Page 63 of Fool's Gold

I deserve it.

Every time I start to feel sorry for myself because of the pain, I remember how I treated Empire. I remember the sick fucking things I had to do when I lived just to survive.

I shudder, memories of the past rising up to swarm me, sending a cold sweat dripping down my collarbone to my abdomen.

Life has changed since then, but has it really? From starvation and death to money and just as much shame as before. Maybe I doomed myself with what I’d done, but I never meant to doom Empire as well, and knowing I hurt her is the worst kind of punishment for a man like me.

I tried to do better. She paid the price. I might be doomed for the rest of my life, but I refused to let her be lost along with me. How do I make this right? Is there any chance I even can?

My head throbs in time with my useless thoughts.

The last time I slogged through the trenches for Stanic, I was younger. Much younger and a thousand times more foolish, obsessed with my own upward mobility. Willing to do whatever it took to get the hell away from him and make a life for myself.

He’d gotten me off the streets, and I took it from there.

Only this time, I willingly dove right back in to protect someone else. He accused me of being altruistic, and he wasn’t wrong.

And maybe it is.

I reach for the cold compress I set aside and forgot on the cushion next to me. Or maybe I’d grown a pair at last. I hurt her, but the pain will fade, and in time, she’ll accept it as the right decision. Empire will grow into the woman and the actress she deserves to be without me stifling her.

I wince at the bite of cold from the compress.

If I stay like this, I’ll only sink deeper into my own thoughts. Every step I’ve taken gets me closer to my goal of keeping her safe. And I’ll keep working toward that, no matter how hard it is for me.

I stand and stride into the office at my apartment, tugging at my shirt collar as I walk. It’s too damn tight and seems to make the headache worse.

My workspace here is impersonal. I don’t need decor to distract me. Once inside my office, I drop down in the chair, feeling sixty rather than my actual age. How have I made it this long without dropping? Sheer stubbornness? A curse?

It’s impossible to know.

Sighing, I toss the compress away. Fucking useless.

And I’ve got to be back on set in the next hour. These days of watching Empire are brutal. I let go for good once I took stock of the situation and realized the damage I caused. But seeing her for hours on end is torture. My head howls, my face aching and my teeth throbbing in their sockets.

I deserve this.

More, for taking advantage of her. Knowing how she’d act once I took her virginity and doing it regardless of the consequences.

If Bennett and Olivia were alive, they’d slaughter me, with pleasure.

They’d take every ounce of emotional pain I caused their daughter and pay it back with physical agony.

My cell buzzes with an unknown number. The vibration on the sleek desktop has me jumping out of my skin, and the headache doubles in intensity. Who the fuck…

These days, it’s more important to answer and risk it being one of the Mafia goons than ignore the call and face the consequences later. With a groan, I grab the phone, gripping it hard enough to crush the glass screen, and press the answer icon.

“What?”

“Mr. Ortega?” a male answers after a disquieting pause. “This is Brian McKinlay from the Los Angeles Times.”

My gut plummets with his cheerful greeting. Fucking parasites. They never quit.

“This is a private number.” I lean back in the chair until the hinges squeak.

Brian gulps audibly before continuing with false bravado, “We understand, Mr. Ortega. As such, we will not give it out to our competitors.”

“Not what I said, Brian.”

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