Page 12 of Owned By My Stalker (You'll Be Mine)

“It’s been weeks, baby…”

“You promised to come back…”

Each word is a knife to the chest, carving out what’s left of my heart. I wanna call her so bad, it’s a physical ache. Wanna beg her to forgive me for failing her. But I know what I gotta do. For her sake, I have to let her go. Give her a shot at real happiness with a man who’s whole. Worthy.

It damn near kills me, but I manage to tap the text.

“I’m sorry, Nat. Forget me.”

I hit send with a trembling thumb, then block her number. It’s the hardest fucking thing I’ve ever done, but it’s the only way. She’ll heal with time, move on. And I’ll live with this gaping void in my chest, knowing the best part of me is forever outta reach.

Nine

NAT

God, this sucks. I stare out of my office window, the glittering ocean view blurring through the stupid tears I can’t seem to stop. You’d think after five months the waterworks would’ve dried up, but nope. Apparently, my tear ducts are as stubborn and masochistic as the rest of me.

My phone screen mocks me. Those two damn words seared into my brain. “Forget me.” As if I could forget the man who lit up my entire world, who made me feel more myself than I have in my entire life.

I want to chuck the phone through the glass, watch it shatter.

A knock at the door makes me jolt. Marissa, my poor assistant, pokes her head in. Her eyes go wide at my face.

“Nat? Sorry, I… ”

She lingers, chewing her lip like she wants to say something.

“I’m fine, Riss. Promise. Just need some alone time.”

She clearly doesn’t buy it, but backs out anyway. “I’ll hold your calls.”

Then it’s just me. Well, me and the Jacques-sized hole in my chest. I slump back in my desk chair, staring blankly ahead.

Five months. Five months of silence, of waking up every morning praying for his solid warmth beside me only to find cold sheets. Of scrolling through old texts and pictures like a masochist until I’m a blubbering wreck on my apartment floor.

My friends are over it. Hell, I’m over it. They keep telling me to let go, that no one, especially not some cliche macho man, is worth this level of wallowing. I know they’re right. I know it’s pathetic.

But here’s the thing - Jacques isn’t just some guy. He’smyguy. The one whose hand I want to hold when I’m old and crotchety.

He made me feel alive in a way I didn’t know was possible.

And now… now there’s just nothing. I keep catching phantom whiffs of his scent. Sometimes I could swear I feel the heat of his gaze between my shoulder blades. But when I turn around, nothing.

It’s making me crazy. I’m pretty sure rock bottom was when I found one of his shirts and slept in it every night until it didn’t have a single whiff of his scent left on it. Pathetic.

But what else can I do? He’s the love of my life. And for reasons I have no clue about, he left.

So I wait. I put on a brave face, a killer pair of heels and march my ass to Sunday brunch like everything’s hunky-frigging-dory. Throw myself into work until I can’t see straight. Let my friends drag me out and pretend to be a functional human being.

Hoping that one day he’ll come back to me. Until then, I’ll be here. Clutching his t-shirt and my half-dead heart, praying to God for a miracle.

Because that’s what Jacques is to me. A miracle. The best damn thing that’s ever happened to me. And I’m not giving up on us. I’ll be here, waiting, until he pulls his head out of his broody ass and comes home to me.

But holy shit, does it hurt.

Ten

FROST

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