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Now, it stretched with the vast emptiness of space, lacking oxygen, leaving him to float, with nothing to cling to. Especially after Mrs. Lee arrived to pack up all of Lola and Jett’s things and mail them to Hallie Moretti’s house in the West Village.
The day after Christmas, Rodrigo put the whiskey away. He forced himself to get up. To shave. To shower. To run ten miles along the beach, then visit a boxing gym, where he punched the hell out of everything.
For the rest of the week, he focused on work, ordering his whole team to come back into the office early, in order to greenlight production of as many new films as possible. If anyone on his staff dared voice a single regret at giving up their holidays with their families, Rodrigo verbally ripped them apart. He didn’t need a family. Why should they?
He was better off alone. They would be, too.
By midafternoon on New Year’s Eve, Rodrigo was holed up in his luxurious private office in the Cabrera Media Group headquarters in downtown Los Angeles, staring at his computer, manically reading script after script. He’d been there all night, sleeping fitfully on the sofa in his office. He planned to do the same tonight for New Year’s Eve. As long as he kept working, there’d be no need for him to return to the beach house. Ever.
Or think about the divorce papers his lawyers had prepared for him, already waiting at his house for his signature.
Marnie, who all week had seemed as nervous of him as a caged tiger, peeked into his office. “Mr. Cabrera?”
Impatiently, Rodrigo waved her in. “You have my clothes?”
“Yes, sir.” She handed him the duffel bag of clean clothes she’d brought from his beach house.
Grabbing it, he turned away. “Thanks.”
“Are you doing all right, sir?”
“Of course I’m all right.” He glared at her. “I’m not like my board, whining about their families and the holiday season. They have no work ethic.” He took a deep breath, controlling his tone. “But you do, Marnie. You haven’t complained once. Thank you for that.”
“I’m glad to be here, sir.” She set down a stack of papers on his large dark wood desk. “Ned Stone sent over a script. He says it’s a four-quadrant film.”
Ned Stone was the biggest agent in Hollywood, and a four-quadrant film was the holy grail of the film industry: a movie that would appeal to both men and women, young and old.
But looking at it, Rodrigo didn’t feel elated. He just felt tired. So tired, in fact, the room seemed to swim in front of his eyes.
“Take it back,” he whispered, not moving. “I don’t want it.”
Marnie stared at him, her eyebrows lifted in shock. “You don’t care about a four-quadrant film?”
“No,” he said slowly. “I don’t.”
Since Lola had left, he’d tried to lose himself in work. He’d committed hundreds of millions of dollars to projects he couldn’t even remember now. Half his board was threatening to quit and muttering dark suspicions about his mental health. But for all that, he felt exhausted and numb. Hollow.
He’d tried to run away from his feelings. He’d tried not to think of Lola. But he’d failed. She was all he could think about. He hated work. He hated home. Most of all, he hated himself.
Because without his wife, nothing else mattered. Not success, not fame or fortune. Not even a four-quadrant film.
Because he loved her.
Rodrigo felt a whoosh go through his body, like vertigo. He staggered back beneath the weight of the realization. The duffel bag slid from his hands to the hardwood floor.
Oh, my God. He loved her.
All this time, he’d tried to keep his heart cold. But he’d been lying to himself. The truth was, in the depths of his heart, he’d known it was already too late. He’d loved her from the moment she’d kissed him in Mexico City. Perhaps even before.
That was why he’d never slept with another woman. His body had known what his mind and heart refused to admit. He’d been too afraid to admit it, even to himself, after all the times he’d been hurt by the women he’d loved.
Except he hadn’t loved his first three fiancées, he now realized. How could he? He’d barely known them. As a young man, he’d been so desperate for love, to have a real family, that he’d proposed marriage within weeks.
Then he’d promptly come up with a reason to leave. Because he hadn’t loved those three women, any more than they’d loved him. If they had, they wouldn’t have been so easily lured away.
But he loved Lola. It had terrified him. Seeing her in Morozov’s arms had been all the excuse he needed to end their relationship. He’d almost been relieved to accept the worst rather than let himself be vulnerable, and love her.
But Lola, who’d also known pain and loss, hadn’t given in to fear. She’d been brave. She’d been loyal. She’d had his back, all along.
