Page 85 of Thiago
She turned to watch him leave. Tall, broad-shouldered, uncaring that she was dying inside.
Shaking, she followed, hoping he’d have a change of heart. Hoping he’d say he had overreacted. Neither happened.
Thiago walked out, and she stumbled to the security monitor near the door.
In the past, he always looked up at the camera or turned back, offering one last glimpse of his magnificent features. Tonight, he did neither.
He strode down the hallway and out of her life.
Her throat ached, and she gulped back the pain, blinking furiously against the tears burning her eyes.
India tried. She really, really tried to hold it together, but her strength deserted her. She crumpled to the floor, and the dam broke, deep sobs rocking her body as she pressed her palms to her eyes and cried.
It was over.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Thiago drove his fists into the heavy bag, the sound of flesh hitting leather echoing in the empty gym.
He had come in early, not bothering with gloves this time. He wanted to feel each blow—the sting of his knuckles splitting, the pain of bone striking against the resistant outer shell of the bag.
He’d lost track of how long he’d been in there. His breathing was hard and ragged, sweat crawling down his forehead and into his eyes as he pivoted and struck with lethal force, again and again.
The pain should keep him from drowning in memories he couldn’t escape, but no matter how many times his fists landed, he couldn’t beat back the images of India. He couldn’t stifle the scent of honeycomb soap and guava hair conditioner that clung to the walls of his bathroom and lingered in his lungs, torturing him, though she hadn’t stepped foot inside his home in what seemed like an eternity.
Each day this week, he had walked into Santana International without a glimpse of her in the hall or the sight of her captivating walk as she strutted into his office in one of hermonochrome designer suits. She was gone for good. He would never see her at the company again.
Thiago growled low in his throat and landed a series of rapid blows, each one harder than the last. Sweat rolled down his back, and his knuckles screamed in protest, but he kept punching, ignoring the pain. Welcoming it.
Finally, his strikes slowed, muscles burning and knuckles throbbing. He let his arms fall loosely to his side and rested his forehead against the bag. Squeezing his eyes shut, he took deep breaths into his lungs.
God, he missed her.
Thiago stumbled back and collapsed against the wall. Lifting his hands, he examined the torn and bruised skin, mesmerized by the blood smeared across the back of his hands. The pain finally registered, but it was nothing compared to the tightness that wouldn’t leave his chest.
He had felt this before, when he had thought he was losing her, only this time the sensation was worse because hehadlost her. His chest cavity felt too small to accommodate his grieving heart.
He pushed away from the wall and shuffled toward the showers. Employees would start arriving soon. He couldn’t allow them to see their CEO in such bad shape.
“Your father is here to see you,” Amir said.
His father? He hadn’t seen him in the office in weeks. Before Thiago could reply, Benicio strolled into the office and closed the door.
Thiago put down his pen to give his father his undivided attention. “Hello, Father. What are you doing here?”
“I came in to work today and thought I’d stop by and say hi. You still haven’t put any guest chairs in front of your desk, I see.”
“And I don’t plan to. Do you need something?” Thiago asked.
“Let’s sit over here, shall we?” Benicio directed him to the sitting area between his desk and the conference table. Benicio sat down and stretched his arm across the back of the sofa. “Have you talked to your mother lately?”
Thiago sat opposite his father. “Two nights ago.”
“How is she?”
“Better.”
“Bruno told me what you and your brothers did. I had no idea Valentina was in serious financial trouble.”
