What's home, if not the first place you flee from? What's love, if not that blazing, unexplainable feeling born from the ashes of hate?
Reputable for her appeal, servility, and obsession with cartoons, Alaina is a workaholic immigrant doctor who's s...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Westlife - Somebody Needs You.
♣️
YOU ARE, MR. ASH. Especially at apologizing.
Now it's not my papa's voice drilling through my god-damn skull. It's hers.
Fuck. She's right.
I haven't apologized. Not really. Not for those three months I spent tearing her down just to entertain my sick taste. I've buried myself in gestures and gifts, obsessed with outdoing myself, and missed the one thing she actually wanted. The apology. The part that mattered. How fucking dumb can I be?
I figured sending her friends to spoil her would pass as remorse. Yesterday, hearing her side, however, I saw it plain—I've been a complete arsehole. Steady, unwavering. Proud of it, too.
Christ, I'm pathetic at this.
Mama always said money dulls a man's senses. Maybe if I didn't have it, I'd know how to hold on to a woman without handing her receipts. I'd pay attention instead of playing the black card like it's a wand.
The flicker from my MacBook reels me back in. I glance up, narrow my eyes, and pause the screen.
Lake Laogai. Season 2, Episode 17. Progress. I binged the show while flying solo on the jet. It was either that or wake her up just to lay the wood again.
And Jesus, I wanted to. Watched her sleep while my cock begged for another go, imagining how good she'd feel pressed against me, taking every inch. But she needed sleep. I knew that. I'd already pushed her past what was fair.
Apparently so far, I hurt her.
When her sobs reached me, that dizzy high snapped. Turned sour. Shit became real.
I didn't even catch when the apology fell out of my mouth. Or why I scribbled it down on paper like a damn schoolboy.
Maybe I just couldn't stand another red tick from her.
I don't want anything from her except grace. Mercy. Her good side.
I'm done watching her cry. I've wrecked enough. Now I want to repair. Gather what's left of the girl I battered and stitch it into something better. Something whole. For her. So she smiles again.
Only problem is, I don't know how.
I know she likes white chocolate. White daisies. But I don't know what kind of note will unpin that little frown she's always wearing around me. I don't even know what the hell she eats in the morning. Judging by those thick thighs, though, I suspect carbs don't scare her.
And I can't ask her friends. Or my investigator. That'll only piss her off.
"Any news?" I ask Jason, who's glaring like I owe him back pay.
