The MC President's Forsaken Wife (Zara and Knox) novel Chapter 94

Chapter 60-2

Then I remember the hotel. An absurdly expensive place downtown where Knox once hid out from something, and complained that the security in the lobby made getting to his room an ordeal.

There’s private underground parking, cameras everywhere, armed guards at all entrances.

Claim

The place is apparently the first choice of politicians, athletes and VIPs, so I know it’s top-of-the-line. It’s perfect.

I’ve blown hundreds of dollars on lingerie that I may never get to use now, so what’s another couple of thousand on a hotel room with armed guards in the lobby?

The thought is so bitterly ridiculous that I almost smile.

Almost.

The city grows brighter as I head downtown, but inside the car everything feels dark and compressed, my thoughts circling the same ugly truth:

I thought Locke would have my back.

Not blindly, of course, not automatically. But I thought he’d understand.

Of all people, he should have understood the difference between protecting me and erasing me. He was the one who taught me that trust meant choice. He was the one who told me I could step off the cliff because he would catch me, or trust myself to fly.

Apparently that only applied when he approved of the direction I was falling.

The hotel staff don’t blink at my lack of luggage, which tells me something about who just shows up at the place.

The woman at reception smiles, confirms the suite, takes my card, and politely informs me that security is staffed around the clock and no one can access the residential floors without getting through armed guards.

I nearly laugh from relief. Instead, I ask whether they offer room service all night, and am assured that it’s available 24/7.

I run the gauntlet of lobby security, get escorted onto the elevator, then a guard takes the elevator with me to my floor.

When I finally get into my room, it’s absolutely ridiculous.

The suite is almost regal. Cream carpets, gold fixtures, a wall of windows overlooking the city, and a bathroom large enough to stage a small diplomatic summit.

I lock the door, engage the extra two security latches, then stand in the middle of the room and listen to the silence.

No questions. No plans. No men deciding what I need.

13

Own

Chapter

Just me.

1 pull out my phone, and I see that there are already seven missed calls.

Three from Jade.

Two from Dad.

Two from Mayhem.

A message pops up from Locke while I’m looking at the screen:

Where are you?

No greeting, no apology. Just a question, a demand for information.

My thumb hovers over the screen, and for one weak, stupid, dangerous second, I want to answer. I want to tell him exactly where I am, and then unleash every angry thought I’ve been collecting since I saw the empty space where his bike should have been.

I don’t. Instead, I text Dad:

I’m safe, I’m staying in a hotel tonight. I need to be alone, so please don’t try to find me. I’ll call tomorrow.

He replies almost immediately:

Tell me where you are.

I close my eyes, then type:

No. I love you. I’m safe. That has to be enough for now.

The dots that tell me he’s typing appear, then disappear, then appear again. Finally he sends:

I love you too. Call me in the morning.

I turn off the phone – completely. The silence and peace that follows is startling. It’s absolute.

It’s mine.

I run a bath so hot that the mirror fogs before the tub is half full, pour in enough expensive bath oil to make the entire room smell like a rose garden, and sink beneath the water until only my face remains above the surface.

For the first time since the parking garage, my body begins to unclench, and I finally let myself think about

Locke.

About the expression on his face when I told him he was fighting around me instead of for me, and the way he asked if I thought he was making me disappear. About the terrible stillness that followed when I told him that he was angry enough to stop seeing the difference.

Maybe I hurt him. I probably did.

Good.

Chapter 602

That thought should shame me, but it doesn’t. Not tonight.

Claim

I’m tired of being the only person expected to understand why everyone else behaves badly when they’re upset. Knox had reasons. Dad has reasons. Mayhem has reasons. Locke has reasons.

Well, motherfuckers… so do

I’m angry because I’ve spent too many years being handled by men; I’m angry because Locke promised partnership and then, the moment fear got involved, treated me like a problem to manage.

And I’m angriest at myself, because I miss him.

I order fries, a bacon cheeseburger, chocolate cake and an obscenely expensive bottle of wine that I have every intention of finishing. I eat in bed wearing the hotel robe, watch a movie with the volume too loud, and refuse to feel guilty every time my gaze drifts toward the dark phone on the nightstand.

I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry for leaving. I’m not sorry for choosing quiet. I’m not sorry for refusing to explain myself, while everyone else gets to act first and justify it later.

Locke walked away from me first, and that matters. He chose distance before I did, and so tonight, I choose it too.

And when I finally turn off the lights and slide beneath sheets that smell like starch instead of Locke, I stare out at a city full of strangers and make myself one promise:

Tomorrow, I’ll talk to him. Tomorrow, I’ll listen to him. Tomorrow, I might even forgive him.

But tonight?

Tonight, nobody gets to tell me where the fuck I belong.

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