T-MINUS 13 DAYS.
When it came to my future demise, I always wondered when it would happen.
Not if.
Not how.
But when.
It seemed inevitable.
In April, I would turn thirty-four, the age Dad had been when he passed away. How could he—larger than life, a pillar of the community, my idol—be outlived by me?
The answer—impossible.
And so, I no longer bothered trying to pretend to be an upstanding citizen of society. Or even a participant in civilization.
I succumbed to my demise, hopping restaurant to restaurant, hotel to hotel, hunting down the bane of my existence—Eileen Yang.
Problem was, I knew nothing about her. Didn’t know her likes and dislikes. Where she drank her coffee and went to pass time.
All I knew was she’d actually taken that sabbatical and fucked off into the unknown.
I’d hacked into all I could.
Her credit cards—unused.
Social media accounts—crickets.
Emails—all answered, except mine.
Tom reclined on my sofa, kicking his feet up on the armrest. “She’s off the grid.”
“Are you amused?”
He tossed a stress ball up and caught it. “Are you even Zachary Sun?”
My knuckles grazed my jaw, where a solid quarter-inch of hair greeted me. “I’m in between shaves.”
“What you’re in between is a mid-life crisis.” He let the ball roll onto the rug. “What the fuck, man?”
What the fuck, indeed.
Six days ago, I’d given up on normalcy, canceling all plans, meetings, and appointments. Not to mention Oliver and Romeo, whom I avoided like the plague.
I spent my days staring out the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Farrow in her Prius. (It happened once. Didn’t see her face, but I knew that ass like the back of my hand.)
At night, I roamed the halls of my mansion, desperate for a waft of her scent that still lingered in the air.
And in between, I pursued my future ex-fiancé like a man unhinged, desperate to put a stop to this madness.
Enough.
I shot up.
Tom spun to his feet, sitting upright. “Where are you going?”
“Her condo.” I stormed into the hall, taking the steps two at a time.
“In New York?” He jogged to catch up to me, heaving out pants. “She won’t be there. I had a friend check.”
Still, I had to do something.
Anything to straighten up this mess I should’ve dealt with ages ago.
Tom gave up chasing me as I rounded the corner, escaping into my second garage. I must’ve given poor Ian a jump scare with my unshaven face, because he brandished his keys before him as a weapon.
It took my driver a moment to recognize his own boss, a solid twenty seconds passing before he lowered the keys. “Mr. Sun?”
“The airport.” I slid into the car, snatching up a glass from the minibar. “ASAP.”
I planned on drowning in my own misery and enough scotch to fill up an Olympic pool. Through the divider, the clock glared at me.
I told myself drinking before nine a.m. made me a pirate not an alcoholic and that dubious sobriety was a feature not a bug when you were a mostly retired billionaire.
By the time I landed in New York and showed up at Eileen’s building, I couldn’t stand straight.
A foot away, some kid white-knuckled a dog leash.
He struggled to keep the labradoodle still as it barked at me. “Mommy, Smithy won’t stop.”
His mother leaned down and shushed the pup, shaking her head. “He always does this around strange men.”
Rock, meet Bottom.
And yet…
Somehow, I knew I had a long way to go before I hit real rock bottom.
13 days, to be exact.
I should’ve done a better job imagining my future demise.
Because it did not, in fact, manifest in a fiery crash.
It manifested in a beat-up heart.
In the pathetic attempts of a deranged man to piece it back together.
