But I’d lived with him for five years, and for five years, in this sterile apartment, we were all each other had.
I sank onto the couch and willed myself to cry, to expel the pressure mounting in my chest.
Once. I wanted that relief just once, but as always, I didn’t get it. And an eternity later, when the pressure became unbearable and my will to fight eroded to nothing, I simply curled up on the couch, squeezed my eyes shut against the pain, and pretended I was someone, somewhere else because that was the only thing I’d ever been able to do.
CHAPTER 34
Xavier
Something was wrong.
My and Sloane’s dinner reservation was at seven, and it was currently seven fifteen. For most people, running fifteen minutes late wasn’t the end of the world, but this was Sloane. She was never late.
She hadn’t answered any of my texts, and when I called her, it went straight to voicemail.
I checked my watch again, my worry escalating by the minute. When I’d gotten in touch with her office earlier, Jillian said she’d left two hours ago to work from home. Had she fallen asleep? Been the victim of a mugging? Gotten into a car crash and rushed to the hospital?
A cold spike of terror pierced me at the prospect.
“Fuck it.” I ignored the scandalized glare from the couple next to me and grabbed my coat from the back of my chair. I wasn’t going to sit here like an idiot while Sloane was potentially bleeding to death somewhere.
I tossed a fifty-dollar bill on the table for the trouble and headed straight to the exit. Perhaps I was overreacting and Sloane would show up right after I left, rolling her eyes and huffing about my jump to conclusions, but I didn’t think I was.
Even if she wasn’t fatally wounded, she was hurt. I could feel it, an insistent cocktail of instinct and intuition that drove me into the back of a cab and toward her apartment.
My phone rang right after I gave the driver her address.
My pulse skyrocketed, then crashed. It wasn’t Sloane; it was Vuk’s office.
“Good afternoon. This is Willow, Mr. Markovic’s assistant. I’m following up on the email you sent this morning.” A smooth feminine voice flowed over the line. “Mr. Markovic would like to schedule a joint walkthrough of the vault at your earliest convenience, as well as discuss a few matters regarding your partnership. Is now a good time to connect?”
“Hey, Willow. That’s great to hear, but—” The cab shuddered to a halt at a stop sign, then ambled along at the speed of a groggy snail. How the hell did I get the only slow taxi driver in Manhattan? “I’m in the middle of a personal emergency, so I can’t talk right now.”
A long pause greeted my answer. “To clarify, you’re refusing the meeting?”
“I’m postponing the meeting due to the aforementioned emergency.” I covered the phone with my hand and leaned forward. “Get me there in ten minutes, and I’ll tip you a hundred bucks.”
The cab lurched forward with sudden speed.
Sloane always complained about how much cash I carried around, but it was damn handy in times like this.
I returned to my call. “Please give Mr. Markovic my apologies. I’m happy to talk any other time except now. As for the walkthrough, please email me his availability, and I’ll put something on the schedule.”
I hung up before she could protest. I was too on edge to argue or engage in professional small talk.
I might’ve just shot myself in the foot by insulting Vuk so soon after he’d signed on as my partner, but the only thing I cared about right now was making sure Sloane was okay.
The cab pulled up in front of her building. I shoved the fare plus an extra hundred bucks at the driver and hurtled out of the car. It was my first time visiting her apartment—we’d always stayed at my place or a hotel—but two hundred dollars, a picture of me and Sloane on my phone, and a call up to her apartment with no answer persuaded the concierge to let me past.
She wasn’t answering her phone. Why wasn’t she answering her phone?
Images of Sloane unconscious on her bedroom floor or drowning in her tub or…fuck, I didn’t know, gushing blood after she’d accidentally sliced a crucial artery open in the kitchen filled my mind.
Sometimes, I really hated my imagination.
The elevator stopped on her floor. I sprinted into the hall and blew past a row of apartments until I reached hers.
“Sloane!” I pounded on the door. “It’s Xavier. Are you in there?”
Obviously, she couldn’t answer if she was unconscious. I should’ve asked the concierge to accompany me so they could open the door in that very scenario.
I knocked again while my mind raced through my options. I could stay and wait another minute for her to answer. I could race downstairs and grab the concierge. I could call the concierge and ask him to come up, but my chances of convincing him to leave his post were higher face-to-face.
Every second counted, and—
Was that a sound coming from behind the door?
I froze, willing my heartbeat to slow so I could listen more carefully. That was definitely a rustle, followed by the click of a lock sliding free.
Then the door opened, and there she was. Blond hair, blue eyes, alabaster skin unmarred by blood or bruises.
Relief punched through my panic, but it nosedived a second later when I noticed the haunted look in her eyes and the lines of tension bracketing her mouth.
“Hey.” I reached for her but stopped halfway, afraid she might shatter beneath my touch. Sloane was always so strong, but in that moment, she looked brittle. Fragile. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” She stepped aside so I could enter, avoiding my gaze the entire time.
