Page 19 of After-Hours Heir

He had sent her away, which was perhaps not the best move, but he had felt undone. And he had no idea what to do with that.

Years spent working in horrendous conditions had taught him to ignore his body. And long before that he had taught himself to ignore his emotions. Because they were insignificant. Because they meant nothing. Because in the grand scheme of things, feelings didn’t indicate your likelihood for survival. There was instinct, yes, but worrying about whether or not you were happy did not guarantee anything. And often it could lead you in a dangerous direction.

Something was happening to him. He didn’t like it.

He took a drink of the whiskey in his tumbler and stared at the resolutely closed door.

He would have to leave her behind. He had destroyed the fantasy, even though he had thought that anonymity would retain it.

Because she had affected him. In ways he could not articulate. In ways he could not understand, and if he did not understand something, he could not indulge in it.

He had been a fool. All these months he had been a fool. He could not afford this.

He had to continue on as he had begun. Conquering. Emerging victorious.

And what then?

He felt a strange, hollow sensation at the center of his chest that began to spread outward.

He didn’t ask that question. Not ever. For very specific reasons.

There was nowhat then?There was only each and every day when a man put one foot in front of the other and continued to make forward motion.

It was all there was.

It was all that mattered.

He could afford to let nothing else affect him. He could afford to let nothing else inform him.

Not this existential question of what happened after.

There was noafter. There was life and there was death.

And in life, you either won the battle, day in and day out, or you were dead.

He had decided a long time ago that when death came for him, it would be a battle. He had chosen survival.

He had watched the struggle, the inhumane conditions, the machinery, claim the lives of other teenage boys around him, working impossible hours doing dangerous tasks.

He had decided that it was some sort of weakness that led to their demise.

He would not succumb.

He had refused then, and he refused to now.

And so, he would refuse her.

He would not contact her again.

The determination made a sick feeling spread in the center of his stomach. Another wholly foreign response.

He was not used to this. Not any of it.

Another good reason to stay the course. Another good reason to end this.

That it made his hands shake to think of doing so only reinforced what he had realized earlier.

She had become an addiction.