Alcohol didn’t help numb the clawing pain in my chest, hot and sharp. And at exactly one minute past eight, the doors swing open. Alex walks in, unbothered like she does every other morning. She has a leather-bound folder in her hands, her stride is confident, and her face is an unreadable mask of composure.
“Where were you with Romy yesterday?” I don’t bother with a hello; I don’t even let her close the door all the way before my voice slices through the silence. Alex pauses, her hand still resting on the brass door handle. She doesn’t flinch. She slowlyturns, clicks the door shut behind her, and walks further inside my office with measured steps.
“Good morning to you, too, Vik,” she says smoothly, her tone dripping with professional defiance.
“I didn’t ask for the weather report, Alex,” I growl, leaning forward, slamming my palms flat against the dark wood of my desk. The sheer force of my movement makes the empty crystal tumble on the corner. “I asked you a question. Where were you with her, and why has she been scarce at Sterling Capital for three goddamn weeks?” I choke on the words, my throat tightening as the question I’ve been bleeding over finally rip out of me. “And has she mentioned me?” Christ, I sound like a sniveling toddler. The desperation in my own voice makes me loathe myself, but it can’t be helped. I’m a drowning man, and his assistant is holding the only lifeline to Romy. Alex stops a few feet from my desk, unintimidated by my size, status, or the fury rolling off me in ways. Instead, she tilts her head, a dry, witty smirk spread on her face.
“My, my, my,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest. “Did you finally decide to come up for air from the bottle of vodka you’ve been busy drowning yourself in? I mean, the whole floor has been waiting for the fumes to clear.”
“Alex,” I warn, my tone dropping into a low, lethal rumble. “Do not test me today.”
“I’m just observing,” she replies, entirely unfazed. She shifts her weight, looking me dead in the eyes. “To answer you first question: it doesn’t matter where I was with Romy yesterday. When you hired me, my contract stated I would manage your schedule and run errands. I never once specified what kind of errand I would be on yesterday. If a friend of mine needs assistance, I provide it.”
“She isn’t just a friend, and you damn well know it!” I roar, the sound echoing off the high ceilings of the office. “She’s mine. And you’re hiding her from me.”
“Rory belongs to no one but herself, Vik,” Alex counters sharply, her witty demeanor vanishing for a fraction of a second, replaced by a fierce protectiveness. Almost just as quickly, she smooths her expression back into an aloof shrug. “Besides, we needed to tie up a few loose ends yesterday. She’s been scarce because she’s been incredibly busy getting her things in order.”
“What things?” My heart stops. The blood in my veins freeze.
“She got a job offer,” Alex says, entirely too casual, as if she were delivering a routing quarterly earnings report. “A massive one. It’s sudden, but it’s an incredible opportunity. So, she’s scrambling to wrap up her life here.” The room tilts. I grab the edges of my desk so hard the wood groans beneath my fingers.
A job offer.
Moving.
Leaving.
The words hit me like a ton of bricks, knocking the wind straight out of my lungs. Romy is leaving the city. She’s leaving me, permanently cutting the tie before I can even apologize, before I can even find out the reason as to why she cut things off.
“Where?” I demand, the word ripping from me, a terrifying, guttural roar that would have brought any other employee in the building to their knees. “Where is she going, Alex? Tell me right now.” She doesn’t blink. She casually shrugs her shoulders, her expression one of detached indifference.
“New York,” she replies smoothly. New York. A state that’s nearly a six-hour flight and twenty-four hundred miles away. If she buried herself in the crowded streets of Manhattan, I’d never find her without a fuck of a lot of help. She’s actively running away, putting states between us, erasing herself from my life.
The hell she is.
A shockwave of adrenaline explodes through my entire body. The paralysis that kept me chained to my desk, drowning in self-pity and top-shelf vodka for far too long, shatters into millions of pieces. The fear doesn’t vanish, it transforms into an all-consuming urgency. I can’t let her leave. I can’t let her step onto a train, or a plane, or walk out of my life, for that matter. Not without fighting for her. I’ll tear apart New York brick by brick if I have to, but first, I’m going to stop her before she even leaves her apartment.
I don’t say another word, I don’t issue another order, I don’t grab my coat, and I don’t look at my assistant again. I lunge from around my desk, my massive frame moving with a sudden, violent speed similar to a freight train breaking its tracks. I round the desk in a single stride, my focus locked entirely on the double doors. Alex chooses that moment to stand directly in my path, and it catches me off guard by the sheer force of my movement. I veer, charging past her, and nearly clip her shoulders with a bruising power.
“Whoa—!” Alex gasps, her heels nearly losing their grip on the polished hardwood floor. Her hands fly up. She manages to catch herself without my help, and I don’t look back or apologize. Instead, I pull the heavy doors open, bursting into the executive lobby like a hurricane. My leather shoes slam violently against the marble tile as I sprint toward the private elevators, where my hand violently smacks the call button over and over again.
“Vik!” Alex calls out behind me, sharp and slightly out of breath. The elevator doors slide open with a soft chime, and I throw myself inside. My thumb pushes the button for the garage level until the metal doors seal me away from the outside world. The elevator descends, my chest heaving and my dark eyes fixed on the shift of floor numbers.
I’m going after Romy. And god help anyone who tries to stand in my way.
CHAPTER SEVEN
romy
The violent, recurring thudding vibrating through the floorboards and walls doesn’t just wake me up, it rattles my teeth. I groan, a deep, guttural sound full of pure aggravation, and bury myself deeper into the pillow. I drag my thick floral duvet over my head, praying that whatever construction crew or delusional neighbor that’s causing the racket will miraculously disappear. Too bad the pounding doesn’t stop. It only grows louder, more frantic, and resembles a heavy fist assaulting my front door that makes my drywall hum.
“Are you kidding me?” I breathe out the thought. My eyes sting as I finally force them open. Sleep only found me a mere few hours ago. I’ve been trapped in a vicious, frustrating cycle of a severe bout of insomnia, whether that’s from pregnancy or contemplating life, I have no idea. I tossed and turned until my sheets were a tangled mess, and by the time the clock turned to three o’clock, I gave up on sleep. I spent the remaining twilight hours huddled on the couch, mindlessly binging a television show about a couple restoring crumbling, on-the-brink-of-falling-down castles in the remote foothills of the United Kingdom. I finally fell asleep around dawn, dreaming of a deep brogue, handsome Scottish man, with muscles galore. Only to beviolently yanked back to reality by a human wrecking ball at the door.
“Ugh.” I furiously let out a huff, fling the covers off me, and my feet hit the cold floor. I run both hands through my wild, tangled, sleep-riddled hair, trying to push the wayward strands out of my face. I look down at what I’m wearing: one of Vik’s old, oversized gray T-shirts, a piece of clothing I’m unwilling to part with, plus it’s comfortable and hangs loosely down to my thighs.
“I’m calling the cops!” I bellow toward the foyer, my voice raspy, dry, and thoroughly grumpy. “I swear to all that’s holy, if you don’t stop beating on my door, I’m letting the boys in blue handle you.” Miraculously, the knocking stops as I stumble my way closer. The sudden silence is deafening and music to my ears. I blink heavily, my brain still not firing on all cylinders as I navigate through my place with only the dim morning light filtering through my blinds. I reach the counter, my hand instinctively searching for my phone that’s on charge to follow through on my threat.
My fingers brush the glass, lighting the screen up, and my frustration instantly morphs into dread. The lock screen is a wall of notifications: six missed calls and a string of text messages all from a single sender: Alex.
