Page 57

I barely make it to the bathroom, retching into the toilet. As I lean against the cold tile wall, my mind races. Is this just stress? The gallery, the money, Eric...
"We can't keep going like this," I whisper to myself, wiping my mouth. "I can't use the rest of Gran's money. We need to eat."
A job. I need to get a job. The thought feels like giving up on Eric's dream, but what choice do I have?
I stand on shaky legs, splashing water on my face. "It's temporary," I tell my reflection. "Eric will sell a painting soon. He has to. This is just... a rough patch."
But as I stare at myself, I wonder how many more 'rough patches' I can endure.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Victor
The last investorclaps me on the back, his grin as wide as the checks he's just promised. "To new beginnings," he toasts, raising a glass of water since we're still in the sterile conference room.
"Absolutely," I agree, my voice brimming with more confidence than I feel. We're about to head out for dinner when my phone buzzes in my pocket. I apologize with a nod and glance at the message lighting up the screen.
Avery
Can we talk?
Avery's name flashes under the text.
"Victor?" The investor's voice cuts through my thoughts.
"Sorry, one second," I say, managing a tight-lipped smile. Avery's words loop in my head—a silent echo that's louder than the chatter around me. She hasn't heard from me in days, and I flaked on coaching practice today.
"Shall we head to the restaurant?" another investor suggests, oblivious to the crossroads I'm standing at.
"Go ahead to the lobby. I'll catch up in a minute."
Once they file out, the quiet hum of the empty room gives me too much space to think. I hover over the call button, but memories of Sebastian's advice come crashing in. Maybe he's right and some things are better left alone, especially if they tangle your past and present in knots you can't untie.
I pocket my phone, resolve hardening like concrete in my chest. I stride out to meet the investors, leaving her silent question hanging in the air behind me.
The key turnswith a metallic click, and I step into the penthouse. It's silent—too silent—and the echo of my footsteps against the marble floor grates on my nerves. I flick on the lights, and they gleam off the stainless steel appliances in the kitchen, the polished surfaceof the grand piano in the corner, the glass walls that offer a panoramic view of Boston's skyline.
"Great," I mutter to myself, "a million-dollar view just for me."
I toss my keys onto the black granite countertop, and they clatter, disrupting the quiet like a shout. The place is immaculate, untouched since this morning, and it feels clinical, sterile even. I wander over to the living area, letting my fingers trail along the back of the Italian leather couch. It's cool to the touch, and I can't help but think of the worn fabric sofa back in Worcester, how it seemed to hold warmth.
"Maybe I should have taken the thing with me," I say with a dry chuckle, knowing full well it wouldn't fit in here. Not just physically, but... it doesn't belong. Just like I'm not sure I do anymore.
I flop down onto the couch, sinking into cushions that don't give enough to be comforting. My gaze drifts to the sleek lines of the coffee table, the abstract art on the walls, all chosen for their aesthetic, not for comfort. Not for a home.
"Home," I echo, the word sounding foreign in this space. Worcester wasn’t much, and I resented it while I was there, but now that I'm back in my penthouse apartment, I realize just how much closer to a home it was compared to this glass cage. There, at least, there were signs of life, of warmth, laughter, and... Avery. This penthouse, a maze of shadows and echoes, feels morelike a museum at night—an exhibition of Victor Stone's achievements with no visitors.
"Damn it," I whisper, scrubbing a hand through my hair. I should call her, shouldn't I? But the thought makes something tighten in my chest, a mix of guilt and something else, something like dread.
"Get it together, Victor," I scold myself. This is what success looks like, isn't it? The high life, the big deals, the distance from anything that might resemble... attachment. Yet, as I sit in this modern fortress of solitude, I've never felt less victorious.
I kick off my shoes, the thud against the marble barely registering. I yank my shirt over my head, toss it on a chair, and drop to the floor for push-ups.
"Come on," I grunt, each rep a pointless attempt to distract myself from the thoughts swirling in my head. My muscles burn, but the mental fog doesn't lift. Avery's message lurks there, a blinking cursor in the back of my mind.
"Can we talk?"
That's what she said. Just three words, yet they're heavy enough to pin me down. I could have been there today, coaching, laughing... But here I am, doing push-ups in an empty room like some kind of machine.