Page 6 of Vicious Hearts

I don’t want him worrying about me or taking on my problems. I want him to concentrate on getting better so we don’t need to be worrying about him either.

“Come back, Caleph,” he urges. “There’s enough work here for the both of you.”

He casts his eyes towards Dante, who doesn’t disagree. I wonder if they’ve already had this conversation.

“I could use another man,” Dante admits. “Especially now that I’m trying to manage two empires – ours and Maddog’s.”

I raise my eyebrows. This is news to me. But it would make sense if Maddog had a daughter that his assets would be transferred to her. And it would make all the sense in the world for Dante to oversee those operations. As tempting as the offer is, I can’t just walk away from my empire and step into the shoes of another; that’s not the way I was wired. I didn’t build my business from the ground up only to give up on it, especially when it’s at its most profitable.

“I can see you’re thinking about it,” Durian says. “Even if only fleetingly.”

“It’s a tempting offer,” I admit. “But I have to see this through.”

He nods his understanding. Durian won’t push. It’s not his way. He’s put it out there and now he’ll just wait for something to bring me back.

“I can help you sort out your problems,” he adds.

Family is not only those you share the same blood with. Family is also those who have your back at every turn. Those who take it upon themselves to make sure they know everything about you when it counts and do everything in their power to help you. Durian is very well connected. As is Dante. I know if I called upon them for help, they’d come running. Dante and Durian are my family; the only one I have left.

“The offer’s good as long as you want it,” Dante says. “There’s no one else I’d rather have on my team.”

5

ARIADNE

It takes Rand a week – a whole week – to call me.

The morning after I caught him with his hand in someone else’s cookie jar, I call in to work sick and collect all my meagre belongings from the apartment we shared. I leave him a parting gift. A framed picture of us together – in happier times, I like to believe – smashed to pieces against his PlayStation. Which also lies in pieces after my anger gets the better of me.

I promptly move my things into a shared apartment which costs me an arm and a leg but will have to do until I find something cheaper. Nothing like living on a shoestring budget. Nina offers me her spare bedroom; there is no way I am staying at Nina and Michael’s – no way am I opening myself to the possibility of running into Rand there. Plus, that is the first place he’d look if he really wanted to find me. Plus, Michael isn’t helping my mental health one bit.

So, Rand calls me four times and I let each and every call go to voicemail. So proud of myself. Until he sends me a text telling me he wants the key to his apartment back. Loser wants his key back.

I fall apart all over again. How could he just discard me so easily? What was so terrible about me that he can just gloss over two years like they never happened?

So, I do the only thing I know to do. I go out into the street and place the key in the middle of the road and watch as cars glide over it, and it’s tossed in the air a few times. Until it’s mangled beyond recognition and lies in the gutter, waiting for me to collect it. I drop it in his mailbox with a smile of satisfaction then send him a text.

Key’s in your mailbox.

Send my regards to Karma.

I’m wearing a self-satisfying grin as I walk away from the apartment block. I’m so proud of myself, I could almost purr. Until I see Rand walking up the street, his hand swinging in the hand of a female. Who looks nothing like the woman I caught him with at the hospital.

* * *

I fall apart all over again, sobbinghuge hollow gasps into my pillow to drown out the noise I’ll probably get evicted over. The next day when I wake and straggle to the makeshift kitchen for coffee, my room mate looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.

“You have to pay for that,” she says, pointing at the coffee machine.

I look at her then turn my eyes toward the machine, and the tin she indicates on the bench top. I’m sure she didn’t mention this when I moved in, and I’m sure the four tins placed on the kitchen bench are new. Did she just change the rules of my tenancy without consulting me? I shake my head and put the mug down. If I’m going to pay for my coffee, it better be a Dutch Bros.

I grab my coffee to go, spill it down my white shirt as I rush so I’m not late to work again, and look anything but put together as I lurch through the office doors. Everyone looks up as I walk in, and they’re all staring at me. Some whisper. There is a snicker or two. And by the time I sit my ass down in my chair and switch on my computer, I’m close to tears again. But the tears just won’t come. Instead, they gather at the corners of my eyes, threatening to break through the dam that’s holding them back.

It’s been the week from hell for me. And now I’m certain I’ve committed professional suicide because my boss calls me into his office at midday. Lunchtime. This can’t be good.

He has his hands behind his neck as he leans back in his office chair, one of those ergonomic things that bounces back and forth every time he moves. I’d like to say my presence wipes the smirk off his face, but I’d be lying. He’s an eccentric old millionaire who inherited the business from his father and hasn’t written an article in his life. He wouldn’t know a good article if it hit him in the face. Except, he’s the boss, so I don’t tell him that.

“I’m getting mixed feelings when I look at you, Ariana,” he says, leaning into his chair.

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