Page 238 of Remy

I scrunch the card and launch it across the parking lot, my eyes burning as I glare at the brickwork of the building.

Fuck. Him.

Fuck everything.

I pace.

I curse.

I stare at the upstairs window, despising that I can’t be in there. That I don’t know how Ollie’s coping. If she’s coping.

It takes a fucking lifetime to regain some semblance of calm, which is when I call Wesley and tell him to get his ass to the funeral home.

He arrives fifteen minutes later and takes the news with a solemn nod.

“I want you to drive Ollie home when she’s ready,” I mutter under my breath.

“Me?” He frowns.

“Yes. She needs her space from me.”

His expression fills with pity. “Sure thing.”

“Call me as soon as it’s done.”

I text Lucy, letting her know a car is waiting to take Ollie home whenever she’s ready.

Then I leave.

I drive away from the place of grief that brought me so much fucking life.

I aimlessly pass through the suburbs, the image of Carlo on that bed haunting me. I do it for hours, keeping myself behind the wheel and occupied because being back in my penthouse where the pain of Flynn’s death already lingers would only send me on a bender I wouldn’t recover from.

It’s two in the morning when I get the call from Wesley.

“She’s safe at home,” he says.

“Did she say anything?”

“Not a single word.”

The weight in my gut grows heavier. “Was she crying?”

“Not a single tear.”

I disconnect the call and check my GPS. I’m a few blocks from Ollie’s house. I’m pretty sure I’ve been subconsciously circling the vicinity, unable to stray too far from her.

I take the next turn, driving a familiar path until I’m parked on the street opposite her darkened house, then climb out to stare at the place where she remains hidden from me.

I’ve dragged her through hell.

She’s struggled with fear—from me and the thought of conviction.

She was assaulted by one of my staff members and almost raped.

Then the Irish could’ve killed her if given the chance.

I’ve hurt her so much.

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