Page 146 of Reckless Vow

What the fuck is happening?

“We asked Mrs. Cassinetti on several occasions to keep her music down, but—”

“Well, my wife likes loud music.”

I leave him standing behind me and get to our elevator.

Not very neighborly of me, but loud music means Brook is dancing. And a dancing Brook is working through problems.

Hopefully she’ll dance herself into a solution that saves us both from this limbo.

Sure enough, I hear the beat while still in the elevator. When I step out of it, she is swaying and gliding in front of the wall of windows.

She pushed the sofa to the side to make more room. I get closer and lean against the wall, enjoying the performance.

The bass pulsates through the air. The city lights cast a soft glow over Central Park, but it’s Brook who illuminates the room, her silhouette a vivid contrast against the sprawling darkness outside.

She moves with a raw, uninhibited energy, her body synced perfectly with the rhythm of the loud music that fills the penthouse. Each movement is fluid.

I’m mesmerized, rooted to the spot. The world narrows down to this singular, captivating scene.

She embodies freedom in this moment, a spirit untamed by the concerns that weigh us down. A part of me envies that abandon, the ability to just let go and be consumed by the sheer joy of the moment.

She spins, arms outstretched, and suddenly, I’m hit by a wave of emotion so intense it nearly knocks the breath from me.

In that moment, her steps falter as she locks eyes with me. And I realize there is no joy etched on her face. She’s been crying.

The sight propels me forward, all the hair standing on my nape. “What’s wrong, baby?”

“I officially lost the TV series.” She wraps her arms around my waist. “I can’t believe fucking Dylan stole this from me.”

“Goddammit.” I hold her close. I have half a mind to get my jet ready and fly to London to beat the shit out of that bastard. “You should have let me deal with it.”

She pushes away, her eyes blazing with angry energy. “Oh really, are you going to fix all my problems? And I’ll just sit around and look pretty?”

“Fuck, Brook, that’s not what I meant. I know that you’re more than capable of taking care of yourself…”

“Yeah, is that why you kept watching me for years and interfering every time I got into trouble?”

“Whoa, whoa, let’s step back here. I understand you’re upset. You lost a project that was important to you.”

“But I wouldn’t have if I let you deal with it. Right?” she challenges.

Any other day, I’d let her use me as her punching bag. But under the spell of our idle, unresolved relationship, I’m not a willing participant tonight.

“You know what? Fuck it.” I spin around and march to our bedroom.

I get to the bathroom, practically rip off my tie and get undressed.

Fuck Dylan and the lost production. This explosion is a consequence of my expectations, and her inaction.

Of my whining for attention, and her only giving it part-time. Fuck. What’s wrong with me?

Stepping into the shower, I let the hot water melt some of the tension from my shoulders. Part of me is expecting Brook to join me, but another part is still reeling from the unexpected fight.

Perhaps it’s better she stays away until we cool down.

I put a towel around my hips and walk out to the bedroom, but Brook isn’t there. I don’t find her in the living room or in the kitchen.

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