Page 91 of Blind Prophet

Caroline’s head rests on my chest, and her arm stretches across my middle, asleep. The faint thump of her heartbeat reverberates through my rib cage. Her long hair cascades down her narrow back, and her soft breasts press against my side.

Outside, snowflakes glint when the light catches them right, and behind them is a wall of black. I should check the weather, see if conditions have changed.

The phone on my bedside table lights up, darkens, and lights up so regularly it might be Morse code. I should check that, too.

But I don’t want to move. I don’t want to leave this spot—ever. I can’t remember feeling this at peace. Even when we were together before, when everything was new, I didn’t feel this peaceful. I was too young; I had too many pressures, and if I’m honest, I didn’t appreciate the fragility of our relationship. With marriage, an impressive diamond on her finger, and an unlimited spending black card in her wallet, I believed she’d never leave. Not unless I cheated, and cheating was never an option. Sure, my father’s wives all eventually left him, but he flaunted his indiscretions. I believed if he hadn’t cheated, any of his wives, even possibly my mother, would’ve remained, no matter how empty the marriage.

I underestimated Caroline.

The press declared she was nothing but a social climber, but she proved them wrong.

Dad told me to be prepared for an attempt to break our prenuptial agreement and for tears, begging for additional funds. She proved him wrong.

Our only disagreement, one we’re still technically battling, is over a piece of land she inherited while we were married. I never wanted the land. I fought her on principle. Or that’s what I told myself. In reality, I was angry. I wanted to make leaving me as difficult as possible.

I’m no longer angry. I’ve gone through all the emotions: anger, sadness, depression, denial, acceptance. A healthy person goes through the cycle once. Lucky guy that I am, I cycle through the emotions annually.

Nick’s call from earlier comes to mind. He said she’s safest here. With me in Colorado. I should check in, learn more, but that requires moving. It requires contact with the outside world and breaking this solitude.

The screen on my phone brightens an area on the bedside table, lighting up with a call, then darkening, then lighting up again. It’s Friday evening.Who the hell is so persistent?

I don’t want to move to check the phone, but given Nick’s advice, instinct blended with curiosity urges me to check.

I stretch slowly, doing my best to leave Caroline undisturbed. She needs her rest because I’m not done with her. Not by a long shot. I’ve also realized something over these last twenty-four hours. She could be eighty and walk into a room, and I’d still want her. There’s a connection between us that’s hard to describe. It’s as if my soul recognizes hers, even when my brain gets lost in other matters.

The question I keep coming back to is what will it take to win her back?

And what will it take to keep her? I don’t think I’d survive her walking out again.

Stretched across the bed, my fingers reach the phone, and I finagle it into my hand to check the screen. Thirty-five missed calls from my assistant. The hair on the back of my neck rises.

No texts. No stock market is open. Did war break out?

Begrudgingly, I slip off the bed, pull on sweats and a thermal, and silently pad out of the room, pulling the door closed quietly. On the way through the house to my office, I press call.

A sense of dread fills me as my mind swirls with the possibilities of what could have happened. I’m barefoot, and the tile chills my feet, and a fleeting thought passes that I should’ve grabbed socks.

A vision of Caroline sprawled in my bed flashes, and I’m gut-punched with regret that I’m not lying in that bed with her. But no, I’m headed to the office. My command center.

“Jay,” I say the second I hear him pick up. “What’s going on?”

“It’s your father.” I halt in the glass corridor.

Flakes swirl haphazardly, lit only by the light streaming from the side of the house, twisting about in a winding, downward fall.

“What?”

“He’s fine, but he had a tough afternoon.”

Jay has been my executive assistant since I moved Zenith’s headquarters to Denver—hand-picked from McKinsey, with the security clearances and discretion required to handle both my corporate empire and family matters. He’s one of the few who know the truth about my father’s health.

“He’s railing. Wants to see you. The nurses aren’t sure what to do. Prashi, she’s the head weekend nurse, recommended we consider a sedative, but you’ve got in his chart?—”

“He’ll calm down.” I’m not actually opposed to sedatives, but my father is. Although, we may have reached the stage where he’s not lucid enough for his preference to matter.

“It might help if you visit him. Or call him. He’s irate. He broke a lamp. Threw a glass against the wall.”

I turn in the opposite direction.

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