Love Triangle: Six Books of Torn Desire

by Willow Winters

  He was in and out of my life in ten months. An infinitesimal amount of time for such a lasting impact. His love branded me, left its mark beneath my skin, like swirling colors of ink. I don’t need pictures or an engagement ring to be reminded of the euphoria, the fuzzy whirling dream state that swallowed us in those ten months. I feel his absence in my blood, in my thoughts, every day.

  Because love doesn’t end with death. It doesn’t shrivel and disintegrate with the ashes. It hovers, follows, haunts the living.

  But after months of missteps and drunken pity parties, I learned how to cope with it. I learned how to breathe again. And in the past four months, I rediscovered my smile in a man who scowls through every emotion.

  As much as I bitch about Trace being cryptic and impersonal, I’m magnetically drawn to his confidence, his strength. He challenges me, pushes me, and I need that. Because I’m not without shortcomings.

  He wanted to see the basement. I should’ve showed it to him. Hell, I should’ve cleared out the space a long time ago. But he didn’t ask me to do that. He didn’t ask me to get rid of anything, not even the seven-hundred pounds of steel and chrome sitting in the dining room.

  Cole might’ve been my favorite smile, but once I discovered the emotional depth in Trace’s scowl, I realized I love it more than any smile. Cole’s charming, animated personality won me over instantly. Contrarily, Trace’s strict, reserved nature makes me appreciate how deeply sensitive he is beneath the suit.

  All Trace wanted was reassurance that my heart didn’t belong to another man, and I didn’t give him that. If anything, I reinforced his doubts.

  I really fucked this up.

  But I have a plan to unfucktify it, and by plan, I mean a slight chance of success based mainly on hope.

  He wants all of me? That’s what I’ll give him—the honest, barefaced, take-a-leap-of-faith answer to his question. Because he was right. I have a choice to make. A decision between the past and the future.

  I choose the future. I choose Trace. And tonight, I’m going to tell him I love him.

  When his driver picks me up for my three o’clock shift, my stomach twists into knots. I recognize this feeling, this vulnerability. I’m opening myself up, letting Trace in. He could make me blissfully happy. Or he could crush me beneath his shiny shoe.

  At the casino, I let the restaurant staff know that I’m leaving early tonight. In the four months I’ve worked here, I’ve never taken time off. But waiting until midnight to talk to Trace is out of the question.

  For five hours, I dance on the stage, wrapped in the moving beam of light. Every table in the dining area is filled, and the usual crowd gathers outside the glass walls. Some are just passing by and pause to watch me before meandering on. Others linger through several songs, their eyes fixated on the swing of my hips, hypnotized.

  My dancing has a similar effect on Trace. He watches me every night, if only for a few minutes as he passes through the dining room or from afar when he makes his rounds on the casino floor. But I haven’t spotted him once tonight. Neither in the restaurant nor the gaming area. By the time eight o’clock rolls around, my mind is a spinning tunnel of doubt.

  “She’s incredible,” a man says from one of the tables as I slip off the stage. “Unbelievably beautiful.”

  “I come here just to see her,” another man replies from across the aisle.

  I slip by several more compliments and dodge two propositions on my way out. Down the hall, I duck into my dressing room and spend the next hour showering, spritzing, and primping. Then I step back from the full-length mirror and scrutinize the result.

  A silver strapless dress hugs my body from chest to upper thighs. The color makes my gray eyes look metallic and glitters against the gold in my hair. Matching stilettos complete the outfit. No panties or bra—I’m optimistic like that.

  Frosted lip gloss, cheek blush, and smoky eyeshadow defines my face, and my hair ripples in voluminous beach waves around my arms.

  I look pretty hot, but not overly made up. I also look like I’m seconds from hurling, but I can live with the nerves. What I can’t live with is chickening out.

  “Go get him, Danni.” I square my shoulders and head out onto the gaming floor.

  A small wristlet holding my phone and cash swings from my hand as I walk from one end of the casino to the other. Trace has been missing all night, but the cameras in the ceiling remind me that he might be watching me on his laptop.

  I add a sexy sway to my hips on my way to his private elevator. When I started working here, he gave me a passcode to access the offices on the 30th floor. I’ve never tried to enter his residence alone. I assume he’s in his office, but I push the button for the penthouse on impulse.

  The 31 illuminates, and my breath catches. As the elevator begins its climb to the top floor, I consider pressing 30 and stopping by his office first. But curiosity holds me immobile.

  Why is his penthouse unlocked? He’s either there or the passcode he gave me unlocks it. I’ve had that code for four months.

  I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.

  Excitement buzzes through my veins, eradicating any lingering nerves. I love this man and his perplexing, mysterious ways. I love him, and I can’t wait to tell him. And kiss him. And… Holy shit, I’m totally getting laid tonight.

  When the elevator opens on the penthouse floor, my thighs clench, and my blood hums wildly. I step out and breeze past the kitchen, dining room, and living room, searching, craning my neck, and starting to sweat. There’s no sign of him, and the silence is unnerving.

  I enter the hallway, and the end is illuminated by the light in his bedroom. Maybe he’s in the shower. Maybe he’s waiting for me in bed, naked, and fully erect.

  Grinning like a fool, I quicken my gait. The click of my heels sound my approach, but that’s not the only thing I hear as I reach the open door.

  Heavy breaths.

  A low moan.

  My heart freezes in my chest, and I stumble on the threshold.

  The bed is perfectly made and vacant, but I know he’s in here, and he’s not alone.

  Sharp pain ignites behind my eyes as I follow the panting sounds to the sitting area by the fireplace.

  Bent over the arm of the couch is a woman with long dark hair, her face pressed against the cushion and her hips skyward, held in place by the man standing behind her.

  The man I chose.

  The one I love.

  Agony stabs my chest, ripping the air from my lungs and shaking my knees violently. I grip the door jamb to keep myself upright, frozen in horror, nauseous beneath waves and waves of horrendous pain.

  He’s arched over her, his chest covering her back and his trousers around his thighs. They’re angled toward the door, both wearing suits, with her skirt ruched to her waist. I can’t see his dick, but it’s clear he’s buried inside her. He’s not thrusting, not moving. Because he’s staring right at me.

  I thought he was detached before…

  It’s like I’m looking at someone else. There’s no expression on his face. Nothing. No scowl. No hint of lust. Just…emptiness.

  How could he do this? Everything he said was lies. He’s just a player. A liar. And I fucking fell for it. Hard.

  I cover my mouth as heaving breaths break free from my lungs.

  The woman stirs, wriggling her hips against him as she lifts her head and brushes the hair from her face.

  The flawless face of Marlo Vogt.

  Her eyes find mine, and she gasps. Her complexion pales. She reaches back to shove at him, her other arm yanking her skirt down. Embarrassed.

  Not as embarrassed as I am. My skin burns with humiliation, disgust, and anguish.

  I hurt so badly blackness dots my vision and strangles my throat. My feet stumble backward, carrying me ungracefully into the hall, turning, and running toward the elevator.

  I feel like my insides are tearing, separating, and bleeding out. Like I’m grieving.

  Like
the day that destroyed my world in the most irrevocable way.

  Chapter Seventeen

  TWO YEARS AGO

  “He’s retiring when he gets home.” I twirl around Bree in the dance studio, sliding seamlessly through the steps I’ve been practicing for the past year. It’s my coping mechanism. I might be falling apart inside, but I keep moving, keep dancing. “I just need to be patient.”

  And trust him. I trust Cole more than anyone on the planet.

  “I don’t understand why he couldn’t retire before he left.” Bree crosses her arms and stares at the ceiling. “It’s the silence that concerns me the most.” She sighs. “Danni, you must be asking yourself… What if he doesn’t show up for the wedding? It’s only a week away.”

  I lose my footing, but she doesn’t notice. Her eyes are closed, as if that could hide the worry on her face.

  “Can you at least try to move through his steps?” I grip her shoulders and wait for her gaze to find mine. “I want our first dance to be perfect.”

  “I’m not the one who needs to practice. Even if he showed up today, how will he learn this routine in a week?”

  He was supposed to be home a month ago. Something’s happened. I feel it like a gaping jagged hole in my gut, but I refuse to examine it. I can’t. I need to focus on the wedding. It’s the only thing keeping me from crumbling.

  “Let’s run through the song again.” I walk toward the sound system.

  “No.” She blocks my path and places her hands on my face. “I’ve been humoring this…this cloud of hope you’re floating on long enough. We’re at T minus six days, and your groom is nowhere to be found. You haven’t heard from him in months—”

  “Four months.” I turn away and walk toward the wedding dress hanging in the corner. “Four months, ten days, twenty-two hours.”

  That’s the last time I received an email from him. Over the past year, we talked on the phone five times. Short calls. The connection was horrible with a frustrating delay. But he sounded well, if not tired. We exchanged several emails in the first few months. Then they became more sporadic, with longer and longer stretches between his responses. Until nothing at all.

  “He promised me he’ll be back in time.” I run a hand over the white tulle skirt of the dress. “We talked about the wedding in every message. He picked the date.” My voice thins. “He said he could learn the dance in a month.” And make me orgasm in awe of his skills.

  My chest squeezes painfully. Why is he a month late?

  Every day away from him is an eternity in hell. But the last four months of silence, not hearing a word, not knowing if he’s okay is like a poison, dripping into my organs, spreading toxins of doubt, and making me ask all the questions Bree has finally worked up the nerve to voice.

  Why didn’t he say fuck it and break the employment contract?

  Why did he leave me?

  Why hasn’t he emailed me?

  What if he doesn’t show up for the wedding?

  What if he never comes back?

  When he stopped emailing, I called the government building downtown. No one would connect me with his department. They wouldn’t even acknowledge his employment there. When his one year came and went, I waited a week before I showed up at the building. The armed guards wouldn’t talk to me, wouldn’t ring his boss—whoever that is—and they definitely wouldn’t let me inside.

  I have no way to reach him.

  No way to ease this soul-gutting desolation.

  I straighten my spine with the reminder of his promise. He loves me, and he’ll do everything within his power to return to me.

  For the next two hours, Bree and I chill on the couch in the front room, sharing a bottle of wine. She’s been spending more time with me recently, her concern for my mental state growing more blatant with each visit.

  “I need to go, Danni.” She glances at her phone. “Or the family won’t eat.”

  “Thanks for coming.” I stand and follow her to the door. “You don’t have to, but I really appreciate the company.”

  “I know you do.” She hugs me, breathing into my hair, “I love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  She opens the door and falters. “Oh, sorry. Umm…”

  “Danni Angelo?” A middle-aged man in a dark suit looks past Bree to gaze unerringly at me.

  “Yes?” I step next to Bree. “That’s me.”

  “I’m Robert Wright.” He clasps his hands in front of him.

  His expression’s warm, friendly, but there’s a trace of something else in his eyes. Intelligence? Rigidness? I can’t put my finger on it, because there’s no emotion there at all.

  “As a representative of GAO, U.S. Government Accountability Office, I’d like to speak to you about your fiancé, Cole Hartman.” His nose twitches with a soft sniff. “May I come in?”

  A simple update on Cole’s whereabouts could’ve been done over the phone. A house visit brings ugly news. The most vicious kind of news.

  My stomach caves in, and Bree grabs my hand, clutching tightly.

  “Yes, come in.” I move on numb legs as the hole in my gut fills with harrowing dread.

  “Can we sit?” He gestures at the couch, already lowering in the chair that sits perpendicular.

  Bree and I perch side by side, and I clutch her hand like a lifeline. A lump of ice lodges in my throat, freezing my voice and shredding my breaths. Time stands still.

  “There’s no easy way to say this, Miss Angelo.” His eye contact is firm, his face composed. “There was an accident at the…”

  A low keening sound crawls from deep inside me, and blinding pain bursts behind my eyes.

  Bree wraps her arms around me, her voice thready. “At the oil terminal?”

  “Yes, the oil terminal. An explosion killed several contractors.” He sits taller, adjusts the drape of his tie. “I’m sorry, Miss Angelo. Cole didn’t make it.”

  I blink rapidly as his words sink in and suffocate the life from me. An uncontrollable, sobbing meltdown works its way to the surface, but I deny it, swallowing over and over to clear my voice.

  “When?” I ask hollowly, barely a whisper. “When did it happen?”

  “Four months ago. His remains were exhumed from the wreckage, returned to the States, and identified.” As Robert stands, he seems to make an effort to soften his voice. “His body was cremated and his financial assets will be transferred to you, per his request. Someone from our office will be in contact to help you make funeral arrangements.”

  Bree untangles her hand from mine, crying quietly as she walks him to the door. They exchange words, details about the death, contact information, but I can’t make sense of it over the ringing in my ears and the brutal shaking through my body.

  That’s when the wailing starts. Like a spout busting loose, the pain shoots from my vocal cords and doubles me over. I don’t hear the door shut, don’t feel the couch beneath me, don’t taste the tears flooding my face. The agony is all-consuming, crippling my body, twisting me into something unrecognizable, and spiraling me into a shapeless, hopeless place.

  Bree’s arms come around me, and that’s where they stay. She holds me through the funeral. Through the burial of his ashes on my wedding day. Through Mom and Dad’s visit from Florida. She doesn’t leave my side until summer ends and school begins, and she’s forced to return to work.

  I heard once that hardship brings the true nature of a person to light. If that’s true, I’m a deeply angry woman, seething with hatred and resentment. The rage is powerful and incapacitating, like a beast roaring and pacing inside me and pointing blame.

  He left me.

  He broke his promise.

  He lied.

  He’s not coming back.

  As the bitterness threatens to smother me, I welcome it. I climb into the darkness, lugging a bottle of hard alcohol with me. When the booze doesn’t numb, I break things. Like the mirror I just shattered with an empty fifth of whiskey.

  Two months after Cole�
��s funeral, I lie on my back on the floor of the dance studio, stinking to high heaven and staring at the broken image of my reflection. I look like a monster with jagged teeth protruding out of my sunken, miserable face.

  I’m drunk. I haven’t showered since…whenever. I closed my dance school indefinitely. I canceled life, my future, everything.

  I’ve been okay with checking out. Until now—staring at my splintered self in the mirror. I don’t recognize the woman reflected back at me. She’s hideously sad and pathetic and weak. I hate her, because she’s not who I thought I was.

  My inebriated brain sparks with life, and I sit up, swaying with disorientation.

  Fighting hurts. Living without Cole hurts. But nothing’s as painful as hanging onto the broken pieces of a dream. Doesn’t matter what I choose—stay here or move forward—he’s gone. Giving up on life won’t bring him back.

  After several failed attempts, I climb to my feet and stagger toward the shower. Every step is small and laborious, but I focus on putting one foot in front of the other. I focus straight ahead and allow myself a grain of hope.

  Hope that one day I’ll look back and appreciate the distance I covered.

  Chapter Eighteen

  PRESENT

  Acid hits the back of my throat, and my gag reflex kicks in. I cover my mouth and slam a hand against the elevator call button in Trace’s penthouse. He didn’t follow me out of the bedroom, but that doesn’t mean he won’t.

  Please, open. Please, open.

  I made it this far without surrendering to the impending meltdown. I just need to get through the casino, outside, and into a taxi cab. Then I can cry.

  Voices drift from the hall, and my shoulders climb around my ears.

  Her hair spread over the couch. His hips pressed against her ass.

  I don’t want an apology or an excuse or worse…the sight of his ironclad indifference. I just need to get the fuck out of here.

  The elevator opens, and I scramble in, punching the ground floor and holding my breath as it closes.