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How could I?

Come to think of it, I may have screamed. Because that blessed pinprick took everything away to a land of fluffy clouds dripping red rain. And by the time I woke again, all was well. My mind was as empty as my arms, and the only thought causing me the briefest discomfort was deciding which shade of Jell-O to have.

Pressure builds in my head and chest and I jerk to the side. My breath explodes from my lungs in sickening gulps as I try not to cry out. But one sob emerges, followed by a dozen before I force myself to stop crying. I have no right to tears. I have no right to grief.

How can I, when I gave my own child away seconds after he was born?

* * *

Sunshine pours through half-open curtains the next time I open my eyes. My face is tight from dried tears, and I’m still alone in Mason’s bedroom.

I debate whether to take this turn of events in my stride, like the tough take-no-shit Brooklyn girl I’ve falsely projected all these years, or curl into a pathetic ball and feel sorry for myself. I suck in a breath and opt for the former. I knew coming into this that it wouldn’t be sustainable for more than one or two brief encounters, three tops.

Clearly, I didn’t account for the swiftness with which we’d go from banging each other’s brains out to me being huddled under the covers, eating my sobs. I erroneously believed that the electrifying connection between us was purely sexual in nature. Now I know it’s our shared pain that keeps us riveted to each other.

That hellish self-loathing and murderous rage I sense in him is the yin to the yang of the twisting, helpless blackness that bloats my soul and slams on my self-destructive button whenever I lower my guard.

We may not know the minutiae of our dark and monstrous pasts, butitknowsus. And as surely as I know how to bullshit my way into a first-class seat on any airplane, I know that talking myself into prolonging any further contact with Mason will end me.

As it is, the decision is taken out of my hands. The moment I flip over to rise, I see the note propped up on the bedside table. It’s folded in half, and a tall black box tied with cream silk ribbon sits beneath it.

I perch on the edge of the bed and open the thick fancy paper.

A taxi will arrive half an hour after you wake.

Your clothes are washed and pressed and on the dresser.

Help yourself to breakfast. The contents of the black box is mypargift to you.

I would be honored if you would accept it.

Mason.

The crossed-out word absorbs my attention. More than knowing he’s left me alone in his beautiful mausoleum of a house—why the fuck else would he leave me a note?—and more than the fact that he’s left me a gift with this “fucked and dumped” note, it’s those three letters that I can’t look away from.

Par.

Two things strike me as I stare hard at the word.

Firstly, he should’ve scrubbed the whole note and written a new one. It’s the polite thing to do. But he deliberately left it there for me to see it. And what? Wonder what he really means? Play pathetic word games with myself and read things into the word that I shouldn’t?

And secondly, he’s gone out of his way to be hurtful.

Because I’m damn sure the word he was aiming for wasparting. He returned to the room and left me apartinggift without bothering to wake me and have a simple conversation.

I toss the note when I realize I’m falling for his mind-fuckery. I should know better. Sure, he is a grand master at it, I’ll give him props for that. But I’m intelligent enough to know the game he’s playing with me. And yet, I can’t dismiss my hurt feelings as I use the bathroom, put on my clothes and head downstairs.

“Good morning, Miss Benson?—”

“Fuck!” I jump and almost miss the last step. My hand flies to the banister to steady myself, and I cling there for a moment, trying to stop myself from expiring from shock. My gaze darts around even though I know there isn’t a physical body attached to the voice. “Umm… can you hear me?”

“Of course. Coffee is ready in the kitchen, and the car service will be here in twenty minutes.”

I curb the urge to flip a bird at the reminder that I’m to exit stage left without delay. At least Mason hasn’t left me to find my own way back to the hotel. “Thank you, Seven.”

I head for the kitchen to retrieve my purse and phone and grind to a halt when I’m confronted by the banquet laid out on the breakfast counter.

Next to each plate stands a tiny flag announcing its contents. Pastries and condiments, a tiny domed plate that reveals piping-hot Moroccan baked eggs, a stack of caramel pancakes. Red velvet stuffed crepes, coffee and assorted juices complete the feast.