22. Javier

Chapter 22

Javier

" Y ou told Evans he's not my boss, didn't you?" Derek asks, slouching in the chair across from my desk.

I sigh, looking up from the acquisition contract I've been trying to read for the past two hours. I decided to get a sense of normality and left her alone to go back to work. "If you accepted your role as COO instead of being the ‘weird tech guy,' it wouldn't happen." "Whatever. He's still an asshole."

I snort. I can't help but agree—my CFO is a dick, but he's also the best there is. "You don't have to worry about it. I'm sending him to the EMEA board meeting. I'm staying."

"You're what?"

I cringe internally but look up anyway. "Staying."

He shakes his head. "But you can't. This is too important."

I shrug. I know that, and this empire used to represent almost everything to me, just like my revenge, but now there's this frustrating woman. "She won't run away, Jav. She's got nowhere to go. "

This time, I can't control my cringe. It's not the vote of confidence I want, but it's the truth. "Things are getting better between us."

Derek raises his pierced eyebrow. "Is that right?"

I nod. "For the past few days, she didn't run away after I sent her a text saying I was coming home. She doesn't give me the middle finger when she sees me, and she has not told me to go to hell at all in the past three days."

"Wow, it's like watching Love Story . It's so beautiful."

I throw him a glare for his heavy sarcasm. "And last night, she was actually cooking dinner. She cooked for both of us. She told me to go take a shower, and when I came back, dinner was on the table."

"Uh…" Derek rubs his jaw, and I can see the doubt on his face.

"I know."

"And you ate it?"

I nod. "I did, and honestly, it was delicious. I'm neither sick nor dead, so I take it as a win."

He twists his mouth to the side and starts to toy with his lip ring. I know he's deep in thought, so I just wait until he's ready to talk. "Don't you think it's weird, though? That she just flipped like that?"

Of course I do. "I don't know—maybe I'm just catching a break."

He lets out a tired laugh. "Okay, we're being delusional, fine by me."

I sigh, leaning back in my chair. "I just think that leaving her alone for weeks is not the answer right now."

"She won't be alone. I'll be here; Tiago will be too. Holding on the way you are is not helping anyone."

"It seems to be working," I insist.

True, she didn't eat with me last night, but she left me a plate and she put my jacket back and took care of the penthouse.

"I just?—"

My phone rings, and Lucchese's name lights up the screen.

"Fuck, I need to take this—it's the devil."

"Lucchese, I don't think we have any outstanding business right now."

"Have you lost something?"

I frown, holding the phone more firmly. "Lost something? No."

"You sure?" His voice carries irritation but also a hint of amusement I'm not familiar with. "Let me give you a hint—five feet, one inch of pent-up aggression and zero sense of self-preservation."

"What are you—" My eyes widen with realization. "Ophelia!"

He laughs. "See, you said he'd never get it. What?" I hear her voice in the background. "Ah yes, apologies. It's not five-one, it's five-two and a half. Yes, accuracy is important—but you still have a death wish to show up here, little lady."

"Where are you? I'll come get her."

"The club. And no worries, she'll be with me in my office. I have to say, how can you resist such a poisonous glare? No wonder you fell in love."

I ignore the sarcasm but also want to shake Ophelia for glaring at the man they call Il Mietitore —The Reaper. I stand up and recount the call to Derek. "How did she sneak out?! Her key card should have flagged your system or mine. I?—"

"Show me your card."

I get my wallet out of my inside pocket and pull out the card. "That little…" I stop talking as Derek smiles.

"Yep, only your card doesn't alert the system."

"She switched them while I was showering." It's the only possibility. "Stop smiling! It's not funny. She's probably got Lucchese's card in there too." I check, and yes, his business card is missing.

"Come on, you must admit she's resourceful. At least she still has her fire; you have to give her that." He shrugs, burying his hand in his jeans pocket. "You should be happy she still has her spirit."

"I am. I would just like for her not to use it exclusively to fight me." I walk past him and exit my office. "Doris, please cancel my appointments for today and tell Evans I'll see him tomorrow." I get into the elevator, quickly followed by Derek.

"What did she even want from him?" I ask, not expecting a reply from Derek. "I'll take her to the store. I know it's not completely done, but I can't wait any longer."

"I'm not certain it will go the way you think it will."

I turn toward him, exasperation finally getting the best of me. "Then what do I need to do? Stop talking in cryptic riddles and just tell me."

He shrugs. "I don't know, man. I truly don't. I'm not asking, and she won't say, but I know her and—" He waves his hand. "Ah, what do I know? I'm eternally single, right?"

There's a lot to unpack there and a lot that's untrue. He's not the eternally single one—he's the eternally broken one, and I hate the world on his behalf sometimes. Derek deserves love far more than I or even Tiago do. While Tiago has the love of his congregation and a pretend God, I'm fighting for mine. But Derek—Derek is fighting every day just to avoid drowning in self-loathing.

I don't say anything. We have only a few seconds before reaching the parking level, so I do something uncommon that I know makes him uncomfortable. I hug him tight—he stays frozen, but I don't care. I hug him until the elevator beeps and the doors open.

"I love you, man," I tell him before running to my car and breaking all speed limits to make it to the club's back alley in less than twenty minutes.

When I walk to the back door of the club, the bouncer opens it with a smirk before I even get a chance to speak. I'm sure my wife made an impression on them. My wife… Despite the way it came to be, even if neither of us had our say in it, that's how I see her— my wife .

I head down a corridor that is becoming uncomfortably familiar, and the guard at the end nods. "Boss's been waiting for you."

He opens the door, and when I see Ophelia safe and sound despite her murderous scowl, the weight on my chest eases, and I feel like I can finally take full breaths again.

"Javier, what a pleasure!" Lucchese takes a puff of his cigar. "You know, that wife of yours has been glaring at me nonstop for the last twenty minutes. That's quite an achievement. Well—he cocks his head to the side—"it's probably because anyone else would already have their eyes gouged out, but you know"—he shrugs—"I'm feeling charitable."

Charitable. I'm sure he has no idea what that word means.

I let out a long exhale before turning to Ophelia, who, God have mercy, is still glaring at Lucchese. "I told you not to see him," I bark, hoping to direct her gaze at me.

Mission accomplished because if her glare was hostile before, it's purely murderous now that her green eyes are on me. "And I told you I was going to speak to him anyway."

"And how did that go for you, huh?" I know I'm adding fuel to the fire, but I just can't help it.

Lucchese laughs. "It didn't go that well, hence the death glare. Isn't that right, little lady?"

She ignores him. "He doesn't want to help me."

"Well, that's not entirely true." He rests his cigar in the ashtray. "I asked her what she had to offer. She quickly replied, ‘Not sex,' which is a blessing for everyone as it helped avoid another awkward conversation." He looks my way. "She isn't worth as much as you are."

I can't help but snort. If he truly thinks that, then he's a fool. Sure, this is not the best version of Ophelia—she's hurting and angry and wants to set the whole world on fire even if it consumes her with it—but even on her worst days, she's so much better than I'll ever be.

"Come on, let's go," I tell her, jerking my head toward the door.

She huffs but stands up. "Thank you for the hospitality."

He simply nods. "One more thing," he says just as Ophelia reaches my side.

I knew it was too good to be true. I turn back slowly. "Yes?"

"I'm going to give you the warning because she's too self-destructive to listen." He points at Ophelia. "I felt lenient today, but I don't deal well with disrespect. Maybe put a leash on her because it may not go that well next time."

I purse my lips but nod. I hate giving in, and my hand twitches to reach for my gun, but I know his reputation. I'm certain I'd be dead on the floor before I even got my gun out.

"She won't be back. Will you, Ophelia?"

"What's the point?" she replies and turns her back, striding down the hall.

"I wish you luck and an infinite well of patience. You're going to need it," he says, and for once, he and I agree.

When I get outside, I expect to have to run after her, but she's waiting by my car, suspiciously docile. I beep the door open and take my seat, waiting for her to join me. It takes a couple of minutes; I'm not sure what's going through her head, but she finally gets in.

I start the car and, for once, don't mind the silence. I'm not sure what I'll do anymore, and this may just be my last chance.

"Where are we going?" she asks as I head toward East Harlem.

"I have something for you."

"I most likely don't want it."

You're wrong , I think, but I know how stubborn she can be and just keep driving. I park, and she looks across the street .

"Danish? Yes, that I do want."

"No, not the Danish. Come on."

I get out of the car and go to her side, waiting for her to get out, even if my hand itches to open the door for her. She used to love these small gestures, her cheeks turning pink—fuck, I miss this. I miss her shy looks, her sweet smiles. I miss the pink color that used to dust the apples of her cheeks only to darken when I brushed my lips to them.

I miss Ophelia desperately, but I deserve the harpy that replaced her. The woman who glares at me as soon as I try to do anything remotely nice for her, anything she perceives as attempted manipulation.

"Okay, let's get this over with," she mutters, getting out of the car.

"That's the spirit." We walk side by side down the street, my heart accelerating with each step. By the time we reach our destination, I don't think I'm breathing.

"Here," I say breathlessly as we turn toward Midsummer Petals. The sign is no longer flaky and half-faded but now bright green, replacing the old one.

"What is this?" she asks, and the slight tremble in her voice gives me a hint of hope.

"Come." I'm too apprehensive to make big sentences, too overwhelmed, and the air seems stuck in my lungs, allowing me nothing more than monosyllabic responses.

I grab the keys in my pocket, the one with a bee key ring on it stating "Bee Happy," a little reminder of her apron. I hope to make her smile when I extend the keys to her.

"This isn't finalized. I wasn't planning to give it to you today. The flowers won't be delivered until the middle of next week, but—" I open the door and gesture for her to go in.

She walks slowly as if she's expecting something to jump out at her. She steps inside and keeps her back to me as she takes in the interior. When I bought the place, I always intended to give it back to her. I never wanted her to lose her legacy. When everything fell apart, I decided to make it my project. Using all the budget and contacts at my disposal, I managed, in just a couple of weeks, to get the flower shop identical to its former glory. I used every photo I could find and the help of the neighbors, who had nothing but love for Ophelia. It's perfect, right down to the light fixtures I had custom-made just for her.

She takes her time, taking everything in before turning around slowly. My heart sinks because I know before she opens her mouth that this plan failed too. I see it in the coolness of her eyes, the set of her jaw, and the way her lips tip down slightly with a hint of derision.

For the first time, she truly looks like one of the icy Mafia princesses I'm accustomed to, and I'm the one who created her.

"What is this?"

The question takes me aback. "Your flower shop."

She shakes her head. "No."

"No?"

"No."

I take a deep breath, trying my best to stop from snapping. I say I can take it, but having every attempt thrown back in my face is hard to bear .

"Tell me something, Javier. Why are you doing this?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why are you doing all of this? Throwing money at the situation. Are you trying to ease your guilt?"

"I'm trying to fix things. I'm trying to make amends."

"But for you or for me?" She crosses her arms on her chest. "What do you think is going to happen? That I'll run the flower shop while you run your empire? I'll come home to the penthouse—to the joke of a marriage we share, and then what? I'll come to my senses, and we'll live happily ever after?"

I feel my face heat because, yes, as foolish as it sounds now coming from her mouth, it is exactly what I thought.

"You said it was what you wanted!" I snap. "I'm trying so hard to fix things and every attempt you throw back in my face. I didn't mean to love you, Ophelia, but I do, and I'm fully invested. No matter how much you want to deny it, you love me too."

"No, I loved the version of the man I thought you were. The man here?" She gestures to me up and down. "I don't know him, and I don't want to."

"J—"

She raises her hand. "My father probably deserved what happened to him. Lucchese explained, in great detail while we waited, all the reasons my father was on death row. I've explained, but you're not listening. This is what you did before. This is manipulation. Giving me this dream, saying all the right words, doing all the right things when I know you want to shout, you want to break things. You are still manipulating me, and how on earth can I forgive you? How can I trust you? Words are just words… and your actions? They are all manipulating, playing into the fantasy. I have no faith in you."

I deflate, feeling like I'm fighting against the wind.

"Fine." I move from my post in front of the door. "Let's go."

She frowns but moves past me and walks down the street as I lock up the store. I catch up with her in a couple of steps.

We walk in silence back to the car, the weight of her words pressing heavily on me. I realize I need to change tactics. She's not wrong, even if I refused to see it. I forced her to stay in my life, thinking that I could bring about a resolution, but it seems to be hurting her far more than it is doing any good. Maybe I just need to give her space and time and perhaps a chance to see things differently, no matter how much it scares me.

When we reach the car, I unlock it, and we both get in. I start the engine and begin the drive back to the penthouse. The silence is oppressive, but I use the time to gather my thoughts.

As we pull into the parking garage, I finally speak. "I need to leave for a few weeks." I hate the idea of leaving her here… unprotected.

She looks at me, surprised. "What?"

"I'm going to the board meeting in Europe. I need to take care of some things there," I add. I need to call Evans and my assistant so I can get everything ready before the end of the night.

She narrows her eyes. "Finally had enough?"

"No," I say firmly. "I will never have enough of you, Ophelia. Show me the ugly side as much as you like; it won't change how I feel for you. But I'm listening now. I'm hearing you, so I'm giving you space. Time to think. And when I get back, I'll talk with Lucchese and find a solution. One that doesn't involve manipulation or control."

She doesn't respond, just looks away, her expression unreadable. She exits the car and walks to the elevator, her back stiff.

I don't understand her. I'm giving her exactly what she's been demanding for weeks now, yet the tension radiating from her makes it seem like she's angry.

I sigh and shake my head. "It's what you want, isn't it?"

She still doesn't say anything, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes—maybe hurt, maybe skepticism. I can't tell, and frankly, the rejection and despair I feel are enough to stop me from asking.

"When are you leaving?" she asks as we walk into the penthouse.

I remove my suit jacket, making sure to retrieve my wallet from the inside pocket this time. "Eager?" I mean to sound snarky, but it comes out pathetically hurt.

She doesn't answer. She rarely does anymore. I'm not sure if it's better or worse than her sarcastic replies.

"Probably tonight." I take off my shoes and start undoing my cuff links. "I'll send you a text when I know." I head to my bedroom, already texting Doris to make the arrangements.

I give Evans a quick call and inform him about the change of plan. He doesn't argue; he knows better. I may be a wealthy CEO, but I'm still the boy from the streets more often than not, and my tone on the call says it all.

I place my suitcase at the foot of the bed and, when I come out of the walk-in closet carrying my suits, I stop dead in my tracks. She's just there, standing in the doorway of my room.

I look at her for a few seconds, but when she doesn't say anything, I resume my packing. It's hard for me not to talk, but I wait. Somehow, the weight of her gaze on me feels good in a way. My packing takes thirty minutes, and she just stays there, watching.

About twenty minutes into packing, I get a text from Doris telling me everything is ready and the company plane is waiting to take me to London.

I falter and throw Ophelia a look. She wants to see the world; she told me so herself. I can imagine how amazing it would be to see the awe on her face when I show her London, Zurich, and Vienna. But it's not in the cards for her. Not now, and maybe never.

I walk into my bathroom and collect my toiletries. I am tired of her constant rejection. Every attempt is met by anger and venom, and I don't have more to give. Except that she's here now, in my bedroom, waiting. Waiting for what? I'm not sure, but—I look at myself in the mirror and see the resolution there.

Maybe I can try one more time.

Except that when I walk back into the bedroom, she's gone. There's just my key card on top of my clothes with a Post-it on it.

"Have a nice trip. "

I stare at the key card and the note, the finality of her words hitting me harder than I expected. With a heavy heart, I slip the card into my pocket and finish packing.

As I leave the penthouse, I take one last look back, hoping for some sign, some indication that things might change. But the silence is deafening, and I know this is the right decision.

The drive to the airport is quiet, the weight of unresolved feelings pressing down on me. As the plane takes off, I gaze out the window at the city lights fading below, a sense of loss settling deep within me.

I don't know what the future holds, but for now, all I can do is hope that time and distance will bring clarity. And maybe, just maybe, when I return, there will still be a chance to mend what's broken.