Chapter 11: The Escape That Wasn’t
786 Words
I don’t do emotions.
I do nights.
Short.
Forgettable.
Indulgent.
I’m a man of luxury, a collector of pleasures, and a master of escape. I don’t wait for things—I snap my fingers, and they come to me.
A car when I want to leave.
A jet when I want to disappear.
A woman when I want to forget.
But not tonight.
Tonight, there’s nothing.
No phone. No money. No assistant to clean up the mess. No condo in the clouds. Just a half-melted whiskey in my hand, a creaking chair beneath me, and this growing, unwelcome pressure in my chest.
The stars are too quiet. The crickets too loud. The night too still.
I shouldn’t be thinking about her.
I should be figuring out who to replace her with.
Normally, that’s automatic. Reflex. I’ve curated a life where I’m never alone unless I choose to be. A well-oiled machine of beautiful distractions—women who know the rules and never ask for more.
My first call would’ve been Sophia.
A New York socialite who knows how to look like a saint in public and sin like a demon in private. Her lipstick always matched her heels, and she had the decency to leave before morning.
Or Natalia—the Russian heiress who could outdrink me, outsmoke me, and vanish without needing a goodbye.
Or Bella, maybe. That Italian actress with the fake moans and Oscar-winning smile. She knew the script: no promises, no vulnerability, just chemistry.
All of them perfect.
And perfectly empty.
But I can’t call any of them. Because of this bet. This goddamn bet that stripped me of everything—my phone, my cash, my safety nets.
Now I’m stuck here. In a town that smells like pine needles and regret, drinking whiskey that tastes like it came from someone’s granddad’s garage.
I grit my teeth.
My fingers twitch for my phone like it’s still there. I can feel the phantom vibration in my thigh—muscle memory, like a ghost limb.
If I had it, I would’ve already texted Sophia.
Miss me, baby?
And she would’ve answered in seconds.
Always.
And just like that, I’d be back in control. Her body. Her voice. Her scent in my sheets. Her nails in my back. No emotion. No meaning.
Just relief.
But tonight?
Even the thought of her does nothing.
No spark. No pull. Not even a flicker of distraction.
I toss back the rest of the whiskey and stare into the glass, hoping for answers that aren’t coming.
Because I don’t want Sophia.
I want—
God help me—
I want Elara.
Her laugh won’t leave my head. That stupid dare. That moment I should’ve brushed off like I always do. I didn’t.
And now I’m here, haunted by a split-second of possibility.
Her eyes—sharp and stubborn. Her voice, low and teasing, always one step away from challenging me to something dangerous.
She wasn’t impressed.
She wasn’t intimidated.
She wasn’t interested—not in the way they usually are.
And somehow, that’s what gets to me.
Because this isn’t supposed to happen. Not again.
Not since Cassandra.
God. Cassandra.
Soft eyes. Soft words. Lies wrapped in silk sheets. I gave her my heart like an i***t, and she sold it to the highest bidder. When she left, she didn’t just walk out.
She extracted something from me.
Tore out the part that believed in love, in loyalty, in any of it.
After that, I built walls. Thick ones. Reinforced with charm, arrogance, and bank accounts.
No one gets in.
That was the rule.
And then Elara walks in with her unapologetic eyes and that impossible mouth, and suddenly I’m losing the plot.
She doesn’t want anything from me. Not my money, not my name, not my attention. She treats me like I’m just some guy who’s in the way.
And maybe that’s why I can’t get her out of my f*cking head.
Because I can’t buy her.
I can’t seduce her.
I can’t control her.
And for someone like me?
That’s dangerous.
Because for the first time in a long time, I’m not the one pulling the strings.
And worse?
I don’t hate it.
I stare at the empty glass. Then at the stars—too many, too close, too honest.
This town has stripped me of everything I use to survive.
And all I’m left with is this ache in my chest, and the echo of her laughter bouncing around in my skull like a bullet that never stops ricocheting.
I lean back in the chair. Close my eyes. Jaw tight.
And for the first time in years…
I don’t know what the hell to do next.
- Writer
