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I tug her to a standstill, the exotic scents of Singapore around us reminding me we are far from home. But we’re together, and I want to be there for her. ‘You know you don’t need to prove anything to me, right?’
Her eyes dart. ‘Of course.’ She lifts her chin, the way she does when she’s cornered and comes out fighting. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I don’t care if you don’t wear my earrings, but isn’t it time you took these off?’ I touch the stud with one cautious fingertip. ‘You’re the most driven and successful woman I’ve ever met. You’ve already bested him, made it on your own, won a major client from him. You have nothing to prove.’ I hadn’t planned the serious turn in the conversation, but as I see it, we both need to face our fears, to conquer our demons and move on. How else can we focus on what’s really important in life? How can we focus on any sort of a relationship?
‘I know that.’
‘Do you? Really? Because from what I’ve seen you’ll never stop. Ten billion, twenty, thirty. When is enough enough, Orla?’
‘That’s different—I...don’t do it for the money. You know how frugal I am. I love my job. I’m good at it. I’m happy.’
Her statements feel like blows. I want to dismiss them, to call her a liar. But part of me is scared that if she’s right, if she has everything she needs, life all figured out, completely self-sufficient, is there any room for an ordinary guy like me?
‘Would you ask that question if I were a successful man?’ she says, her guard now fully up.
I grip the back of my neck in frustration. ‘I’m not some sexist idiot. It’s got nothing to do with your
gender.’
‘So despite saying I have nothing to prove, you’re trying to change me. Is that it?’
‘No.’ I cup her face. ‘I wouldn’t change a thing. I just... I care about you. I see how hard you work, how hard you push yourself, and I’m just worried that you feel you have something to prove, which you absolutely do not.’
Some of the anger in her deflates. She places her hand over mine, pressing it closer to her cheek. ‘I care about you too, Cam. That’s what I tried to say in Dubai. That’s why I’m offering to help you invest, to help you see that perhaps your father had no other choice, no other way of apologising than to leave you that money, the money he abandoned you and your mum for.’
The tables turning knocks the wind from me. ‘You’re talking about forgiveness again.’ I tug my hand away and shove both in my pockets.
‘Perhaps it might help.’ She crosses her arms over her chest.
How did we get here? And why can’t she see that she’s enough, just the way she is? Enough for me, at least.
‘I’m not sure I’m ready for that. What about you?’
My question, my challenge, falls on deaf ears. We complete the walk in silence, but it turns out that race cars and fireworks aren’t as thrilling when you’ve glimpsed the finishing line but find yourself somehow right back at the start.
CHAPTER NINE
Orla
CAM’S PENTHOUSE IS the crowning jewel of Sydney Harbour’s Darling Point. Even I’m impressed with the spectacular bridge views. I park at the top of a long, steep driveway and let myself inside with Cam’s security code.
Tonight is the club’s Masquerade Gala and, as we’re going together, I prefer to arrive together, so I’ve had my outfit delivered here. Not that the tension between us is completely resolved, but since our exchange in Singapore we’ve called a truce, as if we’re both aware time is ticking and there’s no point wasting the days and hours we have left fighting.
It doesn’t matter who’s right.
Cam and I had our fun, and soon it will be time to say goodbye.
With that certainty weighing me down, my heels click as I make my way upstairs from the ground floor. I glance around his home, looking for clues of the real Cam. While luxurious, the whole space seems cold and cavernous, every sound echoing off the bare walls. Hardly any colour, no personality, and no sign of the warm, compassionate, vibrant man I’m lucky enough to know.
When I reach the second floor and the main living areas, my adrenaline pumping as it always does in anticipation of seeing Cam, there’s still no sign of him. Neither in person nor in any evidence that he even lives here, although he told me he only bought the place four months ago. A single solitary leather armchair and a telescope face the wraparound windows, which open onto a spacious veranda and give almost three-hundred-and-sixty-degree harbour views. But there’s no character, no life anywhere to be found, certainly no sign of the fun-loving, energetic Cam, a man who’s entirely occupied my head since we landed in Sydney twenty-four hours ago.
My throat grows tight. This isn’t Cam. This flashy, modern residence that screams status. Then it hits me. It’s another of his revenge purchases against his father. I’m no more likely to find the real Cam here than I am searching the moon. Not that I should want to find the real Cam, because I have to give him up. And soon.
I pace over to the window and grip the back of the armchair, my nails digging and my heart clenching as I imagine him sitting here. Alone, trying to work out a way forward. Trying to be himself in a world that’s shifted on its axis.
But then, what do I know about having everything all worked out?
I thought once we arrived back in Australia, things would fall into place. We’d share a parting kiss, perhaps laugh as we recalled the highs of our adventure, and part with only a modicum of regret. Instead, I found myself inviting Cam to the gala even before his private plane touched down.
