The Perfect Fit
: Chapter 43

“Drink this, honey.” Jen hands me a mug of chamomile tea, and I wrap my hands around it so that the heat I usually replace soothing warms my palms. But nothing is soothing to me right now. Everything is sharp and jagged and painful. Even breathing hurts.

She climbs onto the bed and wraps her arms around me. My head throbs from the constant crying and lack of sleep, and I sniff as another fat tear rolls down my cheek.

Jen squeezes me tighter, concern radiating from her. I literally fell into her arms last night when I got here, a drenched sobbing mess. It was a full ten minutes before I could even talk enough to tell her what happened.

I glance at my phone again, pathetically hoping for a text or a call to tell me this has all been some awful mistake, but it remains conspicuously silent.

“What am I gonna do, Jen?” I suck in a shuddering breath that makes my heart physically ache.

“We are going to go over there and demand they speak to you and tell you what the fuck is going on.”

“No.” I shake my head and wipe my dripping nose. “If they won’t answer my calls, they’re not going to let me into their building.”

“The fuck they won’t. I’ll call the cops if I have to.”

“And say what? That they’re heartless bags of donkey shit? I don’t think that’s an actual crime.”

“No. I’ll tell them they have all your stuff.”

I throw my arm over my face and groan. “My stuff. I need it back. Especially my laptop.”

“Then we’ll go over there. I’ll borrow my dad’s car.”

Another sob bursts out of me, and I cling to her. “I don’t want to. Can’t I stay here?”

She gives me an apologetic smile. “If you send me by myself and I see one of those selfish dickwads, I’ll probably scratch his eyes out, so it’s probably best if you come to keep an eye on me. Besides, you deserve to know what the fuck their deal is. And we won’t leave until we have answers.”

“Maybe our time was just up?” But I don’t believe that for a second. If that was the case, why not just tell me? I would’ve been crushed, but still … To humiliate me like that in front of my peers and people I hoped to work with one day was beyond cruel. It doesn’t gel with the men I know at all. Maybe I didn’t know them. Maybe the men I thought I knew have simply mastered the art of conning women they want to fuck, and they have zero qualms about tossing those women aside when they’re done with them.

Of course, there’s a strong chance that they found out the truth about who I really am. It’s the only logical explanation for the way they treated me. But fear of what that could mean for me is too paralyzing, the consequences too dire to consider. If they do know and they confront him … No. I can’t face the choices I’ll have to make if that happens, not on top of losing them. Not right now.

Despite my resolution not to consider it, my mind races, and another huge sob bursts out of me. I’ll have to leave New York. Jen. My job. My dreams.

“Finish your tea and then have a nice hot shower. I’ll call my dad and tell him I need the car.”

“Okay,” I mumble, too exhausted to argue.

Jen turns off the engine of her dad’s SUV and unclips her seatbelt, but I place my hand on her arm. “Wait here. I’ll go on my own.”

She frowns. “You sure?”

Nodding, I look out the window at the imposing building. I sent Xander a text to say that I was on my way over and needed my stuff. He read it but I didn’t get a reply. Nausea churns my stomach, and I clamp my lips shut. If I see them, I need to be alone. Another tear rolls down my cheek, and I swat it away, furious with myself for all the crying. But I don’t know how else to release the visceral pain that engulfs me. I know it’s not scientifically possible, so why does it hurt like my heart is literally breaking inside my chest? Why does every single heartbeat feel like it’s going to be my last?

“If you’re sure. I’ll be right here, honey. Call if you need me.”

I nod again and climb out of the car. Dread thunders through my veins like it’s the iron in my blood, and I can hardly breathe as I make my way to the entrance of their building. Foolishly, I still feel a tiny glimmer of hope that one of them will see me and realize what complete fuckwits they’re being.

“Ms. Sloane.” The doorman gives me a curt nod. “Your things are here for you.” He opens the door to the building and indicates a small pile of neatly stacked boxes along with my suitcase and backpack sitting in the lobby.

I sway on my feet and tears blur my vision, but I notice the stupid electric bike leaning on the wall. Is that supposed to be my parting gift—my consolation prize?

I swallow down a thick knot of emotion. “Where’s my bike?”

“It’s right there, miss.”

I glare at the doorman. “No. My bike. The one I came here with.”

He blinks at me, confused.

“Where is my goddamn bike?”

He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I storm through the lobby toward the elevator, and he chases after me. “Miss, you can’t go up there.”

“I don’t want to go up there. I want my goddamn bike back,” I screech, wholly aware that I look and sound like I’m in the throes of a mental breakdown, but I don’t care. I don’t want their charity. I don’t want anything from them. I never even want to see them again. “I just want Betty.” I sink to the floor, drop my head between my knees, and sob.

I hear the faint buzzing of a phone and then the doorman’s voice. “She says she wants her bike.”

A fresh wave of anger and hurt washes over me. They’re watching? Those sick fucks. Renewed by my fury, I stand and wipe the tears from my face, glaring at the doorman even though I know he’s simply a pawn in whatever twisted game they’re playing. “Her name is Betty.”

“Betty?” the doorman says with a puzzled look on his face. A second later, he ends the call and flashes me a sympathetic smile. How many other women has he watched this happen to? “Your bike will be here in a moment. Would you like me to help you with your things?”

I haul my backpack onto my back, pick up a suitcase, and straighten my shoulders. “No, I don’t need any help.”