Paper Trails 2 | Draft

49.

"Oh, love. How it consumes us, drives us, builds us, breaks us, damns us. We never stood a chance."

*****

I was making a mistake.

That was the first thing that came to mind when I stepped into the elevator. The last time I'd done this, I was unknowingly walking into heartbreak. I expected that again, though I didn't really know why. At this point, I knew we were finished. There was no reconciling what we'd destroyed. He did the one thing I couldn't forgive, and I was preparing to do the one thing I knew he wouldn't. Nervous. I felt nervous. A heaviness on my chest no amount of deep breaths can relieve and a pressure in my skull. These past few days have been...hectic.

Insane. I didn't think my life could get to this point.

I closed my eyes and let my head hit the wall. I kept seeing her. Smirking at me. The gun in her mouth. She didn't even hesitate.

I pictured Tyler standing in front of me, asking me to leave with him. And then just like that, he was on the floor, blood seeping from the bullet wound to his temple.

It took all I had not to throw up right there. I'd done that three times already, at least.

The doors open, and I stepped off, back into his penthouse. I used to be so comfortable here. Now all I can think about is Niccolò and Milan fucking. Everywhere.

The bitch was dead and she still managed to get to me.

"Neila?"

I turned, my eyes finding his. My heart fluttered in that stupid way it did every time I laid eyes on him. He looked like himself. Dark blue suit, hair slicked back, cigar between his fingers. His keys were in his hand, and I suddenly grew ten times more anxious.

"Are you going somewhere?"

There was a long moment that passed before he responded, where he just looked at me. And then he nodded. "Yeah, I have to meet someone."

"Someone I know?"

His jaw clenched. Why is that so hot? "Not her."

"I kn—" I stopped myself. "Then who?"

He looked me up and down before turning away, going back into his kitchen. "Don't worry about it."

"Who says I'm worried?" I followed him and leaned against the doorway.

He picked up a fancy looking case, opened it, and put the cigar inside. "Okay. Is that what you came here to tell me?"

"No." I looked down at my feet. "Wanted to talk."

"Talk," he repeated, the words falling from his lips flatly.

"Yeah."

"I don't have time right now." He faced me again. "You know what, I think we should just...not do this. Ever."

"Excuse me?"

"I don't know what you want to talk about, but I can almost guarantee it'll end with us arguing and you calling me a dick."