Page 142 of Manhattan State of Mind

Around me, the world is in fast-forward. Heels clack-clack-clacking, phone calls punctuating the air, the ebb and flow of traffic to the cafeteria, and the routine humdrum of greetings at the reception. Their apparent normalcy only stokes the inferno of my rising panic.

The woman beside has a sickeningly sweet tone—until the call ends. “Insufferable prick,” she hisses into the now-dead line.

And the giant phantom arrow that followed me on my first day back to the office is back, rudely jabbing my skull.

Then, like someone hit the pause button, everything slows. Stops. People freeze in place like sophisticated androids, their systems abruptly switched off. The scene unfolds with an eerie stillness, reminiscent of a chillingBlack Mirrorepisode.

Risking a look from behind my giant plant, I strain to see what has glued everyone’s gaze. The massive screen behind the reception desk flickers with the sensationalism of a live news channel.

And prominently displayed on the screen is JP, slumped on a couch, eyes shut, his chest exposed. His arm hangs in a heavy drape over the couch’s edge. I stifle a gasp, my hands flying up to cover my mouth.

Is he…?

Relief, sharp and brutal, courses through me as his head shifts ever so slightly. He’s not dead, but the nightmare is far from over.

A naked woman comes into focus, sauntering into view, her ass filling the screen. She leans over him, attempting to rouse him, and his eyes flutter open—glazed and unfocused.

A visceral wave of nausea sweeps over me. So, not dead, just drugged out of his mind. Even better.

The camera zooms in to show his dilated pupils, drowned in a cocktail of narcotics. A thin sheen of sweat glistens on his face.

I fight back the urge to retch.

Before I can even process this, another naked woman saunters into view, just as the screen plunges into blackness.

Chaos erupts in the reception area, shattering the silence with a flurry of frantic activity. Receptionists scramble, coworkers murmur in hushed, agitated tones.

“What the absolute fuck?” An explosive, muffled curse detonates in the air beside me. Accusations fracture the silence, questions explode like grenades, ripping through the calm. The name “Wolfe” echoes around me like some morbid mantra.

I back up, stumbling into the plant, memories resurfacing with a vengeance.

His eyes. Those vacant, soulless eyes. Haunted me for days before the accident. How could I have forgotten them?

And just like that, I’m transported. I find myself standing at the threshold of JP’s penthouse apartment, the night everything imploded coming back into sharp, heart-wrenching focus.

FORTY

A few weeks before the accident

Lucy

His door isn’t fully closed. It’s slightly ajar, and my heart races, syncing up with the pulsating bass vibrating through the door. Laughter and music, disembodied, seep out into the hallway, striking me like a sucker punch.

A party? Seriously? We’re in the throes of an argument and he responds with a party? Seems like aFuck youto me.

I’m here playing peacemaker, ready to say “I love you” and salvage whatever’s left of us. Because I know I love this man, and if we don’t sort things out, the hole in my heart will never be filled again. I’m here to say I’m ready to meet him halfway if he’s willing to put the work in.

I won’t deny I hurled some severe words at him. But his power doesn’t entitle him to always get his way. He tried to steamroll me, buy out my apartment, and became irate when I put a stop to it. He can’t whisper “I love you” and expect that to nullify his high-handed actions. I didn’t mean to throw it back in his face though. I shouldn’t have told him I wanted nothing to do with him, but he was being so arrogant, the words just vomited from my mouth.

With a dose of dread, I nudge the door open and step into JP’s penthouse. It’s filled with people, a chaotic whirl of music and laughter, the air ripe with expensive alcohol and, oddly, smoke. A surprise, given JP’s aversion to it. He’s allowing smoking here tonight?

I muster the remains of my nerve and call out over the noise, my voice barely audible, “Hi, is JP around?”

Everyone in the hallway ignores me. I scuff a sneaker across the floor, feeling like shit as I eye the sharp-suited men and women dressed in sexy dresses. I’m nothing to them.

While I’ve been at home, agonizing and stewing over our fight, JP’s been here, living it up. All the angst about telling him I couldn’t date him anymore because I can’t stomach the heartache of playing second fiddle to his extravagant lifestyle—it all feels pretty futile now. I regretted the words as soon as they came out of my mouth. My heart was literally screaming at me to shut up.

I tap a guy on the shoulder in the middle of a group of suits. They have Wall Street written all over them.