Chapter 11: A Past That Won't Let Go.
1058 Words
The empty whiskey bottle slips from my grasp, tumbling to the ground and shattering upon impact. A sharp sting cuts through my haze as a shard embeds itself deep into my skin, drawing blood that drips steadily onto the floor. I barely register the pain. Instead, I collapse onto the cold ground, my gaze fixed on the ceiling—yet all I see is 'her'— Eva.
Damn that name. Stacy just had to mention it at Vivian’s party, ripping open a wound I’ve spent years trying to stitch shut.
Eva.
The woman I loved. The woman I lost.
Her bloodied face flashes through my mind like a horror movie stuck on repeat. She was lying there in the jacuzzi, lifeless, and I... I wasn't there. Guilt claws at my chest, sinking its teeth deep.
If only I’d come home early that night. If only I’d answered her call. She tried to warn me—she knew something was wrong. But I was too caught up in some stupid business meeting to pick up the damn phone. And because of that... someone got to her first. Someone stole her life while I was talking numbers and deals.
“Damn it!” I slam my fist into the ground. Pain shoots through my knuckles, but it’s nothing compared to the pain inside me. Blood drips from my cracked skin, but I don’t care. I failed her. As a husband. As a man.
Yeah, this is my life now. To the world, I’m a successful guy with a perfect life. But behind the polished image? I’m just a broken man drowning in regrets.
I force myself up, dragging my tired body toward the house. I need to pull it together. Jane’s coming over, and I can’t let her see me like this—like a goddamn wreck. She’s the only thing keeping me from spiralling too deep into this guilt trip.
My phone vibrates on the bed, snapping me out of my daze. Dave.
Not now. I’m not in the mood for business talk. I let it ring out, toss the phone aside, and head into the bathroom. I scrub the whiskey off my breath, take a quick shower, and throw on a pair of jeans just as the doorbell rings.
Shit.
I rush downstairs, barely thinking, and swing the door open.
Jane stands there, looking up at me with that easy, confident smile. But then her eyes flicker down—to my bare chest. I catch the way she blinks, her lips parting slightly.
She likes what she sees.
And I like what I see, too.
Her messy bun, a few strands of hair teasing her face. That crisp white shirt hugging her curves, the top buttons undone, just enough to make my thoughts drift into dangerous territory. My eyes linger on her cleavage a little too long, and suddenly, all I can think about is unbuttoning the rest of that shirt myself.
My throat goes dry. I swallow hard.
“May I come in?” Her voice is soft, almost teasing.
Shit. Get it together, Richie.
“Yeah, of course. Come in.”
She steps past me, her scent lingering in the air—something sweet, like vanilla, mixed with a hint of mystery.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I say, motioning toward the sofa.
She sits, crossing her legs, and I swear she knows exactly what she’s doing because my eyes are glued to the movement.
“What would you like to drink? Wine? Champagne?”
Jane tilts her head, studying me. Her gaze drifts over my chest again before meeting my eyes.
Before I can grab her drink, her voice stops me in my tracks.
“Are you okay?”
It’s a simple question, but the concern in her tone disarms me.
I force a smile. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Just a long night.”
She stands up, moving toward me—slow, deliberate. Her gaze drops to my hand, and her brows knit together.
“You’re bleeding.”
I glance down. s**t. The cut from earlier—I thought the shower had stopped the bleeding. Guess not.
Before I can brush it off, she reaches for my hand, her fingers grazing my skin. Soft. Gentle. Caring.
I yank my hand back, sharper than I mean to. “It’s nothing, Jane.”
Her face falls, and just like that, a pang of guilt kicks me in the chest. I didn’t mean to snap at her.
“Can I?” Her voice is quiet.
I hesitate.
She scans the room. “Where’s your first-aid kit?”
I sigh. “Upstairs.”
“Good. Let’s go get it.”
This woman is persistent.
I lead the way up the stairs, Jane following close behind. When we get to my room, I point toward the wardrobe.
“There. It’s in the side compartment.” I sit on the bed, watching as she walks over and bends down to retrieve it.
Big mistake.
The way her skirt rides up just enough to tease me? Yeah. I’m in trouble.
My mind drifts into dangerous territory—thoughts of pulling that skirt down, of pressing her against the wardrobe and making her moan my name.
Damn it, Richie, behave.
I shift uncomfortably, trying to will away the heat pooling in my jeans.
Jane straightens, walking over and setting the first-aid kit beside me. “Give me a second—I need to wash my hands first.”
As she disappears into the bathroom, I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself down. But my body? It’s not cooperating. If she comes back and sees me like this... yeah, that’d be embarrassing.
A moment later, Jane returns, opening the kit and sitting beside me. She takes my injured hand, pressing a sterile gauze against the cut, her touch firm but careful.
I watch her—watch her. The way her lips press together in focus, the delicate curve of her jaw, the way her lashes flutter as she works. She’s beautiful. Too beautiful.
And then she looks up.
Our eyes meet.
Her gaze flickers down to my lips, and just like that, the air shifts. The space between us crackles with something electric, something inevitable.
I can’t hold back anymore.
I lean in, catching her lower lip between mine, kissing her hungrily.
- Writer
