full, so when I reach for the door to Callum’s office, my sketchbook falls to the floor. I sigh, putting down my can of Mountain Dew on the side table nearby and tucking my phone into my bra, before crouching down to start scooping up the loose pages that fluttered across the floor. The sound of Callum and Roscoe’s conversation drifts through the crack in the door.
“—everything’s been handled and cleaned,” Roscoe states. Shoving the papers back into my sketchbook, I can’t help but listen.
“Good,” Callum says. “I won’t pretend that killing those fuckers was for the job. Harris’ check was a bonus. People who sell little girls like that deserve to suffer, they got what was coming to them.”
“It’s too bad there were complications.” Roscoe says gravely, making me pause.
“You think the casualties could have been avoided?”
“No.” Roscoe’s answer has my stomach dropping. “But they were innocent, it could have been different.”
Innocents, as in innocent deaths? Callum went after the men who took Lottie and ended up with casualties. And Senator Harris paid him to do it.
Anger and disbelief bubble up inside me. The hammering in my chest has my fight of flight instincts kicking in. I have to get moving, I can’t stand here and listen to this anymore.
Leaving my sketchbook where it sits on the floor, I straighten my shoulders before pushing through the door.
“How many?” I demand answers. Both men turn to look at me in surprise, but it doesn’t last long. My challenging gaze tells them I heard their conversation.
“Lexie—” I completely ignore Callum, instead turning my demanding gaze to Roscoe.
“How many casualties?” I want answers, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Just two.” Roscoe’s gruff answer isn’t nearly enough, I need details.
“Who?”
“Lexie,” This time it’s Roscoe trying to dissuade me from the topic, making my stomach churn. The fact that he doesn’t want to say it makes me imagine the worst.
“Who?” My voice rises. “Women? Children?” Roscoe’s eyes cut to Callum, asking his boss for permission. Callum gives no indication, simply staring at me with his jaw clenched, hands gripping his desk tightly. The tension in his body has my anxiety rising.
“The girlfriend to one of the men we hit caught a stray bullet.” The knot in my stomach tightens. His voice tells me there’s something else, something he’s not saying.
“And?” I’m already getting emotional, but I’m not letting this go.
“She was seven months pregnant.” Callum’s words hit me like a punch to the stomach, my heart stopping in my chest. I turn my horrified eyes to land on him heavily. Callum gazes back, rigid as a statue.
“The baby?” Despite the nausea clawing at me I have to ask. When he doesn’t answer, the tears prick behind my eyes. “Tell me.”
“He didn’t make it,” Callum replies heavily. The crushing sadness forces the air from my lungs. “They had to deliver him too soon. He only lived for three hours, there was no way he could survive without his mother.”
“You did this?” I ask him.
“It wasn’t part of the plan.”
“You knew it was a possibility, Callum. You never do anything without knowing every single possible outcome.”
“Casualties are always a risk. It’s a cost of doing business. Collateral damage.”
“Are you really trying to justify this to me right now? This wasn’t business.” I spit back. “It was murder. Callous, reckless murder.”
“I don’t have to justify anything to you.” Callum’s voice darkens at the implication. His need for control is twisting into anger and it’s just stoking my own rage. “It’s the reality of the situation. Her boyfriend made some bad decisions, and his family is the price he paid for them. That woman knew who she was sleeping with, and she chose to have a child with him anyway. She decided to take that risk with both of their lives, and it ended up getting her and her baby killed.”
I still, my body shifting from fiery hostility into cold contempt. He can’t possibly think that. Callum, the man who holds me at night so I can sleep—who makes sure I drink enough water and watches over me so diligently—can’t possibly have just said that. Because if this is how he truly feels, then I don’t know him at all. This complete disregard for the wellbeing of others is staggering.
Devastating.
“Is that what you’d say if it was me?” I ask, despair weighing heavily on my chest. “I know who I’m sleeping with, or at least I thought I did. Am I going to pay for your sins with my life?”
“Of course not,” Callum replies tursely, bracing his hands on his desk like he needs the support. “I’d never let that happen.”
“I’m sure the man who just lost everything told the mother of his child the same thing.”
“It’s different for us and you know it.”
“Do I? You clearly don’t value human life, I’ve seen it firsthand. So why am I trusting you to protect mine? That woman had a name. Do you even know it? Did you even bother to find out?”
“Lexie—”
“Of course not. Why would you bother with details like that, they’re irrelevant to you. You’re just a machine—a cold, calculating computer only weighing risks for profit and nothing else.”
“Not with you, Dewdrop.” He steps around the desk, but I take a responding step back.
“I can’t even look at you.” I shake my head, a tear falling down my cheek and landing on my chest. The second tear slides down more slowly, dramatically, making Callum frown.
“Wait, come back,” he says, voice strained as I turn on my heel to walk out the door. “Lexie!”
I think I love him, but how can I love a man like this? I believe so strongly in the importance of innocent human life and what they can bring to the world. It’s why I chose to work in medicine—to help people. How can I possibly love a man who destroys lives without so much as a second thought? A pregnant woman and her unborn child used as a fuse to blow up a man’s life. Callum’s not just a killer, he’s a robot—devoid of any capacity for human emotion. So how can I love him? And how can he possibly care about me?
He hasn’t told me that he loves me, but it’s there—between every word he speaks, in every look. It’s implied with every bottle of water and stroke of my hair at night. But he’s never said it, and I’m an idiot for thinking he does. That he even can. Maybe this whole time I’ve been looking for signs of something that doesn’t exist.
“Where are you going?” He’s right behind me, towering over me with each step as I move through the penthouse in search of an escape. I can’t deal with him right now. Or maybe ever again after what he’s done. Right now it feels impossible to ever get past this.
“Anywhere but here.” I just want to curl up in my bed and cry. Alone.
“Stop, we can talk about this.” There’s an edge to his voice, one I haven’t heard before. It’s panic.
“We did talk, and there’s nothing left to say. What’s done is done, you can’t take it back. No returns.” My anger has his own words coming at him like bullets in a loaded gun. The ammo hits him right where I aimed, dead center.
Kill shots.
“Don’t fucking say that.” The dark edge in his husky voice is raw with conviction. When I reach my room, his hand on my arm catches me. I shake off his touch, batting his hand away. It’s a small relief when he takes the hint and steps back.
“Leave me alone.”
“Let me in, Lexie,” Callum insists, stepping into the doorway so I can’t close the door. So I can’t shut him out. He’s radiating concern, his passionate eyes on me silently pleading.
“You said you’ll always give me what I need,” I remind him, the tears now streaming down my face freely. “Right now I need to be alone, and away from you.” The tremble in my voice is unmistakable.
A line appears between his brows as he reaches out and swipes a tear from my top lip, his fingers surprisingly gentle compared to how rigidly his body is crowding the doorway. Each muscle is tightly coiled, no doubt fighting the urge to force his way into the room and throw me over his shoulder.
“I’ll give you anything. Anything but that,” he rasps. I inch away from him, putting space between us. When he reaches for me again, I avoid his touch.
If he doesn’t leave, if he keeps insisting, I’m going to cave and let him in. My desperation for him to leave wars with my need for him to wrap me in his strong arms and hold me. Callum is the reason I’m so devastated, but he’s also the one person who can take all the pain away.
“I need you to go. Are you going back on your word?” A sob escapes me, and I need to wrap my arms around my middle to keep myself together. I’m about to crumble, and seeing the pained look in Callum’s hazel eyes only pushes me closer to the edge.
“No,” he grounds out through clenched teeth, his eyes searching my face intently.
“Then walk away.” I stare him down, even when tears blur my vision. Callum’s arms move to reach for me again, but he thinks better of it and pulls them back—instead crossing them over his chest, like it’s the only way to keep them to himself.
“I’ll let you close this door, but I’m not walking away from you.” His tone is low, and rough with something that sounds a lot like emotion.
“Please, go.” This time my voice is barely above a whisper, hitting him straight in the chest. He begrudgingly takes a step back to clear the doorway, his arms bracing himself on either side of the doorframe. When I close the door and turn the lock, the sound of his deep voice carries with the string of curses uttered violently under his breath.
Falling onto the bed, I kick my shoes off before crawling under the covers. No longer trying to hold back, I sob freely into my pillow.
I need to call Mia, or Julie, to talk through the devastating weight dangerously close to crushing me in this moment. I need someone to comfort me, tell me that everything will work out. I need advice on where to go from here, and what steps I need to take to heal from all of this. I need a voice of reason to talk me down from the emotional ledge I’m teetering on right now, dangerously close to freefalling into the knowledge that my life is over. I need understanding and logic against the irrational thoughts dragging me towards a spiral away from the person I’ve worked so hard to become, and back to the broken person I was before.
But I can’t.
I can’t tell anyone any of this. Legally, and morally, I can’t say a fucking word. Even if the NDA I signed wasn’t gagging me, there’s no way I could ever drag the people I love into this hell. The only person I can turn to for refuge is the man who caused all of this.
Instead I cry myself to sleep.
***
The sound of my phone ringing yanks me out of a restless sleep. My eyes are exhausted and tear swollen when I force them open to reach for the device. A photo of me and Mia on a wild night out lights the screen, my best friend’s name written across the top. Taking a deep breath, I press the button to answer.
“Hey Mia.” I force a cheerful tone despite my wrecked voice. Turns out spending the whole night sobbing uncontrollably really does a number on the vocal cords. “What’s up?”
“Lexie.” The way she says my name has me sitting up.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your sister’s here at the hospital.” There’s something in her tone that has a new knot forming in my stomach. Trying not to assume the worst, I ask for clarification.
“Samantha’s there, like, to visit?”
“She’s going into surgery, I wanted to call you before I scrub in. You’re still her emergency contact.” Mia’s voice is more serious than I’ve ever heard it before. This is real, the knot tightening painfully.
“What happened?”
“Looks like a hit and run. Her car rolled, she never regained consciousness.” I’m already up and moving. Woah, I’m kinda dizzy—last night’s episode really did a number on me. It feels like an emotional hangover.
“How is she?” Stumbling into the closet, I’m shoving clothes into my carryon suitcase before I can have a chance to look at what I’m grabbing. Anxiety is starting to build in my chest, pressing against my ribcage like a corset several sizes too small.
“She has pretty severe concussion, we won’t know the extent until she wakes up. The imaging showed massive internal bleeding. She’s at risk of paralysis and organ failure. We’ll know more after we open her up, but she’s stable.” Mia’s professionalism is impressive as she delivers the update of such an emotional personal topic. I can hear the sounds of hospital chaos around her, and I try not to picture my little sister part of the urgency.
The corset strings tighten painfully.
“I’m coming. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Bras and panties are being hastily tossed into the bag without consideration.
“I have to get into the O.R.” Mia’s voice is soft and riddled with restrained concern. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
“Ok,” I breathe. “Thank you for calling, I’ll let you go. Bye.”
“Of course,” Mia responds sincerely. “Bye.” Standing in the center of the closet—that looks like it was hit by a tornado—I look around feeling lost. Tugging on a clean pair of leggings and an oversized crewneck sweatshirt, I stuff my sock clad feet into my white tennis shoes.
Stepping over the piles of strewn clothing, I move to the bathroom to collect my toiletries before adding them to my bag. Zipping the carryon closed, I rush to the kitchen, trailing the suitcase behind me.
My phone is already open looking for flights from NYC to Oregon. Last minute flights are so expensive and have multiple hour long layovers. Overwhelmed and already emotionally raw from last night, the phone is shaking in my hand. Deciding just to pick the best of the shitty flights, and the most expensive, I struggle to fill out the ticket information.
I need my damn credit card.
Grabbing my handbag from the far edge of the counter, I’m digging through it frantically when I hear Callum enter the kitchen behind me. “What’s going on?”
Shoving things aside, my wallet is still nowhere to be found. “Where the fuck is it? It has to be in here.” I force out a shaky breath, my frustration level rising.
“What are you looking for?” he asks, getting closer.
“My wallet. I can’t buy a plane ticket without my fucking credit card.” Fed up, I take the bag and turn it upside down to empty the damn thing out on the counter. All of my shit comes tumbling out, scattering across the counter top and falling onto the floor.
“Plane ticket?” His voice is confused, but there’s an undertone of trepidation in his question. “Where are you going? Tell me what’s happening.”
“I need to get back to Oregon.” Sifting through my makeup bags, crumpled receipts and packets of tissues. “Mia called, my sister is in the hospital. She was in an accident.” It’s not here. Why isn’t my wallet here? I take a step back to look around me.
“What’s her condition?” Callum’s question barely registers when my eyes catch on the pink leather peeking out from under the cabinet near the toe-kick.
“Here it is,” I hiss, grabbing the wallet. My fingers are trembling as I unsnap it. When I struggle to pull my credit card loose from its place in the card holder, a strong hand is covering mine to stop me.
“Hey, take a breath and talk to me.”
“Samantha’s car rolled, she’s going into surgery,” I stammer. “I have to get there.”
“You’ll get there.” Callum presses his phone to his ear, stealing my wallet from my hands as he waits for whoever he’s calling to pick up. “I need the plane fuelled and ready to go. How soon can it be ready?”
“What are you doing?”
“Good, get it done.” He ends the call to answer me. “My jet is the fastest way to get there. It’ll be ready in an hour.”
“Give me my wallet back, I need it.”
“No. I’ll give it back once I’m packed.”
“What?”
“I’m coming with you,” he announces.
“No you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“It’s my sister, Callum. This is my family business.”
“I know,” he states firmly. “I’m coming with you.” Holding up my wallet tellingly, he backs out of the room to go pack. There’s no going anywhere without my ID and credit cards, he knows that. He’s effectively clipped my wings.
Son of a bitch.
My feet can’t stop moving, the anxiety making me restless. If I stop long enough to sit, then the what ifs start to take over. And I can’t bear the thought of what might be happening with Samantha on the operating table right now. She’s the only family I have, I can’t lose her.
I end up in my bathroom, standing in front of the sink. Looking in the mirror is a mistake, my reflection is pitiful. Disturbing. My face is puffy from crying under the crusty remnants of yesterday’s makeup. Looking at myself, it’s a wonder I didn’t feel as gross as I look.
Turning on the sink, I cup my hands to splash my face with water. The cold liquid feels refreshing against my skin. As each thought about what’s happening comes, both with my sister and with Callum, it’s forced out of my head. I focus solely on my task as I scrub the last twenty four hours from my skin.
“There you are.” Callum’s deep voice sounds as he steps into the doorway. “I thought you’d left for a minute there.”
“I can’t go anywhere, you made sure of that,” I reply flatly, my words heavy with meaning. Reaching for a towel, I pat the moisture from my face before letting it drop back on the counter. My hands are on autopilot carrying out the next few steps of my skincare regimen. Keeping my eyes averted, I turn around to leave the room. But he’s right there, standing in my way.
He’s alway right fucking there.
“You need to eat something.” Callum’s tone is firm. I try to step around him, refusing to meet his eyes. But he’s following my movements, his giant frame blocking my path. I can practically feel his eyes on me, burning a hole into the top of my head.
“Leave me alone. I’m not hungry.” Lifting my eyes, my gaze lands to focus on the top button of his dress shirt. I don’t have it in me to look at his face right now.
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday afternoon,” he points out. Of course he knows that, leave it to Callum to track my eating habits even when I’m furious with him.
Control freak.
“I said I’m not hungry. You don’t get to control everything about me,” I snap, the frustration in my voice more than obvious. When I move to turn away, he catches me. One of his large hands clasps my shoulder, the other lifting my chin until I’m forced to look up and meet his eyes. Callum’s expression is one of unwavering determination.
“You’re angry at me, I get that. You’re allowed to be.” His gaze drills into me. “But what’s not allowed is for you to stop taking care of yourself because you’re upset.” The message hits home, landing heavily in my chest. It’s exactly what my therapist would say— “you can’t pour from an empty cup.” This tends to be a pattern when I’m emotional about something. Self isolation and restriction—it’s how I self sabotage.
He’s right, and I fucking hate it.
“Fine. I’ll make myself a damn sandwich,” I grit out, and I don’t miss how the harsh edges of his face soften in concern. I look pointedly at his hands, and he very reluctantly lets go of me. Taking a step back, he doesn’t go too far. His eyes are watching diligently as I walk to the kitchen and assemble a simple turkey sandwich.
