Chapter 213
Yvan had no idea how he managed to leave Matilda’s place that day. Her final words had left him shattered, his armor discarded, his defenses torn asunder. He fled, tearing away from her home as if chased by demons. His sports car roared down the highway, the windows rolled down, the biting wind funneling straight into his soul.
His whole body trembled uncontrollably, spasms of pain gripping his chest.
Stumbling into his house like a wounded soldier, he collapsed onto the couch, his spirit in tatters.
Gradually, he curled up, fetal–like, as helpless as a newborn, clutching the fabric over his heart as if to hold himself together.
He felt like a defeated generat, his consciousness in disarray, his breaths shaky and painful. It seemed even breathing was a stab of agony.
Tears, cold and unbidden, fought to escape the corners of Yvan’s eyes. After a long silence, he let out a guttural growl, choked by sobs.
He had thought it wouldn’t matter, that he could face this easily. But Matilda’s piercing gaze and the venom in her words had flayed him alive. He felt dissected, pain throbbing through every part of him.
He had never paid her any mind, and had loathed her, so why did her indifference wound him so deeply?
Was it just a man’s petty possessiveness that caused such agony?
His fingers clenched tightly, but not enough to stop their trembling: He felt as if
he had been stricken by a terrible illness, his own insults to her now reflected
back upon him.
How could he say he regretted it?
He didn’t love her; he couldn’t. And yet, why was the pain so profound?
The night stretched on, each second an eternity, torturing Yvan’s heart.
The pain of losing Matilda seemed, unfathomably, to exceed even the loss of Rachel Archer.
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The turmoil of the night caused Matilda to be late for work the next day. She
figured she’d get docked for attendance and yawned as she settled back into her seat.
“Rare sight, you being late,” Hala twirled her pen nearby. “Thought that was Orson’s trademark.”
No sooner had she spoken than another latecomer, Orson, shuffled in, his face the very image of sleep deprivation. “Morning, folks…”
“Congratulations Orson, you’re late again,” Hala quipped.
Orson just lazily lifted his lids, slumped at his desk, and promptly fell into a nap.
Luna’s fingers flew over her keyboard. “Impressive, he’s totally given up.”
“He makes more in bonuses than his base salary anyway,” Hala shrugged.
Yoshi sauntered over, his jacket swishing. “Looks like our goddess could use a pick–me–up. How about a cup of instant coffee?”
Matilda couldn’t help but chuckle, accepting the coffee he was handing out to everyone. She then booted up her computer, ready to tackle another day.
But she didn’t expect Declan to show up at their studio.
When she saw him in the reception area, her first instinct was to turn and walk away. But then Declan called out to her, and she had no choice but to stop.
“Luna said someone was looking for me. I didn’t expect it to be you,” Matilda said without even sitting down, getting straight to the point. “What do you want, Mr. Yeager?”
Declan scrutinized Matilda, searching for any crack in her composure, but found
none.
“Where’s Chloe?” he eventually asked, his voice deep and pressing.
Matilda’s silence was as final as death itself.
With an impatient click of his tongue, Declan repeated, “Where’s Chloe? I’m not a patient man…”
“She’s dead.” Matilda met Declan’s gaze squarely. “Looking for her? Want to light
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a candle?”
Declan’s amber eyes narrowed to pinpoints, a visceral denial rising within him. “That’s impossible!”
“Impossible? The service has already passed.” Matilda’s voice was laced with scorn. “Chloe had no family; I arranged everything myself. What, you’ve had a change of heart and want to pay your respects?”
A chill crept up Declan’s spine, slow and inexorable.
