Chapter 45: Twisted Lies: Chapter 45

I didn’t return home until two in the morning.

My footsteps echoed against the marble floors on my way to my office. I’d grown to hate the walk from the front door. I passed by too many quiet rooms and too many ghosts of our memories.

Stella had lived with me for only a few months. I’d lived alone for years without her and been fine.

But now that she was gone, the penthouse felt empty, like all the heart and soul had been sucked out of it, leaving nothing but a hollow shell behind.

My office door opened soundlessly, and I sank into my seat without turning on the lights.

I’d shredded all the files I’d had on Stella the day after she found them, but their phantom presence tainted what used to be a sanctuary.

Still, I preferred the office to my bedroom, where her soft scent lingered in the sheets and pillows weeks later. Sometimes, I heard her laugh. Other times, I rolled over and could’ve sworn she was next to me, teasing me like she always did.

I tipped my head back.

Scotch and adrenaline from the poker tournament lingered in my blood.

Brock had been the big winner. He was off duty since Stella was home for the night, but I hadn’t congratulated him. It was hard for me to look at him when he reminded me of her.

It was even harder not to ask about her.

I’d instructed him to alert me immediately if she was in danger, but otherwise, her present-day life remained a mystery.

I’d been tempted to call Jules for information as well. She owed me for getting her out of a tight spot last year, and she was one of Stella’s best friends. If anyone knew what Stella was thinking and feeling, it was her.

Stella’s last request to me was the only thing holding me back. It was a leash I could easily break, yet it shackled me more effectively than iron restraints.

I felt so fucking stupid for missing her so much and even stupider for the coping mechanism I’d developed since she left.

I lifted my head and opened the secret drawer that used to hold her files. Now, it was filled with letters I’d never sent.

One for every day we’d been apart.

It was the type of sappy, pathetic behavior I’d derided in the past. If Past Christian could see me now, he’d shoot me and put me out of my misery.

I didn’t care. The letters were the only way I could talk to her these days, and writing them was almost therapeutic.

They covered a span of topics, from snippets of my life growing up to my favorite books to how much I despised clowns (I was convinced they were the devil in human form, except less fun). The letters were like chapters from separate books, tossed together in the chaos that made up my life.

The only thing they had in common was that they were all for her.

Stella said she knew nothing about me, so I poured all of myself out to her.

I picked up a pen and started writing that night’s letter. When I finished, exhaustion blurred my vision, but I tucked the note carefully into the drawer along with its brethren.

Instead of retiring to my bedroom, I stayed in my office and stared out the window at the dark night sky.

My collection of plants lined the sill, silhouetted against the moonlight.

I’d been watering and taking care of them religiously since Stella left. She loved those plants.

But no matter how much care I gave them, they still looked sad and droopy, like they knew their usual caregiver was gone and was never coming back.

“I know,” I said. I couldn’t believe I’d sunk to conversing with plants, but here we were. “I miss her too.”

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