Bang(30)

Noticing the stainless steel staircase, I ask, “What’s up there?”

“A private rooftop deck.”

“This place is amazing,” I say as I step further into the loft. For as impressive and spacious as it is, it’s warm and comfortable, a feeling I appreciate because it’s so far from how my place feels.

“Coffee?” he asks.

“Please.” Taking off my coat and scarf, I lay my things on one of the couches and walk over to the couch that’s closest to the large walk-in fireplace.

Declan soon joins me, handing me a mug and then turning the fireplace on before sitting next to me.

“How long have you lived here?”

“Since I moved to Chicago around two years ago.”

“It’s a big place for just one person.”

“Says the woman who lives in the penthouse of The Legacy,” he remarks with a smirk, and I laugh.

“That was my husband’s place since before I met him,” I defend.

“You like it there?”

“I’ve grown to,” I answer. “It’s only me there most of the time with Bennett working and traveling so much.”

He doesn’t respond as he takes a sip of his coffee and then sets it down on the end table. Turning to me, he says, “I want to know about you.”

“What do you wanna know?”

“What did you study in college? Did you work before you married? I want to know who you are aside from his wife,” he says as he angles his body to face me.

I cradle the mug in my hands, drawing in the heat, and answer, “I was studying Art History at the University of Kansas when my parents died during my third year.”

“How did they die?” he asks. He doesn’t respond the way most people do when you mention death. He never says I’m sorry, apologizing for something he had nothing to do with, and I appreciate that, even though I’m feeding him lies.

“Tornado came through and landed on top of the house I grew up in. They were found under the rubble a few days after,” I tell him. “I was an only child, so when I found out they had been pulling loans and a second mortgage on the house to pay my college tuition, there was no money. I had to drop my enrollment for the next semester and never went back.”

“What did you do?”

Bringing my legs up and folding them in front of me, I respond, “I was all alone, so I did what I had to do to get by. I worked various jobs to barely meet my rent and pay my bills.”

“So how did you wind up here in Chicago?” he asks.

“After a few years, I was just depressed and going nowhere. All my friends had since graduated and were moving on with their lives while I was stuck. I needed a change, so I packed up what little I had and drove here. No reason, really,” I say. “I had just enough money to put a deposit down on a small studio apartment and got a job with a catering company. I used to work these fancy parties, and as stupid as it sounds, even though I was nothing but the help, I used to pretend that I was part of that world. The part that didn’t have a care in the world, being able to wear pretty dresses and drink expensive champagne. A world I would never be a part of until I was hired to work a party for Bennett Vanderwal.”

“That’s how you met him?”

“Pathetic, huh? Kinda makes me look like a gold digger, but it wasn’t like that at all,” I tell him. “For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel so lost. And when he looked at me, he didn’t see the poor girl from Kansas who ran to escape her miserable life.”

I tell Declan this lie and the look on his face is that of sorrow, but the life he feels bad about me having is a life I would’ve done almost anything to have. God, if he knew the truth about how I grew up, he’d run. It’s not a story anyone in their right mind would ever want to hear. It’s the type of story that people want to believe doesn’t really exist because it’s too hard to stomach. It’s too dark of a place for people to even consider being reality.

“And now?”

Looking down at my mug, I watch the ribbons of steam float off the coffee and dissolve in the air when I answer with false trepidation, “And now I realize that I am that poor girl who ran. The girl he never saw me as. It’s like I woke up one day and suddenly realized that I don’t really fit in to all of this. That I’m no longer sure of my place in this world.”

Declan moves to take the mug out of my hands and sets it down on the table as he closes the space between us. Taking my hands in his, he asks, “Do you love him?”

With diffidence, I nod my head, murmuring, “Yes.”

When he cocks his head in question, I add, “He loves me. He takes care of me.”

“But you feel alone,” he states.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Make me speak badly of him,” I respond.

“I don’t want that. All I want is for you to speak honestly to me.”

“That’s what I’m doing, but . . .” Dropping my head, I hesitate, and he urges, “But . . .?”

“It feels wrong to talk to you like this.”

“Did it feel wrong when you were in bed with me last night?” he questions.

“Yes.”

His voice is low and intent, asking, “When did it feel wrong? When you got into my bed or when you snuck out of it?”