Page 44 of Of Vows and Betrayal

“Are you sleeping?” I already know the answer. Derek barely sleeps. He hates the nightmares that sleep brings him, and after witnessing the screams he sometimes lets out, I empathize with him.

“No. What do you need?”

“Can I come down?”

He’s silent for a minute. “Coffee or beer?”

“Bacardi.”

He lets out a low whistle and hangs up.

I stand up but only bother with the pair of pants I left on the chair and a T-shirt I pick at random from my dark walk-in closet. I don’t even bother with shoes—an advantage of my private elevator that takes me directly to Derek’s place, only two floors down.

When I get there, the door of his apartment is already cracked open.

The apartment looks barely lived in. There’s nothing more than what he needs, and he doesn’t need much. No couch, no TV, no table. Only a desk with a computer, a reading chair with a lamp, and a bed in the bedroom. The air smells faintly of antiseptic, like a hospital room, and the only sound is the soft buzz of the refrigerator in the adjacent kitchenette.

I push the door open and step inside, my eyes adjusting to the dim light. The sparse decor feels like a contrast to my own impersonal living space, which looks like a picture from a home decor magazine—all white and stainless steel. But his looks like a fortress of solitude.

Derek sits in the reading chair, a bottle of Bacardi and two glasses on the floor beside him. He looks up as I enter, his eyes heavy with the same kind of exhaustion I feel.

“Welcome to the Batcave,” Derek says with a faint smile, gesturing for me to sit on the floor opposite him.

I turn his computer chair around and sit on it, wrinklingmy nose at the sight of a Cheetos bag on his lap. “Cheetos and Bacardi?”

He shrugs, munching on one for good measure. “It all mixes in your stomach. So”—he makes a hand gesture toward me—“what’s got your panties in a bunch?”

“I’ve quit.”

“Your revenge?” Derek asks, extending me a glass filled fuller than it should be.

“No, my job. Because of her.”

Derek takes a sip from his glass. “It’s hard not to feel for her, isn’t it?”

For a second, I fear he’s in love with her. He knows her too well—even if she doesn’t know that. Part of me is jealous that he got to experience this unadulterated version of her, the real Ophelia. Even if, in all honesty, I wouldn’t have believed him if he’d told me or her if she’d shown me.

I hate asking the question and dread the response, yet I have to. “Are you in love with her, Derek?”

He gives me a slight smile, takes another sip, and I lean forward, hanging on his words. “It would be awkward, wouldn’t it? Both of us being in love with the same woman.” His tone is light, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes that makes my heart sink.

“I’m not in love with her.” I speak too fast, and he rolls his eyes, scratching his bare chest where a Latin tattoo reads,“In dolore resurgo”—In pain, I rise.

“I don’t love her, not that way. I will nev—” Derek shakes his head. “I care for her, but not in the way you do.”

He raises his hand when I’m about to deny it. “Don’t. I love you like a brother, but you know my take on lies. Ifyou want to lie to yourself, suit yourself, but don’t you dare lie to me.”

“I need to speak with him.”

Derek frowns. “Who?”

“Jeremy.”

He shakes his head. “No, we promised to leave him be. He told us everything he knew.”

“He didn’t do us a favor. We saved him.”

“We did, and if half of Bergotti’s assets are gone and we have him by his metaphorical balls, owning him with our businesses, it’s a lot thanks to him.”

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