S ince the day Samantha quit, it’s like time stopped. The days crawl by at a snail’s pace. Business is going well—in fact, it’s never been better. We’ve explored a couple of English-speaking foreign markets and are ready to move ahead with tapping into those audiences .

But I don’t care anymore. I feel dead inside. Nothing matters .

Even people at work are noticing a difference. Kim asked me this morning if I was sick. Said I looked pale and run down. I told her she was fired for insubordination, and she rolled her eyes and told me good luck with running the company without her. She knows me too well .

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’ve never been this hung up on a girl before. It was just sex—and not even a lot. Mostly domination and submission. Nothing more. No emotions, no strings .

Bullshit. My brain won’t let me lie to myself .

I don’t know how or when it happened, but at some point, I developed feelings for Samantha. And since I brought her to my penthouse, I can still see her there. I can’t even sleep in my damn bed because all I feel is her presence, the sweet way she curled up against me. How she rode me until I came .

The office is even worse. Because the ghost of her is everywhere. On my desk. In the chair. Against the wall, begging for me with that husky voice that flipped me inside out .

I knew better, but I let myself get caught up in whatever we were, and now I’m paying for it. If only I’d been smarter, had kept the wall up around me better. Not let her in, even a crack. Then we could have continued on. But no, she started pushing and I got freaked out, and I forced her away. I knew what I was doing, and I did it because it was the safest bet .

And now here I am, listless, aimless .

I strap on my running shoes. Haven’t taken any laps in a while. Maybe escaping into exercise will help me get her off my mind .

I run. And I run. And I run. Miles go flying by. I get a stitch in my side but I don’t quit. I just need to run far enough to get into that headspace where I don’t feel anything anymore. But the truth is, since that night with Samantha, something cracked in me .

And I’m petrified .

I started to let her in. I let her see something I don’t show anyone. A piece of my past. Not even the media knows that I’m adopted. Or what happened to my birth mother. It’s been intentionally kept secret from the public at large .

And thank God, because I refuse to be that guy who’s pitied. I’m more than just the end-result of my mother’s murder .

Aren’t I ?

The thought niggles at me. That event has set me up on my path. Informed the person I am today. Someone too damaged to even let people glimpse into my past more than a peek before I freak out and push them away .

How is that not fucked up ?

I pause and suck in several breaths. Press my hand to my aching side. I’m covered with sweat, and my limbs ache. I’m supposed to be more in control than this, not letting everything around me determine my fate. I’m losing myself, and it’s scaring me to death .

That’s the core issue here .

That part of me wants to drop my wall and let her see me. Because deep down inside, I feel like Samantha would listen and understand. See why I’m so fucked up. But what could I possibly give a woman like her in return? A half of a man? She deserves better .

Me ending our relationship was the best thing I could do for her .

And what does that say about me and what I think I deserve? To be alone, to not inflict my own personal hell on anyone else .

I don’t know what to think about that, so I do my usual—I put that thought out of my head. And I run back to my place. My adoptive parents are throwing a dinner party to celebrate my mom’s birthday, and I promised to be there, of course. I’ll go for an hour and then bow out. Beg tiredness, or busyness, or something. No one ever expects me to linger at these things, thankfully .

* * *

“I just loved Catch a Tiger !” Mom’s best friend Valerie gushes. “It was the most intense thriller I’ve ever read.” Catch a Tiger was last year’s big release for us, and it already has film rights sold with major A-list Hollywood actors slated to star. Featured on several talk shows and the star of thousands of book clubs .

I remember when the editor brought the manuscript to us, telling us it needed work but would be an explosive hit. I’m glad our acquisitions board listened. Because of that book, our employees are going to have a good Christmas bonus this year .

“Thanks,” I tell her with a nod as I sip on my glass of red wine .

“So.” She leans forward. “What’s going to be your next big hit? Do you know yet ?”

I offer a polite smile. I’m asked this all the time. People love to feel like they’re in the know. That they have information no one else does. I guarantee that anything I say with an ounce of specifics will end up on Twitter. I’m too smart for this game. “We have a couple in the pipeline. Stay tuned—we’ll be doing some major promo soon .”

“And you can’t tell me any details ?”

“Valerie, stop hounding my son,” Mom says, saving me from the inquisition. She loops her arm in her friend’s arm and smiles, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “I haven’t opened your birthday present for me yet .”

“Ooh, yes, you must!” Valerie says .

As Mom guides her away, she offers me a wink over her shoulder. I give a nod in thanks, knowing I owe her one for the save .

“Do you ever get tired of being important?” Dad asks me with a laugh. He’s holding a Miller Light. I love that Dad doesn’t worry about social fashion. He drinks what he wants, regardless of how fancy the party might be. I invited him to a book launch for a major release two years ago, and he wore the suit he had on at my high school graduation .

Dad comes from humble stock, and he’s happy to remain that way .

I shrug. “You get used to it, I guess .”

“I guess.” He gives me a knowing look as he takes a drag from his beer .

“What?” I can’t help but ask. I know better. I just opened the door for him to lay down some fatherly advice or something .

“Bentley.” Dad sighs and steps toward me. “I can tell you’re off. I don’t know what’s wrong, but you’re not the same .”

My stomach tightens. “ How’s that ?”

“You seem…” He lowers his beer and eyes me. “Sadder. Like something is missing .”

Something is missing. Has been since I was nine. But I know that’s not what he means, and I’m sure as fuck not going to talk about the past. Or about Samantha. “I’m fine,” I say evenly. “I’m just busy with work is all. It takes a lot of my time to keep a company that size running .”

“Okay.” He nods. “You’re strong. I know this. Your mom and I love you and we’re so proud of all the hard work you do and have done. But…” He pauses, exhales. “Don’t forget that in the end, we can’t curl up beside a pile of money at night. Money won’t hold us when we’re sick. Money can’t make us feel loved.” With that, he walks away .

I stand there for a moment, and the simple words he spoke seep beneath my skin. Wiggle their way past my ribcage toward my heart .

I could have had that with Samantha. If I had just taken a risk and let her in. I could have, but I let it go .

No, I sent it away. Big difference .

I made her feel like she was unimportant to me, dismissible, dispensable. And because of me, she felt forced to leave the job that was going to help her build a secure future .

I sink into a nearby chair, mind reeling .

I’m an asshole .

The whole time Samantha worked for me, she bent over backward to please me. To make me happy. To give me what made me feel good, without asking much in return .

And what did I do? At the first sign of her asking me for something, I rejected her .

Shame floods me, hard and fast and strong. I’m so sick over the realization of what I’ve done. How selfish I’ve been. I made everything about me, even when I tried to focus on her. In the end, it was still about me .

My entire adulthood has been this way .

My adoptive parents, they loved me in spite of me being closed off. They took me in and gave me a home, knowing the trauma I experienced. They never pushed me to talk about it, never asked me to be anything other than myself. And how have I repaid them for that care? I duck out early for dinners and parties. I stay closed off .

I don’t let anyone in .

I rise from the chair and head toward my old bedroom. It’s dark. I leave the lights shut off and sit down on the full-size bed. Most of the room has been changed, and I haven’t lived at home since I was a teenager—but some things stayed. Artwork I made. Awards I received. Newspaper clippings about my company’s success .

What happens if I drop my walls and let people see me? The damaged me, the parts that are so raw and painful that it hurts to expose them to daylight? What happens if they see it and they’re freaked out by how fucked up I really am ?

How can I handle that rejection ?

Somehow, Samantha managed to handle it. You can too. My brain is relentless, chewing away at my arguments for self-preservation .

I fucked up. I royally fucked up. I had a chance with a woman who cares about me, and I blew it .

I lost the first woman in my life, my mother, and now I’ve gone and sent away the next woman who came along and truly cared about me, saw me for who I am and didn’t run away screaming .

Can I get her back ?

I don’t know how to open up, not the way Samantha wants and needs me to. But I sure as fuck need to try. I’ve already gone weeks without her, and I feel like the hole in my chest is getting wider .

A knock on the door startles me out of my thoughts. I jerk my head up and squint as the light from the hallway spills in .

It’s my adoptive mother .

Then I shake the thought from my head. Not my adoptive mother. Just my mom—the woman who took me in and raised me, cared for me the best she could despite my challenges .

“Hey. You okay?” The concern in her voice chips away at something in me .

“No. I…I messed up, big time,” I confess .

“Oh, honey. I was waiting for you to say something.” There’s no surprise in her voice at all as she joins me on the bed, wrapping her arm around my shoulders .

“Something about what?” I ask cautiously. Surely she doesn’t mean …

“That you fell in love with your assistant and it ended, of course.” She says this so matter-of-factly that it makes my jaw drop .

“How the hell did you know ?”

Mom laughs. “Oh Bentley, do you think I’m blind? I knew the moment I saw you two together at your office. It was clear you had feelings for her but didn’t know how to deal with it. That’s always been how you work.” She squeezes my shoulder and drops her hand in her lap. “When people get too close to you, you run away. Or push them away .”

My face burns. How the fuck have I been so transparent and not known it? I’m ruthless in the boardroom, known for my cold calm. And here I am, being dismantled by my own mother. “Okay, so then what do I do ?”

Mom turns to face me, and from the light in the hall, I can see a gentle smile on her face. “You fight for what you need, and you prove yourself. You show her she’s safe with you—that you won’t hurt her ever again .”

I just stare at my mother, seeing her in a different lens. How is it I never knew how insightful she was? Probably because she never pushes me. She’s just been waiting calmly, patiently, for me to open up to her. All these years .

“I’ve hurt you, haven’t I?” I murmur .

She reaches up and cups my face, and the sting in my chest fades. “Oh, honey. What hurts me is to see you hurt yourself. You’re stronger than you know.” Mom stands, kisses the top of my head like she did when I was a kid, and leaves me to my thoughts .