Page 13 of Dante (Members From Money Season 2. #153)

He stood again, restless, and crossed to the window.

His reflection stared back at him, pale and haunted, eyes sunk deep in their sockets from too many sleepless nights.

If only he could find a way to slice his feelings off, to leave them at the office door like a forgotten umbrella. But they clung to him, heavy as regret.

Tomorrow. The word echoed, hollow. He wanted to believe in the promise of a new day, that with the sunrise he'd find answers, or at least the courage to act. But the night was long, and every minute without her pressed down harder on his ribcage, until he could hardly breathe.

He didn't know how long he stood there, watching the city pulse and shift.

When he finally moved, it was with the slow determination of a man who knew he'd have to face himself before he could face anyone else.

He gathered his things, shutting off the office light, but her presence lingered, an afterimage, a promise, a question without answer.

As he stepped into the corridor, he told himself again that he would decide by tomorrow. And prayed that, when the time came, he'd be strong enough to live with his choice.

After a very sleepless night, she rose early in the morning and started cleaning. That's what she did. If she was going through a very rough patch, she would take it out on housework. By the time it was midmorning, she had cleaned from top to bottom.

The place sparkled, the scent of lemon and beeswax vying for supremacy. And she had not been sick once. She cursed the contrariness of her pregnancy and had a strong pep talk with the fetus growing inside her. And called her brother after.

She might be out of a job and would have to depend on him for support for a little bit. Six months or thereabouts. She had some money saved up, but that was going to take her so far and no further.

By the time Caleb arrived, she had baked chocolate chip and caramel cookies and had vegetable soup simmering on the stove. And she was exhausted and feeling weepy.

He came into the kitchen and took one look at her face and knew something was wrong.

"The soup is almost ready."

"Never mind that." Pulling up a chair, he sat across from her and took her hands. "What?"

"I told him." She moved her shoulders jerkily. "More like I disgraced myself by puking my guts out and had to tell him."

"And?"

"I might lose my job." She blinked back the tears.

"He said that? Because it's damn illegal."

"I kept it from him in the first place. He has every right to be pissed and to want me gone."

Caleb pressed his lips together, fighting back his instinct to leap up and start pacing the kitchen as he always did when anxious.

"Listen," he said finally, his voice quieter than she'd ever heard it, "that's not how this works.

You don't just get tossed aside because you had something going on in your life, something as big as this.

If he's any kind of decent, he'll understand. "

She didn't answer, just looked down at her hands, tracing a pattern in the grains of flour dusting across her knuckles.

A silence stretched between them, a heavy, delicate thing that neither dared break for a breathless moment.

It was broken only by the faint bubbling of the soup and the low hum of a morning radio drifting in from the living room.

"I don't want to depend on anyone," she said at last, her voice husky with exhaustion. "Not even you. I've worked hard for everything, and now it's like all that can just be taken away because of a mistake."

He squeezed her hands, gentle but insistent. "Needing help isn't a mistake. And you didn't do anything wrong. You did what you had to do. You'll figure the rest out as you go, like you always do. And I'll be here, for however long you need."

She managed a brittle, grateful smile, blinking fast. "Okay." Rising, she rubbed her hands over her faded jeans briskly. "Okay, enough of this pity party. I will be fine. If I must look for another job then so be it. You're right. I'm strong and resilient and this is not going to break me."

He crossed to her and pulled her into his arms. "That's my girl."

Lifting his head, he looked around the spotless kitchen. "Jesus, you must have been really stressed."

She smiled weakly. "You should see the rest of the place."

Magda stared at him and felt the anger burning her throat. How dare he stand there looking so damned appealing and sexy in that rough and tumble way of his and declare that it was over! She knew it was coming but had hoped, had bloody well wished she was wrong.

Now here he was in the doorway of her apartment, standing just inside the front door as if he was loath to come inside and telling her that it was over.

And try as she might, she was finding it rather difficult to hold onto her dignity and pride. She wanted to scream, throw things and claw his eyes out for doing this to her. She wanted to beg and ask for a second chance. And was seriously on the verge of humiliating herself.

She! An accomplished actress and an established beauty. Men had written odes to her looks, calling her the rose of daytime television. She could get any man she wanted.

But this peasant. She reigned in her thoughts and felt the tears burning the back of her eyes.

"Can we at least talk about this?"

Her voice was quiet, belying the bitter storm raging inside her.

"What's the point?" he asked impatiently. "I never made a promise."

"It was implied!"

He raised a brow at the tone and the words. "Was it?" He was weary, exhausted really. Last night had been a restless one and on top of it, he had decided that it was time to make a clean break. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what the hell he was doing.

"I'm sorry." She hated the fact that she was the one apologizing. "Have you met someone else?"

The question was dragged from her. She had to know, had to make some sense to all of it. She had plans for them. People had started to stare at her with envy. Women sighed softly whenever they stepped inside a room.

It would not do for the papers to pick up on the fact that they were no longer together. She could spin the tale that she had been the one to walk away, but no one would believe her.

"I cannot believe you're just walking away. I deserve to know what I did wrong." Her eyes turned limpid. "You owe me that."

"I don't owe you a damn thing." Suddenly he was angry with her, with himself, with the situation he was facing at his office. He wanted to run away and hide somewhere, a place where he would be able to think. Be alone with his thoughts.

Raking his fingers through his hair, he started to turn away. "I'm sorry."

With that, he simply left.

For a long, echoing moment, the silence in the apartment grew almost sentient, crowding around her with the same intensity as the ache in her chest. Magda stood rooted to the spot, arms wrapped tight around herself as if she could shield her heart from the raw, humiliating vulnerability.

The sharp click of the door closing behind him reverberated through her bones, and when her knees finally gave way, she crumpled onto the fluffy gold carpet, her head pounding with fury.

Outside, city traffic hummed indifferently, the distant notes of laughter and car horns drifting up past her window. She pressed her palm to the cool floor and tried to anchor herself to something solid, something that was not slipping away from her grasp. Why had she let him in so far?

She had built her life out of dazzling facades, perfect roles, magazine covers and cool, rehearsed smiles, yet here she was, trembling and unmoored, all her hard-won poise scattered to the wind.

Minutes passed. Perhaps hours. Eventually, Magda rose, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, discovering the telltale traces of mascara.

She straightened her shoulders, squared her jaw, and walked to the mirror hanging by the door.

Her reflection stared back, beautiful but slightly blurred, eyes rimmed red, mouth set in a determined line.

"No one gets to write my ending," she whispered, the words a brittle promise.

She would cry tonight, even allowing herself the petty satisfaction of tearing up old photos, deleting his number, and drowning their memories in a glass or three of wine.

But tomorrow, the world would see only the rose of daytime television.

Unbowed, unbroken, and perfectly composed.

Magda reached for her phone, thumb hovering over the number of her agent. There was still an audition to prepare for, lines to memorize, and a thousand eyes waiting to watch her next performance. Heartbreak, after all, was just another role. And she had always excelled at those.

And she was damned if she was going to allow a man to send her spiraling into acute misery. She deserved more than that. He was going to come crawling back to her, she decided. And when he did, she was going to make him crawl.

Shaking her head at the unlikely image, she rose unsteadily and went to grab the bottle of wine she had put on ice when she learned he was coming over. She was going to indulge herself in a good cry and several glasses of Chateaubriand. It was well deserved.

He went away on the spur of the moment. Without packing, he turned his car around and called his pilot.

A trip to Texas was overdue. He was part owner of a very prosperous ranch, and it was high time he took an active interest in the running of the place.

The man he had put in charge of it was an old friend who would certainly welcome his presence.

His mind settled on that, and he felt himself getting steadier. He would give himself time to sort through the mess inside his head.