Page 147 of Manhattan State of Mind

Her silence hangs heavy between us.

I drop to my knees on the cold, unyielding sidewalk, reaching for her hand. “Lucy, please see it from my point of view. You forgot me. I almost stormed into your hospital room to tell you everything from the start, but the doctor held me back. She warned it could traumatize you further. I was told to reintroduce myself gently. When I asked you as Daredevil if you wanted to see behind the mask and you declined, I took it as a sign you weren’t ready. Was I supposed to lead with the part of me you hated? The shitshow chapters of our story? I wanted to show you I was a man worthy of your love.”

She pulls back. “People in love don’t lie to each other.”

Even from my low position, I can see the startled faces of passersby turning toward the commotion, but I couldn’t give a flying fuck.

“Well, most people in love don’t have to deal with one of them forgetting everything,” I retort, weariness seeping into my voice.

She glares down at me. “So this is my fault now?”

I look up at her, my gaze unwavering.

“No, I’m not fucking saying it’s your fault.” I exhale heavily. “Lucy, please. Don’t give up on us.”

She jerks her hand away as if she’s been burned, walking backward until she bumps into someone on the sidewalk. Tears shine in her eyes even as her face hardens. “Stay away from me,” she whispers. “That’s all I want.”

As she turns to leave, the murmurs and laughter reminds me we have an audience, and that I’m still in my kneeling position. But I barely notice the flashing cameras. The only thing I see is Lucy slipping away for good, taking my damaged heart with her.

FORTY-TWO

Lucy

If I thought the pain and fear of amnesia was bad, a broken heart has nothing on a broken mind. I’d gladly wipe my mind blank all over again than endure this relentless, gut-wrenching heartache another second.

Roxy, the nymphomaniacal sex doll, Spider, the human hurricane of mess, and Dave, the truly pathetic real estate agent, all look like saints in comparison to what JP has done to me.

I remember his words at the charity ball:When I’m in love, I’m all in. I worship my woman. She becomes the center of my world, and I give her everything I’ve got, every single day.

But I was never enough to be his center.

In an alternate universe, JP Wolfe would have remained a cold, arrogant boss who casually threatened my job. That would’ve been better than owning this heap of tragic memories with him, especially the ones where he turns my heart into a soggy doormat.

The memories keep clawing their way to the surface, each one more agonizing than the last. That God-awful night in his apartment, where I found him wasted out of his mind, surrounded by overpaid bankers, power-suit executives, and half-naked hangers-on.

Now I know why that smarmy creep at the charity gala set off alarms. I’d seen him before—the night of JP’s coke-fueled party. He gave me that same smarmy look when I asked where JP was. No wonder JP tensed up seeing him again.

JP looked right through me that night. Like I was nothing. Invisible. Worthless. I may as well have been a houseplant.

Every time the memory resurfaces, I feel sick. I can’t help but imagine what happened after I left. I can’t halt the tormenting images of JP and one of the women in his bedroom. Why wouldn’t he give in? It’s unrealistic to believe he resisted. The thought of them together, his hands on her skin, his mouth on hers—it shatters me inside.

There’s a special corner in hell for that JP. I hate that I know that side of him.

But I hate more that I saw the man within—the alluring enigma who let me glimpse his damaged soul. The one I fell hard for despite all the red flags and alarm bells.

I wish I could rip that JP from my memory, cut him out of my splintered heart.

Naturally, the office gossip machine is in overdrive with the latest about me and JP, ever since photos spilled out onto social media. The pictures of us fighting on the street haven’t quite reached the tabloid gold standard set by JP’s video masterpiece. Why would it? JP Wolfe in a public brawl with an average Jane doesn’t exactly scream “page-turner” like him coked out of his mind.

Unless, of course, you work at Quinn & Wolfe.

Apparently, the marketing department, the pulsating heart of our rumor factory, is having an absolute field day.

I hold my pillow tighter, nausea stirring in my gut. For years at Quinn & Wolfe, I was a pro at fading into the background, camouflaged among photocopiers and whiteboards. Terrified of stumbling over my words or tripping on my heels, I shied away from the execs.

But now, look at me, the dazzling star of the fucking gossip freak show.

I can’t go back to work. My love life is swirling down the toilet and my career’s itching to take the same nosedive. It’s an impressively catastrophic clusterfuck I’ve managed here.