I stand rooted in place, letting the cold seep in through my coat, for nearly five minutes. I just stare at the spot where Margo stood, where she accused me of something absolutely horrible, and where I understood for the first time in my life what it feels like to truly hate myself.
The pain in her face, the way her voice cracked when she said we were done… it felt like a hot knife being shoved between my ribs.
Now she’s gone, and she’s taken every ounce of my happiness with her.
I’ve fucked everything up, and this is just proof that I was never good enough for her in the first place. I’m not worthy of her love, and as painful as it was to watch her walk away, I know it’s for the best. She deserves someone who isn’t capable of breaking her heart like I did. She deserves someone who doesn’t make her cry, who doesn’t make her doubt herself or take away her ability to trust.
“Excuse me, Mr. Blake? Sir—”
It’s my building’s doorman. He walks up behind me and taps me on the shoulder, startling me out of my trance.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Mr. Blake, but your car…”
I glance over my shoulder at where I abruptly pulled over to the side of the road near the front of my building. My Mercedes is parked at an odd angle, and I didn’t even bother closing the driver’s side door, so other cars are veering around it as they pass.
“Thank you,” I say dully before reaching up and wiping away the tears from under my eyes. “I’ll move it.”
“Alright.” He nods, looking uncomfortable, like he’s not sure whether she should say something else. He finally decides on, “If you need help with your bags, let me know.”
“I won’t. But thank you.”
I return to my car and drive into the parking garage on autopilot, barely aware of my surroundings as I roll into my parking spot and grab my bags from the trunk before taking the elevator up to the top floor.
As I step inside my condo, the place feels empty and cold. Devoid of life. I look around the room, tormented by memories of the times Margo and I spent here together. I think about kissing her in the doorway and not wanting to let her go after the first time we slept together. And I think about how perfect she used to look, lounging in one of my old t-shirts on the couch on lazy Sunday mornings. Each memory comes with a pinprick of pain, aimed directly at the soft, tender part of my heart.
I drop my bags and walk over to the far window, digging my phone out of my pocket as I go. There’s something I have to do, and I want to get it over with as quickly as possible.
The view of the snow-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains in the distance is usually soothing, but nothing can calm the agitation inside me as I call my father and wait for him to answer.
He answers after the third ring. “Noah. Do you have an update?”
“I did what you wanted me to.”
“Wonderful.” He sounds truly pleased, which makes my jaw clench so hard that my teeth grind together. “You made the right decision. This is what’s best for the family, and we all appreciate the sacrifice you made.”
“I didn’t do it for you,” I say coldly, fighting the urge to throw my phone across the room. “You know I didn’t.”
He sighs. “I suppose the semantics of it aren’t so important. What really matters is that Brent’s reputation remains intact.”
“And what about my reputation, Dad?” I can barely make out the ghost of my reflection in the glass of the window pane, and I stare at that barely-there version of myself as I speak. “What about the things people are saying about me?”
“Well, no offense, son, but what they’re saying isn’t anything you haven’t heard before, right? People expect men like you to do things like this, to have mistresses who end up pregnant. I’m not trying to be crass, but you have to know that this sort of thing just… it doesn’t affect you in the same way.”
“Like you even give a shit about how it does or does not affect me,” I bite out.
“Your career will be just fine after all of this,” he promises, as if that’s what I’m worried about. “That’s what I’m trying to say. In your line of work, having a bit of a rough reputation is almost an asset, not a liability like it would be for Brent. Don’t worry. You won’t be on the hook to this woman financially. Your mother and I have made arrangements with her. Just keep going along with the story that you’re the father, and we’ll handle everything else.”
My grip on the phone tightens, my knuckles aching from the strain. I hate my father for doing this, for forcing me to take the fall just to protect his golden boy, Brent.
But he’s still holding all the cards, and he knows it, so I have to tread lightly, as difficult as that may be.
“You’d better hold up your end of our deal,” I tell him, my voice harsh.
“I will.” He pauses, then adds, “And thank you, Noah. You did the right thing by your famil—”
“Fuck you, Dad.”
I cut him off, yanking the phone away from my ear and ending the call. Tossing my cell aside, I sink down onto the couch and rest my elbows on my knees, my shoulders slumped and my head hanging. My chest is so tight that every beat of my heart is painful, and it’s a struggle to breathe.
I’ve never looked forward to speaking with my father, so when I realized I’d answered his call last night without checking to see who it was, I immediately regretted it.
I still regret it.
Because that single phone call blew up my entire life.
