Page 106 of Broken Pieces
Alex is about two years younger than me if I remember correctly, so it had to have happened right after we moved to the States.
“You and I both know that I was more of a son to him than you ever were. So imagine how I felt when he left you something thatbelonged to me.”
I wince at the words that feel like a shot to my heart. I know better than anyone that my father didn’t care about me. He made sure I knew every fucking day of my life. It fucking wrecked me to see he bonded with Alex over art, something I loved as much as him, maybe even more. How he taught Alex everything he knew—which, at this point, I don’t know if I should feel thankful that it wasn’t me, knowing now how Alex turned out. It still fucking hurts, though. I never understood why I was cast aside. This is fucking why? All because he knocked up God knowswho and had a guilty conscience and decided to raise onlyoneof his sons. The one that was most similar to him, nonetheless.
I wonder ifMammaknows. I wonder if maybe this is why she never got in the middle of it, because she was dealing with her own hurt.
Alex is just like our father. Filled with anger; envy; hatred. That’s why my father was never able to take the business to the next level, like he wanted to. Because he refused to show emotion and his human side—if he ever had any—when it was necessary. Even the most ruthless men in the world have a human side and are not afraid to show it. Not showing any, at all, is what makes you fucking weak. It took me so long to realize that, but now I fucking know better. And I let my father convince me along the way that I was good for nothing. That I wouldn’t make it. That I was weak. When in reality? He was just fucking deflecting.
There’s no point in dwelling in the fucking past that has been drowning me for so fucking long. What can I do about that now? I’ve made my life’s mission to do everything my father couldn’t do. I’m a goddamn billionaire. I made sure to set up my life. To be successful. All just to spite him, and that got me nowhere. Alone. Sad. Empty.
Until I met her.Aria is all that matters now. And I need to protect her. If there’s any human side to Alex, he’ll seeit too. This is between us. There’s no reason for her to be involved in something like this.
“Alex, don’t do this,” I plead.
He laughs, striding to the elevator, me hot on his heels. He presses the button as silence blooms in the room. You can cut the tension with a knife.
The ding of the elevator cuts the deafening silence.
As Alex stands inside the elevator and the doors start to close at a painfully slow pace, he says, “Tick-Tock,brother. You have a choice to make.”
Three weeks have passed since Damian's arrest, and he's been avoiding me like the plague. That day, he was supposed to stay over at my place, but stood me up.
He said he was busy, so I let it go.
I tried to meet with him the day after, and he said he was still extremely busy with meetings and coming up with a game plan for the indictment. I understood and decided to let it go—again—trying my best to be understanding.
But now he’s blatantly avoiding me. And it stings, especially with what happened at the gala right before everything went to shit. In other instances, I would be the good little patient girl who sits and waits for him to show his face. My new self, though? Theexact opposite.
Hence why I’m outside of Vortex after Isabella gave me access to his calendar. I don’t care if I seem like a crazy stalker. I’m worried. So fucking worried. I heard from Isabella that the indictment is next month, and he didn’t even tell me.
I’m trying not to take this personally. I really am.
From what the calendar showed—which was extremely vague—his meeting should be finishing up right now.
I lean against a building across the street, looking at the club entrance. Once I spot him, I cross the sidewalk and stand in front of him, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow expectantly.
His gaze snaps up, surprise lacing his features. “What are you doing here?”
His voice is slurry, and he smells like a distillery. I’m not too sure now if the calendar was right. He doesn’t drink more than one glass of bourbon during meetings, saying that it clouds the mind.
“You’re avoiding me. And you’re drunk,” I state in a matter-of-fact tone, void of emotion.
He takes his phone out of his pocket, avoiding my gaze. “I’m not drunk.” His slur is more pronounced now. “And I told you, I’ve been busy.”
I take the phone out of his hands, which is relatively easy since his movements are slower than normal. “Twenty-four hours a day? You can’t take a moment to call me?Text me?” I gulp, trying my best to compose myself. “You stood me up.”
He runs his fingers through his hair, still avoiding my gaze. His eyes are glassy, though. His face flushed from the alcohol. His words are cold, and a little sharper now. “I’m trying to get my shit together, Aria. I don’t have time for this,” he mutters, walking to where his driver is waiting for him.
I follow after him like a pathetic fool, but God, I don’t care. He’s not getting away with this. I deserve more than this. I don’t deserve to be brushed off.
I grab his arm, stopping him. “Damian, talk to me. What’s wrong? Why are you drunk in the middle of the fucking day?”
He snaps, shaking off my grip rudely. “Aria, I will fucking talk to you when I can. Now, I have another meeting to go to.”
“With who? Your bottle of bourbon?”
He snarls. “Stop worrying about me, you look pathetic.”
