the downstairs ruckus.
But what if she has someone staying with her? A boyfriend? Husband? The thought guts me. I don’t know if I could bear her having moved on, being happy without me. The mere idea feels like a searing knife twisting in my chest.
