Page 19 of Arrogant and Merciless

I glance at my watch. She must be arriving at the box seats by now. I had no intention of joining her tonight, but I’ve just concluded I need to settle this situation with Taylor once and for all.

I don’t let anything play with my mind, but this girl—who’s as different from me as water is from oil—is taking my concept of obsession to an intolerable level.

“I have to go,” I say, getting up, and they don’t even ask where. When you’ve known someone your entire adult life, words aren’t necessary.

I text my driver, and when I leave the restaurant a few minutes later, he’s already waiting.

I don’t usually use him, but I always drink when I go out with Athanasios and L. J., so I keep a driver on hand. I actually have more than one—my other driver was the one I sent to pick up and drop off Taylor at the concert.

As he navigates the streets of New York, I think about what I’m going to do regarding her.

The cynic in me suggests maybe everything will end tonight.

Perhaps by bringing her into my world—an environment she’s unfamiliar with—I’ll realize we’re totally incompatible and finally move on.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later—after dealing with Manhattan’s infernal traffic, which never lets up day or night—I finally arrive at the Metropolitan Opera House.

I don’t need to wait for intermission to go in. As a patron, I have a permanent private box all year long.

No one stops me as I head to the entrance of the box I know she’ll be inside alone. But when I slip through the curtains and see her profile, I don’t go up to her right away.

Like a voyeur, I stand there watching her.

You can learn a lot about someone by observing them when they don’t know they’re being watched.

Taylor said that music, the possibility of becoming a professional violinist, had been a “nice dream.”

That’s not what I see right now. Whether she admits it or not, this is still her reality.

She looks like a child gazing into a window full of delicious sweets.

Her beautiful face brims with emotion as she takes in the performance.

Then, surprising me, she turns in my direction. I can’t make out her eyes clearly in this lighting, but something about her posture, the tilt of her head toward me, tells me she wanted me to come.

No—if I had to bet, I’d say she waslongingfor me to show up.

I walk over and take a seat beside her. Immediately, she faces forward, but to my surprise, she slips her hand into mine and squeezes.

I glance at our joined hands. Hers is small and cold against mine.

Taylor is trembling, and although my ego is huge, I know it’s not because of me. She’s overcome by the music, thanking me the best way she can.

After a few seconds, she lets go, focusing on the music for the next hour. Me? I spend that hour watching her.

Finally, when intermission is announced and the lights come on, we stand. Without speaking, I place a hand lightly on her lower back to guide her toward the exit of the box.

Suddenly, she turns to me and says, “I can never express how grateful I am for this experience, William. You wrote in the note that I should keep dreaming, and that’s exactly what I’ve been doing since I stepped in here.”

“I don’t want your gratitude,” I say bluntly. “I want your mouth.”

I don’t give her time to think, pulling her to me.

In the last split second of lucidity, I realize I’m stepping onto a one-way road.

For the first time, I have no idea where it will lead, and I couldn’t care less.

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