Page 109 of Second Sin

When the bottle’s empty and the room’s just spinning shadow and regret?—

I lie back.

Let it crush me.

Let itendme.

Because this?

This is the punishment I’ve earned.

CHAPTER 42

OLIVIA

Call goes straight to voicemail. Again.

I don’t bother leaving a message this time. Just lower the phone and stare at the screen like it might change its mind. Like he might.

He won’t.

It's been three days.

Coach hasn’t heard from him. Kane either. PR’s in full cleanup mode, but even the best spin doctors can’t fix what silence breaks. The team’s worried. I’m worried. And I’m done pretending that waiting is the smart thing to do.

So I go.

The city feels muted as I pull up to the curb near his building. Gray sky, damp concrete. The kind of morning that leaves a chill in your bones before you even realize it. I kill the engine, sit for a beat with my hands clenched around the wheel, then get out and head toward the doors. The concierge recognizes me instantly, but his posture shifts when I ask to be let up.

"I’m sorry, Ms. Hart, but without permission?—"

"You’ve seen me here before," I say, voice tight. "You know I’m not some random stranger off the street."

"I understand, but Mr. Wilde hasn’t cleared any guests."

"Then call him."

He hesitates, then makes the call. Nothing.

My hands shake, not from cold. Not even from fear.

Just that sick, rolling feeling in my gut—the one that knows, without proof, that something’s wrong. Deeply, heartbreakingly wrong.

"I’m not leaving," I say. "You can keep me in the lobby all day, but I’m not going anywhere until someone lets me up."

A security guard appears. Brief conversation, hushed but tense. Then, finally, the guard nods once.

"You can go up, but I’ll need to escort you."

"That’s fine."

The elevator ride is silent.

When the doors slide open onto the penthouse floor, I don’t have to step in far to know it’s bad.

Empty liquor bottles litter the counter. One lies on its side, drained, next to a broken glass and a deep red stain on the rug. The kind of mess that doesn’t come from rage—but from giving up.

Then I see him.

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