Page 57 of August and the Night

Cole's response is tinged with confusion. "What do you mean? I thought the timing didn't matter as long as it got out there."

I hang up without another word, my heart racing, my mind a whirlwind of thoughts. I open my search engine, my fingers typing out the dreaded name—Lexingtons. The results flood the screen, multiple articles and news channels reporting the sordid tales, backed by evidence that I have meticulously gathered.

I click through the articles, and my chest constricts. The Lexingtons have built their empire on a foundation of lies and corruption, and now the world is witnessing their downfall.

But amid the tumult of emotions, my thoughts are consumed by Layla. How is she dealing with this onslaught? Just days ago, she was thrust into a whirlwind of revelations, of emotions, and now this—another layer of her reality torn apart. My chest tightens as I picture her struggling to process it all, to find her footing in a world that has been upended.

I know that our relationship can never be what I want it to be, that the barriers between us are insurmountable. I understand the necessity of making her hate me, of pushing her away for her own sake. But in this moment, all that rationale fades, and the only thing that remains is a burning desire to be there for her, to explain that there is nothing between me and my secretary, that my heart, my mind, my soul are all hers.

I know I cannot call her, cannot reach out. It will only complicate matters further. And yet, as I stare at my phone, I cannot help but wish for a miracle—that Layla will defy all odds and somehow understand the truth beneath the layers of deception. That she will see through the pain I have caused and hear the desperate plea in my heart.

Worry consumes me, gnawing at my chest like a relentless hunger. I cannot shake the image of Layla, her world unraveling.

My fingers tremble as I dial John. He picks up after a few rings, and I waste no time. "John, I need you to do something for me."

There is a sigh on the other end of the line, a resigned exhale that speaks of familiarity with my demands. "What is it, boss?"

"Protect Layla," I instruct, my voice laced with urgency. "Keep an eye on her, make sure she's safe. Report to me immediately if anything seems off."

There is a brief pause before John responds, his tone tinged with tension. "I'll keep an eye on her."

I hang up, my fingers gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. My mind is a maelstrom of emotions—guilt, concern, and an overwhelming desire to shield Layla from the storm I have inadvertently set into motion.

I slam my hand against the steering wheel, frustration and helplessness coursing through me. This is supposed to be a triumph, a culmination of years of hard work. I have meticulously built the foundation that will expose the Lexingtons for who they truly are. This should have been a moment of elation, of satisfaction. So, why do I feel this way?

My emotions churn, a tumultuous blend of longing and despair. I know why—Layla. She has unknowingly become the axis around which my world revolves. The very thought of her in pain, in turmoil, ignites a fire within me that I cannot control.

This is not how it is supposed to be. I have constructed walls around me to keep her away. But now those walls are confining me, suffocating me. My rational mind clashes with my heart, and I cannot escape the truth—I want to be there for her, to grovel to have her back. But I just know I cannot.

45

August

I book a last-minute ticket to Seattle, urgency pushing me forward as the plane touches down on unfamiliar ground. I can't stand the silence in my own home, the absence of Layla creating a void that swallows me whole. So, I find myself in my office, surrounded by the familiar trappings of work, yet unable to escape the consuming thoughts of her.

I pour myself a glass of whiskey, its burn a fleeting distraction from the turmoil churning inside me. But even as the alcohol slides down my throat, the sharp edges of my emotions remain unblunted. The weight of my decisions, the guilt, and longing, press down upon me like a heavy fog.

Abruptly, the door to my office explodes open, a wave of pent-up fury preceding Dante's entrance. His very presence a tempest of anger and resentment. His eyes are ablaze, reddened with unchecked rage, and the tension emanating from him is undeniable.

Before anyone can react, he strides past my bewildered staff, their attempts to intervene lacking as he waves them off with one arm. I raise a hand, gesturing for them to stand down, allowing Dante to enter my office. He closes the door behind him.

His glare is unrelenting as he focuses on me, the intensity of his anger like a physical force that sears the air. Despite his entrance resembling a furious blizzard, I remain seated behind my desk, unaffected by the tempest he has brought with him. My posture remains unchanged, my gaze level as I meet his fiery eyes with calm detachment.

The storm of Dante's emotions churns, his glare directed at me like he wants to kill me. The corners of my lips twitch, an almost imperceptible challenge flickering in my expression. The contrast between his rage and my composed demeanor is stark, which seems to make him even angrier.

I meet his glare with indifference. My voice is measured when I finally speak. "You have something to say, Dante?"

Without warning, his fist arcs through the air, connecting solidly with my jaw. The impact sends a shockwave through me, snapping my head to the side.

The force of the blow fuels my own adrenaline, my body reacting instinctively. I lunge forward, grappling with Dante as our tempers flare into a fierce, unbridled struggle. Fists exchange blows, each punch a vent for the pent-up frustration that has consumed us both.

Finally, the storm of our rage begins to subside, the intensity of our struggle winding down until we stand facing each other, both of us panting and bruised.

I gesture to the seat, and we sit across from each other. I reach for the whiskey bottle on my desk, pouring two glasses without a word. The amber liquid swirls into the glasses.

I push a glass towards him, and he accepts the drink with a grunt. We sip the whiskey as we regain our breath.

His features are etched with lingering anger, his intense gaze never straying from mine. "You know," he begins, his voice laden with a simmering resentment, "I really don't appreciate what you did to Lily."

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