Outside His Shadow

Chapter 18: The Sound of a Breaking Heart

Michael stepped in, his silhouette heavy against the dim light of the hallway. He didn't say a word at first. He just stood there, watching me sit on the edge of the bed in the dark.

"Sloane told me what happened in town," he said, his voice low, vibrating with a tension he was trying to control. "She said you attacked her, Olivia. She showed me the marks."

I didn't look at him after all I just witnessed. I couldn't. I felt the first hot sting of a tear hit the back of my throat. I tried to swallow it, to push it down into that deep vault where I kept everything else, but the vault was full. My chest felt tight, my lungs refusing to expand.

"And you believed her," I whispered. It wasn't a question.

"I didn't say that. But she’s—"

"Important?" I finished for him, my voice cracking. "Important for the deal? Important for your ego?"

I stood up, but my legs felt like water. A sudden, violent jerk went through my shoulders—a muscle spasm born from days of holding myself perfectly still. I turned to face him, and the first sob broke out before I could stop it. It wasn't a dainty, cinematic tear; it was a guttural, ugly sound that tore out of my lungs.

I clamped my hands over my mouth to stifle the noise, a silent scream vibrating through my entire frame. Every lie, every "late night at the office," and every image of Sloane and Beatrice flashed behind my eyes.

"Olivia, stop. Please," Michael said, his voice cracking. He crossed the room in two strides and dropped to his knees in front of me. He wrapped his arms around my waist, pulling me down until I collapsed onto the floor with him.

"I’m sorry," he choked out, burying his face in my lap. He held me with a desperate, suffocating strength, his hands trembling against my back. "I’m so sorry. Sloane... she’s nothing. We were done a long time ago, I swear to you. She was just a mistake that didn't know how to end."

I pushed at his shoulders, my crying becoming profuse, my vision blurred by a thick veil of salt and grief. "Then why, Michael? Why do you need them? Why do you need to impress these girls who only let you hit because of the money? Is your ego that fragile? Does it make you feel more like a man to have a collection of women who only stay as long as the card is active?"

He looked up at me, his own eyes red, his face stripped of the arrogance I’d grown to hate. "It wasn't about them. It was never about them."

"I have been with no man but you," I screamed, the sound raw and jagged. "For three years, Michael! I have touched no one else. I have looked at no one else. If the roles were reversed—if I had spent the last three years in the arms of other men while you waited for me—would you still be here? Would you still want me?"

He flinched as if I’d struck him. He opened his mouth to speak, to offer more excuses, but no words came out. He just reached for my hands, trying to press them to his lips. "Please, Olivia. Don't do this. I'll change. I'll make it right. I'll send her away tonight."

"And what about Beatrice?" I asked, my voice dropping to a terrifying, hollow whisper. "Are you going to go back in time and un-touch her, too? Are you going to erase the years I spent wondering what was wrong with me?"

I pulled my hands back, the physical contact feeling like an electric shock. The crying had slowed to a steady, silent stream of tears, leaving me feeling hollowed out and cold.

"Get out," I said.

"Olivia, please—"

"Out, Michael!" I stood up, backing away from him as he stayed on his knees on the rug. "I can't breathe in the same room as you tonight. Go sleep in the library. Go sleep in the guest house. I don't care. Just get out."

He looked at me for a long, agonizing minute, his face a mask of total defeat. He stood up slowly, his head bowed, and walked to the door.

The door clicked shut. I was alone in the room, but the silence didn't bring peace.