I tossed aside the phone she'd blocked, pulling out another new phone from my briefcase: I, Lucas Rockefeller, was blocked by a woman for the first time in my life, and now I'd shamelessly persist. Even though a voice inside screamed how humiliating this behavior was, I didn't care anymore. I took a deep breath and dialed, key by key, the number I knew by heart.
Chapter Thirteen
Ella
The phone rang out, harsh and sudden, the sound cutting through the clutter stacked all over the living room.
The move had been too rushed. I'd spent nearly all my time on Maya's hospital transfer. This temporary rental—a studio apartment—had barely been touched. Boxes crowded the living room floor, some shipped from Manhattan with Maya's and my belongings, some left by the landlord, others new deliveries I hadn't opened yet. The place was a disaster.
The ringing wouldn't stop. Finally, I dug the phone out from between the couch cushions.
An unfamiliar number lit up the screen. Area code 212. Manhattan.
My exhausted nerves snapped awake. Lucas's face flashed through my mind.
Was it him?
The phone kept buzzing in my palm, hot as burning coal.
No. The thought came and went just as fast. He wasn't the only person I knew in Manhattan. Why did I immediately think of him the second I saw that area code?
I missed him. God, I missed him. Since the day I left, I hadn't slept right. I'd tried everything—melatonin, exhausting myself, staying off my phone. Anything to stick to my decision, to cut this mistake of a relationship loose.
But now, just one call, and I was falling apart. And I didn't even know if it was him. Could be someone from the sanatorium. Could be the law firm. Could be Mrs. Hughes.
Right. Had to be. With Lucas's ego, if he saw I'd blocked him, there was no way he'd stoop to calling from a different number.
The phone rang for at least another minute. I took a breath and answered.
"Ella..."
Lucas's voice came through, low, magnetic, exhausted.
I nearly screamed. Clapped a hand over my mouth.
It was him. Actually him. He'd come looking for me.
"I miss you," he said, worn out. "Come home, please?"
I almost broke. The "okay" was right there, ready to spill out.
Everything I'd been holding down surged through me—I'd been thinking about him every second, going insane with it. But I kept telling myself it was just withdrawal. That Lucas, who'd cheated on me, wasn't worth it. I'd been using that thought to keep myself from turning back.
I didn't answer.
Neither of us spoke.
Just our breathing, tangled together through the line.
His breathing was ragged, rushed, like he was barely holding himself together.
Had he been drinking?
The thought dropped my heart straight into ice.
If he really missed me, he would've called with this new number the second I blocked him. He would've told me during the day, sober and clearheaded. But now? What was this?
Drunk, bored, using me as easy entertainment? Proving to himself he wasn't the one rejected—that he was the one who didn't want me? So he could go back to another woman guilt-free?
