“Do you need me to look up a contact?”

Clarissa’s voice comes from just next to my elbow, scaring the shit out of me. “Jesus, Clarissa. Warn me.”

“Warn you that I’m here? I’m always here. You’re the one standing in the middle of the warehouse like some kind of bizarre statue.”

I give her a look. “Do you always talk to the boss that way?”

She narrows her eyes. “Do you know how long you’ve been standing there?”

“Yes.”

“You have no idea.”

“Fine. I have no idea. How long?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I’m just going to go back to the original question. Do you need me to look up a contact for you? You look like you can’t remember your own phone number.”

“In fairness, I have more phone numbers than most people could feasibly keep track of.” My chest goes tight, a sick, twisting heat followed by a hollow cold. Every word out of my mouth sounds surreal, even to me. How can I be joking with Clarissa about phone numbers when I should be calling Ruby?

The issue is that I can’t decide whether or not to dial her number. Twenty minutes ago, I made up my mind to go through with it. She can’t avoid me forever.

She can.

Even if she can avoid me forever, there’s no reason to. I only did what was best for her, in the long run. The auction was eating her alive. The sale of the items was eating her alive. I scoff out loud. Where the hell does she get off, breaking up with me for doing the right thing? In all of my houses, in all of my properties, I don’t have as many things as the Ashworths had at the house at Conyers Farm. Not by half. That kind of shit will just weigh you down for life.

“What’s funny?” Clarissa is looking at me like I’ve become slightly unhinged, and maybe I have.

I thought she would take it back. I thought she’d get to the end of the hallway and turn around, realize that she was reacting out of emotion and not reason, and talk it out with me. I thought it would play out the way it did when I had everything inventoried and moved to the warehouse. That wasn’t too far. That ended in a hot fuck on the sofa in my office. This morning, the damn sofa taunted me from its spot on the wall. 

Ruby had straddled me, her skirt shoved up around her waist, her panties abandoned on the floor. She’d taken fistfuls of my shirt in her hands and held on tight while she rode me. The way her hips danced and circled, the way she took every inch of me into her heat and her wetness, the way she threw her head back and gritted her teeth to keep sounds from escaping—I want that every day of my life.

Now that I can’t have it, I want it even more. 

“Nothing’s funny.” It’s the truth. I can only keep up this banter with Clarissa through some instinct for self-preservation.

“We have a few things coming in from a sale in California today,” she says, her tone casual. “Maybe you’d be happier in your office.”

“You’re probably right.”

She’s dead wrong. I won’t be happier in there. Not unless I get rid of that fucking sofa. It’s not out of my reach, to do that. I could have someone take it out by the time I get back to the hallway. I’m not thrilled with the prospect of gaining a reputation for being a crazed man who gets personally affected by a sofa, though, so that’s out.

Instead, I head back through the warehouse to another set of storerooms. The security on all my storage spaces is state-of-the-art, but these rooms are accessible only by me. These rooms are where I store items that will bring the highest prices. They’re where I store Caravaggios, jewelry from the most controversial dynasties in the world—the things that bring the most obsessive collectors out of the woodwork. 

They’re where I’ve stored some items for Ruby.

The more I think about them, the more I’m certain that I need to do something, and soon.

She’s not going to be happy.

I laugh out loud. It doesn’t matter if she’s happy. I’m so pissed at her for what she did that I don’t care if she’s happy. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that getting attached to anything—especially women like her—is a mistake. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. 

Well, it happened. And now there’s no point in keeping any of this. The hurt in her eyes was sharp, deep—she’s not coming back. She has no reason to. As far as she’s concerned, every bit of this is lost.

I punch in the key code on the pad outside the metal door to the second storeroom, and the lock on the door releases with a click. The lights come on automatically. 

Where do I start? 

Which thing would hurt her the most?

Even looking into the room makes disgust surge in my throat. This is fucking stupid. I might be relentless when it comes to seeking out the best pieces, the ones that will bring me the most in the end, but this isn’t me. Revenge sales? Those are for petty men who are just as obsessed as their buyers.

If I do this, I’m no better than they are.

On the other hand, I’m not sure that I care.

I slam my hand back down on the keypad, and when I push the door closed, the lock reengages.

I lean back against the wall.

This is a shitty day to be making decisions about anything.

I take out my phone. If I just call her, we could talk, and then—

And then what? The sale has gone through, and even buying every piece back won’t change what I did. If that were an option, it would be the worst one. Ruby wouldn’t have space for all those things. She’d be right where she started, only with the weight of her parents’ entire collection around her neck. And I’m not going to be the fool who pays for a monument to a woman who doesn’t love him, to be stored into infinity, just in case she comes back.

No. I’m going to let her go.

But first, I’m going to get a drink.