The Takeover (The Miles High Club #2)(122)

My eyes fill with tears at his anger. “Tristan,” I whisper.

“I want my own wife, Claire, with my own children and to live in a fucking house that we choose together.”

Tears overfill my eyes, and I swipe them away angrily.

“You told me when we met that there were three hearts connected to yours.” He begins to pace. “Did you not?”

I stay silent.

“Answer me . . . fuck it!” he screams.

I jump. “Yes.”

“So now that I’m in love with those hearts, and I want them as my sons”—he glares at me—“you tell me that I can’t have them?”

His silhouette blurs. “Tristan,” I whisper. “Please try and see this from my point of view.”

“You’re selfish, Claire.” His eyes fill with tears.

I drop my head as fear overwhelms me. I’m going to lose him too.

“I deserve to have my own family.”

“I know you do,” I murmur.

“I want the boys as mine.”

“Tristan.” I shake my head. “I can’t.”

He clenches his jaw. “You know . . . my mother told me way back then . . . that they would always be another man’s sons, that you would always be another man’s wife.” His eyes hold mine. “That you would never truly be my family—I would always be the standin.”

I screw up my face in tears. He’s so hurt.

He shakes his head. “I can’t live with that, Claire.”

“What are you saying?” I whisper.

His eyes hold mine. “I’m saying goodbye . . . I’m nobody’s backup plan.”

I try to contain my sobs. “No, Tris,” I beg.

His haunted eyes hold mine . . . a silent beg for me to stop him.

We stare at each other, and this is it. The defining moment where I choose between my past and my present.

Regret hangs in the air between us, and I want to do as he asks. I want to concede to his demands.

Anything to keep him here with me.

But I just can’t . . . and it’s killing me.

Eventually, he turns and leaves. The door clicks quietly as it closes behind him.

I sob out loud into the silence.

He’s gone.

The days are long . . . but the nights are endless.

Sleeping without him is a hell that I can’t endure.

So I don’t.

I pace . . . all night. Back and forth, back and forth . . . until my legs ache.

It’s been nine days since Tristan left me.

Nine days in sheer hell.

The house is silent, the laughter gone. The boys are barely speaking to me.

Not only have I broken my heart; I’ve broken the four others that I love the most.

My sons’ and Tristan’s.

I stare at my computer. I have no urge to be at work . . . to be at home . . . to breathe.

My phone buzzes across my desk, and the name Fletcher lights up the screen.

“Hey, buddy.” I smile. Hopefully he’s talking to me again.

“Tristan is leaving,” he whispers.

“What?”

“He’s going to Paris.”

“For how long?”

“He just transferred my internship to Jameson.”

I stand as my eyes widen. “What?”

“He said he’s not coming back, Mom. You really did it,” he whispers angrily.

I screw up my face in tears, so close to the edge of the cliff I can almost feel myself hitting the bottom. “I’m coming,” I stammer. “Keep him there; I’m coming.”

I grab my bag and run.

Marley stands up as I run past her. “What in the world?”

“I’m out for the day,” I call.

“Huh?” she calls after me. “But you have a meeting in an hour.”

“Cancel it,” I call as I run into the elevator. I hit the button with force. “Come on, come on.”

I can’t let him go.

He can’t go.

The doors slowly close, and I tap my foot nervously. “Hurry.”

I drag my hands through my hair as I begin to perspire . . . no . . . no . . . no, this can’t be happening.

The elevator slowly goes down, and the doors open. A heap of people are standing there waiting. “Sorry.” I slam the button to close the doors. “No time for you.”

The door closes as their faces fall. I get to the ground floor and sprint through the foyer and run out into the street with my arm in the air. “Taxi!” I call as a cab drives past.

Another man is waiting on the curb for a cab too.

“Oh my God,” I cry to him. “This is an emergency; my boyfriend is leaving me.”

He winces.

“Because I’m selfish,” I pant as I run up the street, arm stretched high. “Now he’s flying to Paris without saying goodbye.”

He rolls his eyes. “You are not getting my cab.”

“I don’t want your damn cab,” I bark. A cab pulls up, and I dive into the back of it like a maniac. “I’ve got my own. The Miles Media building, please,” I stammer.

“Hey!” the man calls as he watches me drive off. I give him a half wave.

“Bye.”