Page 77 of Selfish Desires

She was gone.

Three weeks.

Wait—let me start again. Three miserable fucking weeks since I last saw Wendy, and while I called and texted her every day, multiple times a day, she did not answer or respond to anything.

And I didn’t blame her. I was the piece of garbage who left her again after I swore to her I wouldn’t. I broke my promise to her and shattered everything and our progress in the last few months. The renewed trust?

Gone.

The engagement?

Gone.

Solidifying Wendy to never trust me again?

Done.

I buried my head in my hands as I sat alone in the dimly lit room of the cabin. A single bottle of whiskey was on the table, a testament to my silent struggles. My phone sat beside it, a constant reminder of Wendy's silence. Each passing hour was marked with the hope that she would break that silence, but she never did. The emptiness of her response was deafening.

I was caught between my love for Wendy and the haunting shadows of my past that refused to let me be. How could I protect her when I was the very danger she needed protection from?

Ugh, this wasn’t fair. So unfucking fair. But I guess I had it coming when I screwed too many people and robbed them of happiness while I relished in what they lost. And despite Zachary and I being partners, I was the villain. I went after people personally, even after they lost their livelihoods. Zachary gave up the chase once the chase ended. Why didn’t I practice that restraint during my younger and dumber years? What the fuck was I even thinking, having sex with wives of the losers who sat at our poker table, betting their lives away?

I was spiraling. Spiraling down a rabbit hole of regret, guilt, and self-hatred, feeding off the bottle of whiskey that sat before me. The harsh burn as it slid down my throat was a mere distraction from the pain I felt; the pain of losing Wendy again, the pain of pushing her away. In my attempt to keep her safe, I had ended up hurting her more than anyone else possibly could.

There was a saying that when you loved someone, let them go. If they came back, they were yours; if they didn't, they never were. I had let her go once, and she came back.

And I let her go again, but would she come back? The mere thought of losing her forever brought a sharp, throbbing pain in my chest.

Drowning in my misery wouldn't bring Wendy back or solve the problem. For days on end, I worked relentlessly on figuring out who could possibly want revenge against me, who was seeking retribution for sins I committed years ago. But I wasn’t getting anywhere. The one person I was positive about ended up being the wrong choice. It couldn’t have been the wife. I ran a check on her, and as of last week, she lived the ultimate life of luxury in Spain with some importer-exporter tycoon. The first thought that ran through my mind for her was happiness. Good for her because she was married to some guy who clearly had a problem and didn’t care whose lives he destroyed while giving in to the addiction.

My phone buzzed on the table, lighting the room in a harsh, sterile glow. It wasn't Wendy. Just another notification from Zachary. He was hounding me with updates and plans to deal with this situation, but none mattered. Not when Wendy wasn't by my side. The only reason why Zachary even helped me at this point was because he told me a promise was made to Blair to keep Wendy safe at any cost—even if that meant helping me. When I phoned him two weeks after Wendy’s departure, Zachary clarified that he wasn’t helping me because I was his friend. His efforts were for Wendy.

Why couldn't I have done things differently? When Wendy entered my life, I should have turned the other way and kept her from the inevitable heartbreak and danger of being around me. But selfish as I was, I invited her into my mess of a life, promising her safety and love when all I had to offer was danger and deception.

But God, how I loved her. How I missed her.

The thought of losing her a third time was unbearable. It was a wound that could never heal. Each beat of my heart echoed her name, pulsating with the rhythm of a chant that cried for her return.

I had to fix this.

Staying in the log cabin, away from everyone, wasn’t the answer. And the answer wasn’t in Newport, where Wendy was nestled safely away from me. I needed to go back to my roots. I was going to return to New York.

The next day came, and I drove out of the countryside at dawn on forty-five minutes of sleep. I kept driving and didn’t bother stopping until I saw New York City’s skyline greet me like an old familiar friend. I was back in the concrete jungle that was ruthless and unforgiving. I drove aimlessly through the city streets, past towering skyscrapers and bustling street corners filled with food vendors and disgruntled drivers arguing for the right of way.

The first place I ventured to was even a bit of a surprise for me, and it would certainly be a shock to them: Zachary and Blair’s penthouse. Taking a deep breath, I exited my car and walked toward the glass door. The cool morning breeze slapped my face, a harsh reminder of the reality I was about to encounter. People passed around me in a blur, each engrossed in their own world as I approached the grand entrance. A stern-looking doorman glanced at me once before stepping aside.

I made my way to the elevator, my pulse throbbing in my ears. With every floor the elevator ascended, my thoughts into an abyss of anxiety. It wasn't common knowledge that I was back in town. Zachary and Blair had no idea I'd be showing up on their doorstep.

The elevator chimed, signaling my arrival to their floor. As I stepped out, the posh interior of the penthouse was a stark contrast to the chaos brewing inside me; soft hues of cream and beige filled the private lavish lobby, a grand piano sat in one corner while expensive art pieces adorned the walls.

Taking another deep breath for courage, I knocked on the door.

A moment later, Blair opened it. Her face was a picture of surprise as she took me in.

“Vincent...” she whispered, her voice trailing off. A myriad of emotions crossed her face: shock, surprise, confusion. And then the unmistakable shadow of anger settled over Blair’s delicate features. She stepped back and called over her shoulder, “Zachary!”

Zachary appeared, his broad frame filling the hallway, his face shadowed with concern as he scrutinized me. “Vincent.” His voice a low growl, his dark eyes narrowed into thin slits.

---