Nobody ever needs me. Not my family. Not my husband. Not even my daughter, who left for boarding school without a backward glance. The only person who ever claimed to need anything from me was my father, who used those words against me.
Matthew doesn’t stop his vicious pace until we reach an open suite door. I push against his back, moving high enough to see around his waist to the housekeeping trolley standing idle a few feet inside the darkened hall.
“Is someone in our room?” His question is a commanding boom.
“Oh,” a female replies, a scuffle of noise following. “Yes, sir. It’s housekeeping.” A petite brunette pokes her head around the corner, her face in flickering shadow. “I’m sorry, I haven’t finished preparing what was request—”
“We need privacy.” He storms forward, carrying me like a sack of potatoes.
I should fight. Run. Leave him to a life that would be less dramatic without me, but… I need you.
That declaration. That honesty.
God, I need him, too.
I need the assurance. The protection. The authority that quietens the screaming within.
“Please put me down.” I soften against him. “Please, Matthew.”
He trudges ahead, the scent of candle wax hitting my nose sweet seconds before we reach the open living area where he places me on my feet next to the sofa.
I pause in confusion, the sight not computing.
The housekeeper stands before the kitchenette, a silver wine bucket on the counter, a lighter in her hand. The room is emblazoned with dozens of flickering tea lights. The beauty steals my breath, the glow emanating from every horizontal surface.
Rose petals are scattered over the carpet, the sofa, the television stand.
Matthew requested this?
“It will only take me a moment to finish.” The woman’s gaze shifts between us. “The bathroom just needs—”
“Leave.” Matthew shoves a hand through his hair.
The woman winces, nods in apology, then rushes to a dark corner of the kitchen to retrieve a box of rattling candles. “The food you requested is already in the fridge. Again, I apologize.” She scampers for her trolley in the hall, the rattle of shampoo bottles and cleaning supplies filling the room before she pulls the door shut behind her.
Then, more silence.
Thick, painful quiet which contrasts with the beauty of the dancing flames around me. Hell consumes my thoughts, yet heaven fills my vision. The opposites add to my instability.
I need something to make sense.
Anything.
“Do you want a glass of water?” Matthew begins to pace, both hands raking into his hair, his fingers clawing against his scalp. “Maybe wine is best. Or food? Do you need something to eat?”
His questions are fast and emotionless. Spoken without thought or follow-through.
I watch him, noting the sweat beading his brow, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He’s spiraling. Descending into shock as he trudges back and forth along the carpet.
“Matthew…” Guilt consumes me. “I need to leave.” It’s harder to say this time. Harder to admit the truth in the face of his torment. “This has to end.”
He stops abruptly, his hands falling to his sides as he scowls. “What did you say?”
I cringe against the surprise in his eyes. The rejection.
But I made a promise. I said I wouldn’t cause drama.
“I never should have come here.” My heart squeezes with the admission. With the lies and secrecy and unending mistakes. “I think I caused this.”
He straightens. “Why would you think that?”
I don’t want to tell him specifics. To ruin the fairy tale. To witness his opinion of me disintegrate like so many others have before.
“Layla, why would you think that?” His eyes narrow in confusion.
“I’m not who or what you think I am…” I backtrack toward the door, each syllable pulled from me like a deeply rooted tooth. “I’m not a good person.”
“Hey.” He prowls toward me, eating up the space, reclaiming my cheeks in his palms. “Stop it. This wasn’t about you.”
“You don’t know that.” The truth sits like bile at the back of my throat, needing to be expelled. “I’ve put you in danger with what I’ve done with the Costas.”
His eyes scan me. Scrutinize. “Tell me everything.”
“I can’t.” I’m too ashamed.
“Layla.” His voice drops in warning. “Emmanuel has nothing to do with this. Neither do you. So whatever it is you’re worried about, don’t.”
He’s in denial. About me. About Emmanuel. I step back, needing to leave. To end this before I drown in him any further. But he holds me captive with his palms, matching my retreat with a bigger advance. He keeps us toe-to-toe, hip to hip, almost heart to heart, weakening me with his savior complex.
“The purse that was stolen from me in Denver had cyanide in it,” I blurt, needing him to let me go. “If it got into the wrong hands, along with my ID, and the Costas caught wind of it…” I cringe, hating the shocked scowl peering back at me. “They’d know they were my target. They’d want to strike first.”
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
It’s only harsh eyes and harsher energy bearing down on me.
“Now will you let me go?”
“No,” he repeats with steadfast conviction. “Downstairs had nothing to do with you. Lorenzo was the target. He’s always the target. So if anyone is to blame, it’s me for placing you in danger.”
24
Matthew
This moment has been destined. It’s only ever been a matter of time. And even though I’ve known it’s been approaching since the moment we met, I’m far less prepared than I was the night she walked into my life all confident and magnificently mysterious.
“How do you know?” She blinks back at me, confused.
“He’s a powerful man.” I release her cheeks and retreat, needing a break from her scrutiny.
“How powerful?”
I wipe a rough hand down my face, becoming less ready for what’s to come with each passing second.
I don’t want her to deal with this now. I was meant to tell her in my own time. In my own way.
I huff a deep breath. “Powerful enough to—”
A pounding knock sounds at the door. She startles, gasping at the noise, exposing just how fragile my decisions have made her.
“Who is it?” I bark.
“Bishop,” comes the mumbled reply. “Open the fucking door.”
I stalk for the entry only to be stopped by Layla scrambling in front of me, her eyes stark with determination.
“Tell me.” She splays her hands on my chest, her heavy palms feeble at best against my strength. “Who is he?”
I stiffen against the pent-up air in my lungs, the pressure of a lifetime’s worth of bad decisions caging me behind tightening ribs. “Let me get rid of Bishop first.”
Stall. Stall. Stall.
That’s all I’ve fucking done with her.
Delayed the truth.
Delayed her disgust.
Delayed the end of us.