I pull out my phone.
Right.
The absurdly long January nights.
I spent longer in that damned basement than intended.
I grit my teeth.
What possessed her to think leaving was a good idea?
And without me.
Without so much as informing me.
She’s my woman. Why the hell does she think she can simply get up and leave?
And I’m supposed to what?
Let her?
Not a fucking chance.
Over my dead body.
And even then, probably not.
The irritating part is that I made mistakes.
A sentence I loathe admitting, but true nonetheless.
She never lied to me about the fact that she couldn’t fully give herself to us. That she was hiding something.
I knew she was reluctant to be with me, to be seen with me.
And I ignored every warning.
Every boundary she tried to put in place.
I tore through all of them and inserted myself into her life.
She should have told me, because I would have dealt with it.
Perhaps, in some people’s eyes, the way I reacted was wrong.
But there is no proper way to react when you discover your woman is married.
Married to your father, no less.
That sort of thing tends to fuck with a man’s head.
I shove the thoughts aside as we pull up at the airstrip.
My private jet already waits on the runway.
I have a mountain of problems to deal with here in London.
They’ll have to wait.
