by Tempest Phan
I snorted. This conversation felt like déjà vu.
“Mira. You know that I want nothing but happiness for you.”
Nice way of showing it, as always, Daddy.
But I didn’t say anything, because I shouldn’t have had to. No, I stared back, meeting his glare with one of my own. I was no longer a reserved seventeen-year-old. He did not intimidate me.
He ran a hand over his face. “Mira, the firm has been in talks with Stone for so many years. Now, we are close. Very close.”
Bastard.
I grabbed my glass again and drained the remainder in one go, feeling the heat starting to suffuse my face. Was it from the alcohol or from my rage at my father?
“So you’ve been planning this. Planning it for years. Was Stone in on it?”
My father had the decency to look ashamed. “Which? Mark? Yes, Mark is the one who always believed that there was no better way to cement the Stone-Davenport partnership . . .”
“Did Lukas know?” I spit out the words, feeling the bile, so bitter, lodged in my throat.
“Lukas? No, no, of course not. Look at you. Look at him.”
Yes, look at us.
“It was always my plan to let things evolve organically. How could they not? And they nearly did, Mira. Very nearly.”
“Until I fucked up your plans,” I nearly shouted.
The other patrons in the swanky restaurant paused to look at us. My father’s fingers clenched.
“Language, Mira.”
I stood up, threw my napkin down onto my plate. “Thanks for ruining what was meant to be a day in honor of Mama, Daddy.”
I stormed out.
How could he? How could they?
I stalked toward the Santa Monica pier, wanting to lose myself among all of the tourists walking and laughing and living. I walked along the beach, completely ridiculous in my Chanel tweed skirt suit. Fifteen minutes into my walk, the heel on one of my pumps broke, and so I tossed the offending pair into the nearest trash bin and kept on.
I walked and I thought back to everything.
To Damien, more broken than ever, pushing me away as he drowned himself.
To Lukas, hunkered down in his bungalow on another stretch of beach, working on his privilege offset with the same passion he’d splash onto his canvases.
To my father, who’d shed blood and sweat to build his empire, his own legacy. And it would be so simple for me to help secure it all, and in the process, secure his approval for years to come.
To my nascent foundation, which, once backed by Davenport and Stone money and prestige could shine even brighter. How many more kids would that help? How many more young Damiens would I save then?
A waterfall of positives, all from one, single action. An action that would not require much. No, not much at all. Only to tear my heart from my chest and dump it in the same garbage can I’d tossed my shoes into. My heart had been broken for years anyways. Completely useless.
Did it ultimately matter, really? Did it really matter who I married, if I couldn’t have Damien? And Lukas and I, hadn’t we been really compatible? Hadn’t we been happy?
I called my dad.
“Mira,” he responded immediately.
“Lukas did not know?” I asked him, my voice harsh and laced with venom.
“He did not,” he confirmed. “But he does now.”
“I don’t understand, Daddy. Why? This feels medieval.”
“Stone is an old-fashioned sort. He is a peer of the realm, after all.”
I scoffed. “But why do you need him?”
He sighed. “His firm is prestigious. You know this, Bella. And he has branches on the East Coast and Europe. Ellis and I have long looked to expand. But more importantly, Stone would bring much-needed prestige.”
Prestige. Of course. My father, forcibly removed from his own illustrious ancestry, sought to bargain and deal his way into a new one. Misreading my thoughts, my father jumped in, “We are more than solvent, Mira. As our investment in your little project highlights. But heightened visibility would not be unwelcomed at a time when we are aiming to expand into new markets.”
My little project. It hurt to think of how dismissive that sounded, but I swept it all away and stayed silent. It wouldn’t be so little with Stone backing. But I wouldn’t let him off the hook so easily, either. A full minute ticked by before I hissed, “Lukas did not know. But he knows now.”
“Correct.”
Pause. “Ok. But I’m not making any promises,” I snapped and hung up.
I texted Damien. Before I threw it all away, I needed to know, once and for all.
Because even when I shouldn’t believe any longer, I still wanted to.
Because I could never leave well enough alone.
But most of all, because I still wanted to believe in my happily ever after.
And that my dark knight would finally be saved and come back for me.
I waited three days. He did not respond. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply.
Stupid, stupid girl. What more confirmation do you need?
The day of all my reckonings had come. It was now time to face Lukas again.
Damien
I saw a photo of her in an online article. It had been splashed everywhere across the web, how could I not? It was from the ribbon-cutting ceremony three days ago. She’d been wearing a grown-up black suit, the kind Jackie O wore, except she looked elegant in it, and not nearly as stiff and bougie. Her hair, back to its natural glossy black, was pulled back into a low ponytail. She’d looked strong, polished, standing there with a nearly-beaming Michael Davenport. Or whatever you would call that almost-emotion tugging at the Iron Man’s lips.
I took a deep breath.
Look at her in her classy getup. God, I loved her.
I laid there, sprawled on my unmade hotel bed, smoking a blunt, and two thoughts immediately came to mind. They came to mind because my head felt clearer today, clearer than it had in a long while. I hadn’t been as crazy this morning with all the hardcore things I usually numbed myself with. But hell. The day was still young.
And so, two thoughts: One, she stood alone with her father.
No Lukas Stone, viking-of-whatever-shit.
No way he’d miss that, unless he was—maybe? finally?—out of the picture.
I googled him on my phone. Dozens and dozens of pictures of him littered my screen. Many with Bella at his side. They were always at some sort of charity gala or reception. She took my breath away.
Suddenly, my eyes paused on a screaming headline, the one I’d been hoping for: Hottest British Import Is Back on the Market.
I scanned the gossip column and felt my heart drop. This was from two years ago. Fuck my life. They’d been broken up the night of the concert. I should have known that Bella’s integrity was too deeply ingrained. She’d been free, and I had been too stupid, too high, to realize it.
Free. And now she could be mine.
And she would, because second thought: I’d fucking made it.
I’d once been trash, someone who’d never be good enough for her. But that had changed, hadn’t it? Like I’d promised myself. I looked around me. I’d. Fucking. Made. It. Big. Time. I’d made something of that poor kid from the wrong side of town. She deserved the world. Diamonds and posh getaways. Fast cars and beach houses. Jackie O suits. All the things I hadn’t been able to give her. But now? I shook my head, laughing, the sound echoing against my ear nearly crazed, manic.
Now . . . I’d give her all of that and more.
I picked up the phone and dialed the number, the one that had only ever popped up twice in my life, both times to remind me how I’d never be enough for her.
“Mr. Davenport,” I said, when he picked up.
“Mortensen.”
“I’m in Seattle this week. And if you are, I’d like to speak with you. About Bella. Can we meet.”
It wasn’t a question.
I was done fucking asking.
S
ilence.
“Davenport?”
Finally, he spoke, his voice calm, measured, and ice. “Now why would I agree to that?”
“You’re right. You don’t owe me a thing, but you’ll give me ten minutes. Ten minutes. I’ll meet you anywhere. Ten. For our girl.”
“Our girl?” he scoffed, but after a long pause, he added, “Meet me at the café across from my office at two sharp today.”
It was now one. Bastard wasn’t really up to doing me any more favors than he had to.
When I walked into the café, it was exactly two, and he was sitting in the back, at the corner table. He sat, perfect posture, back ramrod straight. The years had been kind to him. He still looked the same, except the grey at his temples had expanded and peppered his brown hair. He still had the formidable presence of a powerful man, and suddenly, I was seventeen again, sneaking around his property, feeling like the little shit I was.
I pretended nonchalance I didn’t feel as I sauntered over, ignoring the heads turning in my direction as I did so.
Yeah, I’m the fucking Damien James.
I stopped in front of the table, hand extended.
“Mr. Davenport.”
He didn’t stand, didn’t shake my hand. He simply nodded while pinning me with his cold, glacier eyes.
“Mortensen.”
I let out a small, dry laugh as I ran a hand through my hair while pulling out a chair. I sat down across from him. He was still looking at me, his face stone.
“Make it quick, Mortensen.”
I sighed and shook my head. “Listen, I know you do not care for me.”
Not caring. What an inadequate way to describe how he felt about me.
I paused as he smirked, the only change in expression I’d seen since walking into the café. “But you know that I care for her,” I tossed his words from a lifetime ago back in his face but was met with his usual impassivity. I raised a brow and kept on. “That I love her. I wasn’t good enough then, but I’m here to tell you that I am now.”
“No.”
“No?” I looked away, shaking my head in disbelief. “I love her. And she loves you. More than you probably will ever know. That’s why I couldn’t do this when you weren’t in, because your approval meant everything. And you’d counted on that all along. You’d counted on that since we were seventeen and tried to play by your rules.”
His face was completely inscrutable. He would never, ever make this easy for me.
“Listen. I’m not the boy you knew.” I leaned in, grabbing him in a stare and not letting go. He remained where he was, shoulders still squared, as I went on, “I’ve made it. I’m a fu—I’m making it rain, now. You told me she deserved more. I’m here to tell you, I’m more. So. Much. More,” I emphasized. “Mansions? Fast cars? Bougie old-lady suits? I’ve got her. I will take care of her. I promise you. She will have everything.”
He blinked once, twice, cleared his throat while he looked away.
When he returned to challenge my stare, I could see that all was lost. He didn’t have to even say a word. But of course, he did.
“Shit,” I whispered, looking away and shaking my head. Whatever adrenaline had been holding my insides up while I met with the man who’d been a fucking obstacle my whole life suddenly evaporated, giving way to my usual malaise.
He hissed, “You’re an idiot.”
I let out a laugh and shook my head some more, one fist clenching the table, the other hitting the side of my chair as I slumped further into it.
He continued, his voice so icy I felt it freeze my brain, “You’re an idiot. It’s not about the money, boy. Don’t you get it? It’s never been about the money. She already has all the money she’ll ever need. More than she can spend in ten lifetimes.” He laughed at me. “It’s about stability. Emotional health. When I saw you by her side all those years ago, I knew. I knew you would never be good enough. Even then, you were incapable of any type of self-control or structure. You were broken, a complete mess. Look at you!” He threw an arm dismissively in my direction. “Even now, you’re strung out. How many girls are you sleeping with? A mess. Just like you were then. You will never be good enough for her.” He wagged a finger in my direction. “You will never have her. Mark my words. Never. I will not permit it.” He pushed away from the table and stood up, looming over me. “Stay the hell away from her.”
On that note, he stalked out, leaving me to sit there and absorb every damning word he’d said.
The world’s most emotionally stunted man had accused me of emotional unavailability. The fucking irony. I rubbed a hand over my face.
I sat there, in the corner of that café, until the afternoon stretched into the evening, until the steady trickle of customers had slowed to a near stop.
I sat there, waved away the waiters asking if I needed anything, waved away the fans asking for autographs.
Davenport was right.
No matter how much I didn’t want him to be.
He was so fucking right.
I could just scream. I’d worked the last eight plus years of my life to get where I was. I’d worked my ass off so that I could earn the right for her to be mine. So I could be worthy of her. So I could give her everything her heart desired.
And here she was, now, finally unattached, and here I was, finally ready.
I’ll wait until you’re ready. I won’t ever give you up.
But that hadn’t even been it. At. Fucking. All.
It hadn’t. He didn’t give a fuck about my money. He only gave a fuck that I was still a mental disaster. And he was sure that I wouldn’t be able to step up.
So fucking sure of it. Because boys like me, we were worth nothing to the likes of him.
He was wrong. I’d do anything for her, and had, but like the idiot he rightly accused me of being, I’d miscalculated. I took my shot and completely misfired. Bam. Back in my dumbass face.
So what now?
I’d do anything. Yes, anything. If that now meant giving up the drugs and the alcohol and the sex . . . and all of the things that kept me up at night but that I couldn’t vocalize, I’d do it. And then, maybe, maybe I would finally allow myself the greatest prize of all.
All right. All right. Maybe it was time, now.
As I walked back to my hotel, I picked up my phone and started dialing.
“Hey, little shit,” his gruff voice broke through.
“Saint.” I let out a long breath, unsure of my next words. “Saint. I think I need help.”
Somewhere in the distance, I heard a car honk, heard the bustle of Seattle at night. But all of it was muted, as I heard his sigh—of relief?—before he responded in his gravelly voice, “Thank fuck. I thought you’d never ask.”
Bella
Several weeks after launching the Mei Ying Foundation, I walked into his office. It had been two years to the day that I had walked out on him. He was sitting behind his desk, bent over a stack of papers. He glanced up. He had his reading glasses on. When he realized it was me, his face shuttered.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, an edge to his voice.
I looked at him. “I needed to talk to you.”
“Your rockstar tire of you, did he now?” Lukas said, cruelty hardening his words until they were sharp and piercing like a thousand knives.
I looked at him and didn’t respond, my eyes breaking, my lungs constricting. I instinctively started chewing on my lip.
He sighed, rubbing his temple. “I’m sorry, Mirabella. I’m being a proper twat. That was uncalled for.” And then, in a soft, careful voice, “But why are you here?”
“I would like to apologize. I also need to discuss some Davenport & Ellis matters. Will you have coffee with me? I promise to order you the darkest brew available, no sugar. And an almond milk mocha for me,” I said, trying to keep my fears from dripping over my words, trying to smile, but of course, I failed miserably.
“I do not want coffee with you,” he hissed, impaling me with his steel eye
s, throwing his pen down on his desk.
“I understand,” I whispered, my heart playing a game of Pong inside my chest. The way he was looking at me, red-hot anger and dark disgust, resurrected my shame as much as the pain spilling from his words did.
I turned to the door.
“Wait!”
I glanced back at him, completely confused by his shout. “Lukas, I deserve your anger. I deserve your disdain. I deserve it all. But know that I never meant to hurt you. Never. I’m sorry. I needed you to know that.”
“I do know. But no. I do not want coffee with you. Certainly not to discuss our fucking fathers’ bloody machinations,” he rasped, the words so dark and etched in pain, he nearly sounded like Damien.
I continued to look at him, lost.
“No,” he nearly shouted again. “I do not want coffee with you. And I do not want you.”
My heart shattered. He stared at me, the steel in his eyes stark. A million heartbeats passed before he said, more softly this time, “I do not simply want you. I love you. Love you so bloody much that it’s like torture, like being torn asunder each time I think of you, which is every second of every single fucking day of my fucking life.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “Torn limb by limb until all I am is a fucking bleeding mess on the floor. So love, no, I don’t simply want you.” He shut his eyes tightly. “I love you. God help me, but after everything, I still love you. Love you with a violence that terrifies me.”
He grabbed his glasses and threw them onto his desk before rubbing his face with his hands. When he looked at me again, his eyes were liquid silver, fragments of pain breaking the surface.
That’s all I needed to know. I could make this right. Not for me. Nothing could put this right for me again. But for him. For Davenport. For Stone. For the Mei Ying Foundation. I closed the door again.
“Forgive me,” I murmured, stepping toward his desk.
He looked at me again, the grey of his eyes seeing right through me.
“You don’t realize it, sweetheart. But I forgave you the very second you climbed on top of him and fucked him. I forgave you because I love you. And I hate myself for not hating you. While I stayed away these last years, I knew that if you’d showed up on my doorstep, I’d take you back in an instant, because in my heart, I could never let you go.” He took a deep, shaky breath. “In these two years you were gone . . . while he had you, all of you . . . for as long and as much and as hard as he wanted, do you know how many girls I fucked? Hmmm? No? None. Because I couldn’t bear to touch a one of them, because they weren’t bloody you, Bella. Do you realize how that feels? How soul-crushingly awful it is to know that when it comes to you, I have long relinquished every single last shred of my pride? And so, I couldn’t touch another woman because I didn’t want them.” He pinned me down with his silver eyes. "I want you.”
