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“Will Romano,” I tell her. “But you can just call me your knight in shining armor.”
She throws her hand on my shoulder with a laugh as I toss more bills to cover our drinks, then grab her hand to leave this god-forsaken place. The Dorchester is just a block away. I’ve stayed there many times and know the manager, certain we will get the service we deserve.
We spend the night drinking, laughing at stories we both told. In so many ways, being with Ashley makes me homesick. Four years in London with the occasional visit from my parents, and I never realized just how lonely I’d become. Ashley is quick to admit the same sentiment, having lived here for the last two years and not truly feeling like she found a home.
As the night drags on, our words slur, and the conversations become less serious and more argumentative. She is a Minnesota Twins supporter, which cannot compete with my hardcore following of the Yankees. We alternate between arguing to falling into fits of laughter, and when the bartender warns us the bar is close to shutting, I suggest we take it back to the room.
We both need what happens in the room, equally desperate to forget our mistakes and lose each other in the heat of the moment. There are no expectations, no walls to break down. We are two people grieving over the loss of someone we loved and using the pain to fuel the passion between us.
Somewhere, in the early hours of the morning, Ashley’s lips touch mine. It is a soft kiss, nothing sexual nor pressing. I stir, unable to open my eyes, my muscles tired and worn out from the hangover.
“Thank you, Will,” she whispers, caressing the side of my face. “Last night is exactly what I needed. It’s time to move on with my life, so thank you for giving me the confidence to do so.”
And like a thief in the night, she is gone.
No number left, no way for me to contact her to express my own thanks. Ashley Stone may have given me what I needed, but in the light of the day, it all comes back, and the nightmare continues to haunt me.
Beside me, my phone buzzes. I pull the screen away to be able to focus, my eyesight poor and hazy. There are a dozen notifications; emails, text messages, missed calls. Nothing of importance to me until I spot the one I had been waiting for.
It’s from Richard McGregor—my lawyer.
Richard: You’ve got your wish. The board has been notified of your intent to return to the States.
My eyes scan over the message again. I should be happy; I’m going back home. No more dreary London or people whining all the time. Back to regular sports, not this so-called football they claim to play, which indeed—is soccer.
This is exactly what I want.
Yet my thoughts torment me—a vicious cycle telling me that I am not the one she wants. Amelia Edwards chose someone else.
She didn’t call nor did she send a text in the past four years.
To me, it looks like I meant nothing to her.
A pain in my chest spreads all over, causing mental distress. Who the fuck is this person? I pride myself on being strong, never letting anyone undermine me or my decisions. I didn’t become this successful by allowing people to walk all over me. I knew people were terrified of me and the power I held, so why the fuck am I doubting myself now?
Amelia doesn’t love him. She promised me it was only me.
With my jaw clenched and the heat rising in my cheeks, I respond quickly to Richard and tell him exactly when I’ll be back home.
There is only one way to find out how Amelia feels, and soon, I will look her in the face and ask her why she is marrying a man she doesn’t love.
3
LEX
It has been a long while since I’ve visited London.
A place I once called home, almost a lifetime ago.
The memories of being here are rather unpleasant. I was addicted to power—the type which drove me to become a billionaire all before the age of thirty. Granted, my grandfather left me at the reins of his company. However, it grew to something unimaginable in a short time, all because I took risks. I was unstoppable with nothing to lose. My ego and self-worth became addicted to the power and authority I held. I was the man everyone wanted, all but the one person who mattered.
It was a double-edged sword. I was alone with regrets chained around my neck. I had committed the ultimate crime, broke the woman I fell in love with, left her without a goodbye, not a single explanation as to why.
I was a fucking coward.
No matter how wealthy I had become or successful, none of it erased the actions I took, hurting Charlotte.
We were both so young, foolish with our intentions, in love without a care in the world of who we hurt around us. That kind of love, which some may call strong, can also be destructive.
