Vivienne Cartwright can have anything she wants in life except for the man she loves.
She chases it only to find herself crashing down after the ultimate high.
Oliver Yates doesn't seem to be the man she's loved all these years and his secrets are...
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I heard that people drowned their sorrows with music and wine.
Since I was now officially miserable, I thought I'd try it.
I ordered up a bottle of red wine and turned on some moody instrumental playlist on the sound system as I soaked briefly in the tub. Once clad in nothing more but my silk slip, my hair flowing down my back and my feet bare, I curled up on the cushioned bench by the floor-to-ceiling glass wall of my suite and slowly sipped the rest of my wine.
I watched as the Strip came to life, the sharp fluorescent signs glowing in bold invitation to the partakers of excess that prowled the streets for their next haunt.
It was bright and noisy and busy—and it made me feel all the more alone.
I sighed and set the empty wine glass down on the floor, resting my chin on my raised knee.
I sucked at nursing a broken heart as much as I sucked at falling in love.
For all that the world envied me for, I had no talent at the one thing that truly mattered.
Tonight, I lost Oliver. And probably for good because I didn't know how we could ever go back from this. I couldn't imagine spending the rest of my life slowly bleeding away as I settled for his friendship when I wanted so much more than that.
I would have to give him up—or die a pathetic death clinging on to my decade-long delusion that Oliver must feel the same way I did.
No. The world was wrong.
Vivienne Cartwright didn't alway get everything she wanted.
The one thing that meant the world to her was the very thing she couldn't have.
Finally feeling sorry for yourself. Took you long enough.
An insistent rapping on the door finally caught my attention.
I stared at it, doing nothing, until I heard Oliver's voice from behind it.
I chastised myself for the hope that leapt from the pit of my stomach.
Of course, he was going to show up. He was going to apologize and try to fix it. Like he did when my cat Hester died when I was fourteen and he brought me a bunny. I knew what he was trying to do but I told him to return it or find it a better home because I didn't need a substitute for Hester. He looked torn, about to pull his hair out because he probably thought he couldn't fix whatever was broken in me. I'd held his hand and told him it was alright. That I was alright.
I couldn't do that with him tonight. Not when I could barely hold myself up together. I didn't want him to put the pieces back and keep them in place with Band-aids.
