Page 2 of When Hearts Ignite

My lips curve into what I hope is a sympathetic smile, and I cup her cheek with my hand. She lets out a small sigh. I know she needs tenderness and reassurance from me, but I can’t give her what she’s looking for. It’s best to cut things off before they get worse.

“You’ve been wonderful to me, Liesel. But you know as well as I do this was never meant to be anything more. I was clear about that. No emotions. No relationships. Just sex every three months.”

I may be an asshole most days, but I still have a conscience inside me. And this woman did nothing to earn my wrath.

Her eyes flutter shut, and she leans into my touch, her breathing coming out in short pants. She knows what I’m saying. She just doesn’t want to admit it.

“I said this when we first met two years ago. If feelings get involved, we part ways before you get hurt, and I don’t want to see you hurt. You’re a wonderful person. I hope you find what you’re looking for in the future. But you won’t find it in me.”

I’m not like my family—my father’s fractured heart and my mother’s equally tormented soul, ironically tied together for eternity in matrimony, or my sisters, who hold all the humanity from the Kingsley union.

Pausing, I take in her trembling figure, her eyes squeezed shut as she tries her best to rein in her emotions. Looking back, perhaps I stayed with her for too long—two years, eight nights of sex and conversations, long enough for her to get attached and wish for more. Somehow, they always do.

Perhaps it’s the money or the lifestyle I can afford them, because I never understand the need to be more than what we have right now. A heaviness forms in my chest, and I retrieve a blank check I carry in my pocket for unexpected situations. I scribble an amount on it and sign my name before tucking it inside the envelope.

“Go back to school. Be a nurse. That’s what you wanted to do, right? That’s why you worked here in the first place. This check should take care of your tuition.” Releasing a deep breath, my pulse steady, I step away from her. “Go after your dreams, Liesel. Go find someone who deserves you.”

Liesel’s eyes flutter open, moisture clinging to the tips of her dark lashes. She wets her lips and doles out a wobbly smile. It’s an expression I’ve seen time and time again when entanglements become complicated.

Hurt and sadness.

But I feel nothing.

Not a nagging pinch of pain, not a clench in my chest, not a flicker of regret. Only the same numbing emptiness which never seems to be filled. The world is a swath of grayscale, its palette uninspiring, the sensations muted as if I’m trapped underwater.

Does it matter if I’m broken if nothing hurts?

And this tells me what I’m doing is the right decision.

I’ll be damned if I follow in my parents’ footsteps.

“A kiss for goodbye?” she whispers, her voice pitchy.

I shake my head. Another one of my rules. No kisses on the lips. It’s too intimate and in some ways, even more intimate than sex. The mouth is where all the words are spoken from, a direct connection to the thoughts in our minds.

And no one can have that part of me.

“Goodbye, Liesel.”

With a curt nod, I leave her standing in the dim room, heartbreak bleeding out from her eyes, and exit the opulent suite, which in the daylight probably engenders awe from new members who’ve endured years on the waitlist, completed multiple interviews, and coughed up a six-figure annual fee to gain membership. They’d no doubt be gaping at the jewel-toned wallpaper and gilded furniture in fabrics reminiscent of Parisian parlors from bygone eras.

I hardly notice any of it. The luxury enjoyed by many is just fancy wrapping paper over an empty box. Sometimes, in moments like this, I wish I could feel an iota of excitement, of anything other than constant emptiness.

Slipping the rose-shaped keycard into my pocket, I walk to the elevators and press a button to one of the top floors housing the premium suites and apartments for overnight guests in the fifty-plus story building in the middle of Manhattan, which boasts of unparalleled views of Central Park.

A short ride later, the doors silently glide open, yielding another dark hallway of deep redwoods and wrought-iron sconces, the pathway dotted with ornate side tables and fresh blooms, scenting the air with the sweet aroma of lavender and lilies.

My phone pings. A market notification and a text message.

“Voss Industries, Notorious Blackguards, Sniffing Around TransAmerica. Will It Be Civil or Will There Be War?” My heart, which has been steady despite the dull ache in my chest, sinks as I read the headline. Father’s company. The thing most important to him. An insidious thread of guilt mixes with satisfaction. I should help him save his company.

I should.

But part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me wants to be the spectator watching a serial killer receive a lethal injection. But Father is not a cruel man.

I’m the cruel one. A horrible son.

Perhaps Father was right all those years ago, not loving us.

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