Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 40

Chapter 40

After my shower, I aimlessly wander back into my bedroom, sit on the edge of the black silk–covered bed, and stare at the empty space beside me.

worn–out book quote on it, while hogging

She should be here. Next to me. Her hair a mess, wearing that ridiculous oversized t–shirt with some wo the sheets, and kicking me in her sleep.

But she’s not.

lie hack anyway and close my eyes, hoping for a few hours of sleep.

And for the first time in my miserable existence, I don’t dream of blood, power, or vengeance. I dream of her. Of how she mocked my aim. Of her calling me an entitled rich asshole, like my credit limit somehow calls into question my personality, and yet, looking at me like I’m more than what I own. Like I’m someone who could be…enough.

But when I wake up a couple of hours later from a restless sleep, the room is even colder than I remember, and I’m not even sure if it’s the air or from her absence.

I lie there for a moment as still as possible and listening intently. For what? Her breathing? Her laughter? That quiet little snort she makes when she finds her own joke a bit too funny? 1 don’t know. But whatever it is I’m listening for, it’s not fucking here.

I stare at the high ceiling of my penthouse, where the shadows stretch long and unfamiliarly. Everything in this place used to exude order, power, and control. Now, though, it feels…empty.

The mattress beneath me

feels too firm, the sheets too pristine, while the absence of sound is too loud.

I get up, theorizing that my morning routine might ground me. So I take a cold shower and go through the motions in a precise and robotic rhythm.

I dress in tailored pants and a monochrome shirt, with no tie–my usual daily armor,

I drink coffee I don’t want and pace through the penthouse, past glass and chrome, and through shadows that don’t shift unless I command them

But nothing feels the same.

The sun threatens to rise, its light creeping through the floor–to–ceiling windows like an unwanted guest, so I pull the blackout curtains shut with more force than necessary. Then I stand there, my palm flat against the glass, and finally admit the truth to myself.

It isn’t the penthouse that has changed, or even the silence,

When I step into my office an hour later, I instantly know something’s off.

The air feels wrong, and my executive chair creaks when I sit behind my desk, something it’s never done before. The light filtering through the floor–to–ceiling windows is too bright, and I swear someone replaced my usual espresso beans at home with something that tastes like it was harvested from a dirt patch behind a gas station.

And Griffin is smiling as he walks into my office. And that’s the final straw that breaks my tenuous patience.

“What the hell are you smirking ut?“—snap before I’ve even opened my laptop.

“Good morning to you, too, sir,” he says calmnly, as he straightens the cuffs of his shirt, his neutral tone clashing with the ghost of that grin on his ridiculous face. “I’m busy brewing fresh coffee. Your first meeting’s in ten minutes. And the team finalized the proposal from Singapore- you’re expected to review and sign off on it before lunchtime.”

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