Page 94 of King of Omen

I headed for the curb, scrambling for my phone to book an Uber.

The door at my rear swung open, and I sensed his heated gaze on me. Choosing to ignore him, I fixed my eyes on the road and my phone, mapping my cab’s approach. While still trembling from the rage of knowing he’d spied on me and was now accusing me of cheating.

A moment later, I turned to spot Lorenzo standing in the doorway, his expression stern and unyielding, arms crossed over his heaving chest.

He glared at me in silence as my ride pulled up, and I bundled my bags inside with as much grace as my angry self could muster.

I scrambled for composure as the nondescript driver gave me a chin jerk, and we took off.

With a frustrated moan, I sat in the backseat, miserable, refusing to glance back.

I stared out the window at the passing view, hating that we’d had an unnecessary outburst of an argument.

I should have put on my mature girl boots and stayed to work it through but fuck, I needed some space from him.

I thought about all that had happened since we first met, from the bullet storm in Lorenzo’s office to our passion rush, the stolen kisses, the lust-soaked nights, and the undeniable connection we shared.

But the lurking doubt and the fear Lorenzo’s paranoia would consume my soul lingered on.

At that moment, I realised that although I wanted to believe his heart was in the right place, his lack of trust and overbearing possessiveness threatened to destroy our nascent relationship.

Chapter 18

MIA

It was early evening when I shoved my bags and myself into my apartment.

I walked into dead silence.

No one was home.

The late afternoon sunshine cast golden rays through the windows, illuminating the dust that had gathered on every surface. I sighed, dropping my luggage and slumping against the door.

This place was a far cry from Lorenzo’s luxurious mansion, but it was my refuge, my solace from the chaos and heartache that had been churning in me since I left him.

I shuffled to the kitchen, flipping on the lights and scanning the bare counters to find something to eat. My stomach growled in protest, reminding me I hadn’t eaten in hours.

Rummaging through the cabinets, I unearthed an ancient box of mac and cheese and a can of tuna.

I sighed, a whisper of disappointment escaping me. It wasn’t the gourmet meal I’d have prepared in his modern kitchen, but it would have to do.

While the water boiled, I rummaged for a glass of wine to give my meagre fare some oomph and ease the tight tension within me.

With a sigh, I found only empty bottles in the trash.

‘Dammit!’ I mumbled to no one in particular.

I considered ordering in, then, thinking about the bar at the corner, where I’d find a fair meal, small-format wines, and warm bodies for distant company.

Turning off the boiling kettle, I dragged back on my shoes, nabbed my tote bag and lit out.

Outside, the streets were still busy with people going home from work, the sun setting in a golden haze. I pulled up the hood of my thin crop sweatshirt, wishing I had something warmer to wear, and set off towards the pub.

The air was crisp, and I breathed in, trying to clear my mind of the argument and the sorrow still swirling in me.

The place was a refuge where I might disappear into the crowd for a little while—at least, that’s what I hoped.

I cracked open the door and stepped inside. The warmth and scents of hoppy beer, whisky, and fried food enveloped me.

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