Page 16 of What's Left of Us

I used to think I was good at communicating. Georgia and I had goals. Dreams. Things to chase after. People to prove wrong. When did that change?

“Have you ever cheated on a partner before?” she asks. There’s no judgment on her face, but I wonder what she’ll write down after this conversation is over.

“No,” I admit. “Notonanyone.”

One of those brows arches higher. “Butwithsomebody?”

My eyes go to the fake pumpkins by the door. At least I hope they’re fake, or they’ll rot and attract flies. Not even the apple cinnamon incense plugged into the wall can hide the smell that would leave behind.

“Georgia is seeing somebody,” is my only response, drifting my gaze back to her.

“How do you know that?”

“Because she told me.”

Slowly, she nods but doesn’t write anything down. “How often do you speak to her?”

I wait for her to pick up her pen, but she doesn’t so much as move from where she sits comfortably, one leg draped over the other like usual. “Whenever one of us is feeling lonely, I suppose.”

A thoughtful noise rises from her. “But didn’t you say she’s seeing somebody?”

My attention is drawn to the niche sign about fall leaves and apple picking hanging on the wall. I bet she paid a stupid amount of money for that. My mother has about a million little signs with sayings on them spread around her house that shespends way too much money on. I told her dad or I could make the same ones for cheap. “People can be lonely standing in a crowded room, doc. Maybe he doesn’t provide her the same things I can.”

“What would that be?”

It’s on the tip of my tongue.Love. But that’s what she’s expecting me to say. So, I give her the next best answer. “Somebody to take control.”

Her fingers wrap around the pen. “Do you consider yourself a controlling person?”

The curl to my lips happens instantaneously. “One might say I have a controlling personality, yes. I don’t likenotbeing in control.” I think about Georgia and how responsive she was to my every demand the other night. She was always submissive to me, but it wasn’t by force—it was by choice. She was used to being controlled by her family without any expectations, but shechoseto submit to me because she knew the reward was her pleasure.

That trust meant something to both of us, given the unique circumstances of our relationship. “I tried not being completely controlling in my marriage. Domineering, maybe. Authoritative, sure. Dominant, definitely. But Georgia always had a say when it mattered. I made sure of that. I made sure not to be…”

Just like her father.

She could have said no when I asked her to marry me. Sometimes, I wish she would have. I wish I never stepped foot into that bar that night or talked to the pretty brunette sipping on a top-shelf scotch. But I did. And the domino effect led me here, just like the good doc said.

“And how did you two meet?” she asks, her head tilting to the side.

My lips twitch, thinking about that night.

It was the beginning of the end.

“That’s a long story.”

She leans back, her foot bobbing up and down. “We’ve got time, Mr. Danforth. Enlighten me.”

CHAPTER FOUR

Georgia/ Seven Years Ago

Itake adeep breath and lift my knuckles to the door, repeating the same words in my head over and over again for practice.I want to celebrate my birthday with friends this year, Daddy.Plain, simple, and to the point. Nikolas Del Rossi likes people who go after what they want. He says bluntness is a trait he looks for in business partners because he doesn’t have time to waste on those who talk in circles.

I know the second the door to his study opens, I’ll be greeted with the smell of expensive tobacco, whiskey, and leather. I was allowed to sit in on meetings inside the room when I was younger, and it was one of my favorite spots to sneak into where I could take one of the books off the shelf and spend time absorbing eighteenth-century literature when I was a teenager.

As I got older, the things I took from inside my father’s favorite room changed, like my first taste of alcohol from his liquor cabinet, which contained only the finest scotches, whiskeys, and bourbons. I hated the initial burn from one of his favorite bottles of Macallan but found it soothing by the third time I’d tried it.

Swallowing down the anxiety that’s been building since my best friend Emilia DeMatteo, or Millie for short, suggested we go out for my birthday tomorrow, I gently knock three times on the thick wood. Biting hard on my lower lip, I wait until I hear a firm, “Who is it?” before cracking it open.

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