Page 18 of Where Quiet Hearts Scream (Dark Hearts #3)

S erafina

I stand facing my bedroom door again.

Allegra and Bambi have gone out for groceries and Tess has just been collected by a black BMW, presumably with Benito Bernadi at the wheel.

I’m grateful for the quiet because the fact I’m struggling to simply open the door to my room is sure to beg questions. Anxiety crawls up my spine until my breaths shorten. I have to get this over with before I start hyperventilating.

I curl my fingers around the handle and push it down. The door opens a few inches and I hold my breath. Through the gap I can see that nothing has changed, nothing’s been moved. Everything is exactly where I left it. Everything .

Breathing out through pursed lips, I push the door open further and step into the room. I take a few seconds to look around, avoiding the space behind my desk.

My heartbeat slows. I’m okay. It’s all okay. My fear is in my head. I’m in complete control and have nothing to be afraid of.

I continue to repeat those affirmations as I lower myself onto my bed and look down at the bags that have been brought up to my room. I didn’t think I’d need to be unpacking them again here so soon.

My heart clenches at the thought I will never see Angela and the team again.

I miss them already. I miss the chaos, the customers.

I miss the relentless focus on making everything perfect for our guests and creating new ways to improve their experience.

I miss dreaming about the opportunities that might have awaited me after I completed the internship.

It still hasn’t sunk in that those dreams will never come true.

Sighing heavily, I open the bags and start to unpack them.

I stack my shoes, place my framed family photos, candles and other mementoes on my desk and shelves.

I unpack my toiletries and hair products, perfumes and make-up.

I don’t particularly care for them anymore—what’s the point in making the effort to look and smell nice if I don’t get a say in who I do it for?

When I’ve emptied one of the bags, I take a last look in the pockets. Before I can remind myself of what I need to forget, my fingers graze a metal object and without thinking, I pull it free.

It’s a key. A small one that only fits the drawer of my desk.

It’s a drawer I keep locked at all times and vowed never to open again.

Moving to the Hamptons was meant to put distance between my emotions and that damned drawer, giving me time to heal, to become the strong person everyone thinks I am.

But that distance has been dramatically cut short, and if the way I’m feeling now is any indication, I haven’t healed. If anything, recent events have sent me into a downward spiral. There are no steps forward, only giant stumbles backward.

The key feels like a branding iron between my fingers, burning it’s shape into my skin.

My eyes search for somewhere I can put it—out of reach, where I can’t be reminded everyday of what it conceals.

Standing on tiptoes, I take a box from the top shelf of my closet and place the key inside.

I shove the box to the very back so it’s completely out of view, then I close the closet doors.

My gaze glides across the room and the tingles across my chest don’t abate.

The key might be out of sight, but the desk isn’t.

My breaths shorten and this time the train is moving too fast—I can’t slow it down.

Being back in this room is too much. Too much, too soon.

Why did this have to happen? I gasp for oxygen. I’m not even halfway to healed.

I drop to the bed with a thump and put my head between my knees.

I focus on my breaths, counting them in and out, one by one.

I remember the way Andrew coaxed me through my last panic attack, and even though I despise him for what he’s done, there was a time when his words brought me comfort.

So I recall them now and I focus on them until my breathing finally slows.

I blink my eyes open and realize I must have fallen asleep after the panic attack passed. Sitting up on the bed, I remember with a heavy heart I need to finish unpacking.

Opening the second bag, I lift out my summer dresses.

Some of them haven’t been worn because I spent so much time in my hotel uniform.

I hang them in my closet, then return for the third and final bag.

My books are stacked neatly, so I take them out and slot them back onto the bookshelf.

I gaze a little too longingly at my favorite astrology book.

I’m not sure I’ll ever have the heart to open it again.

I don’t doubt that astrology can still teach me about people, about life, but it didn’t warn me about the predicament I now find myself in.

Perhaps I wasn’t searching for the right signs.

Perhaps I spent too much time looking at the charts and aspects of other people and I didn’t see what was staring me right in the face.

Either way, I’ve lost a little bit of faith.

Also, what good can it do? I’m trapped. My future is going to be dictated by a man who tricked me.

No amount of star-gazing can help me now.

As I slot the heavy book into a space on the shelf, a sheet of paper falls out with a note tacked to it. Before I have a chance to recall what it is and crush it beneath my foot, it’s in my fingers. It’s Andrew’s birth chart.

My laugh is bitter—he probably lied about his birth date, just like he’s lied about everything else. Then again, he did seem intensely interested in my interpretation, and so far, his shady character profile doesn’t seem too far-fetched.

I rest a finger over the symbols and trace the aspects I’d pored over for days.

What was it I’d found? That’s it. One of the most striking conclusions I’d drawn was that Andrew’s chart was dark.

Not just morally questionable-dark, but seriously pitch-black-dark.

And it’s all true. He’s basically a cold-blooded killer.

Perhaps not of the serial killer variety, but he’s definitely got the blood of multiple men on his hands.

Why else would he be in any sort of position to form an alliance with New York’s ruling Mafia family?

I roll my eyes. To think he was of the same ilk as a president... how na?ve.

I was right when I saw chaos in the patterns. Will I be right about us being the death of each other? I certainly wouldn’t mind killing him right now. Probably more realistic was my observation that his darkness could snuff out my light.

I flop back onto the bed and stare at the wall. As far as astrological predictions go, I’d say that one is uncannily correct.