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I left out the part where he’d cursed at me, calling me a virgin bitch and the like. If I told Charlotte, I was sure she would hunt him down and beat him to a bloody pulp, or die trying.
“So...what about the engagement?” Charlotte asked hesitantly. I could sense she felt she was walking on eggshells in the conversation.
“I don’t know. I just—I just don’t know.” I paused, the reality of the situation settling in. “I-I might have to call it off. I can’t marry someone like him. I’m just scared of seeing or talking to him right now.”
“And about him, I can see,” Charlotte remarked. “It’s alright, love. Just take care of yourself. Don’t rush into any decision, but personally, I think you should end the engagement. I’ve never really trusted him, and Claire always said she’s seen him numerous times with different women. Anyways, just take care, alright?”
“You’re leaving?” I asked in surprise as I noticed her grab her backpack and make for the door.
“Yes. I’m really sorry, but this weekend is really busy for me. I still have some parts of my thesis to brush up before I have to submit it to Professor Jackson. That man is determined to work me to the bone."
And there it was, the source of her stress these days.
"I’ll be back later, maybe with a British mystery novel, a change from the usual macabre Japanese novels you’re so fond of.”
“Okay,” I chuckled. “Sure. Let’s see what you bring.”
“Have a great day, Gold.” Charlotte waved before disappearing.
Gold,the nickname Charlotte had fashioned for me—Claire’s nickname wasChlorine—was always an amusing and comforting word to hear from her.
I was alone with my thoughts again.
With my coffee in hand, I fought the fear and went through my phone. As expected, I had several missed calls from Jeremy. I slid down, going through the messages and notifications until I caught a message that stunned me. It was from Nicole Monroe, the secretary of Mr. Hamilton Smith, the man I worked for and also Jeremy’s father.
Chapter 2 - Ivan
I awoke naked in a hotel room.
Slowly sitting up, I looked around to find my clothes littered on the floor. The room swirled around me wildly and the headache, which at first had only been benign, rose in intensity by degrees.
Everything was a blur; I had no idea what had transpired in this room, no clue as to how I had found my way down here or why I was here. It was lost in my confusion.
I stood up and put on my briefs, then dragged myself to the bathroom to wash my face. All the while, I looked around, searching for anything to indicate the purpose of my presence in this luxurious room. The water was cold and it had the effect of clearing up the fog that hung over my head.
Yes, I could slowly make out the events of the previous night. The memory danced around me, becoming stronger with every minute.
I had picked up a girl—now that I thought about it, I never got her name—from The Park and brought her here to this hotel, the Residence Inn by Marriott. I stepped out of the bathroom and into the room, surveying the mess in the bedroom as the images replayed before my eyes. We had drunk wine, smoked, and had sex here. I looked at the empty spot on the bed where she must’ve slept.
She left before I woke up, I concluded. They always did.
This was slowly becoming a pattern, a pattern I at first had reveled in—but the more I grew, the stronger the loneliness became. I was gradually losing myself in the madness of my family and work, and nearly every night I sought to forget that, tried to drown the sadness with sex and parties, but I knew it wasn’t enough.
All of it was an attempt to forget my dead love, Josephine, to erase her and the guilt I felt. Instead, I was dying inside.
Shame though. That girl last night was a cute one.
I picked up my clothes and began putting them on when I heard a knock on the door. With an indifference toward whoever was there, I continued putting on my shirt and shoes, buttoning everything and using some of the perfume the hotel manager kept especially for me as I always requested.
The knock sounded again, louder now.
“I’m coming, goddamnit!” I yelled and sauntered toward the door to see who it was. It was Vlad, my younger brother, dressed in his blue three-piece silk wool suit, his hair slicked back. He was a perfectionist by nature, including his appearance. He was often wearing the finest watch he could get his hands on or the latest outfit from any of the famous haute couture houses he was in contact with.
“Boss.” He greeted casually. “Took you long enough.”
He strolled into the room, his hands tucked in his pockets and as he halted in the middle of the room to look around, his slouching posture became more pronounced. That was his only flaw, one that our father had tried and failed to erase over the years. I could practically see the old man turning in his grave.
“Diego,” I called out to one of the guards outside my room whom I had assigned to myself. “Diego!”
